Not for Sale
When I take vacations, I enjoy going around different towns in the Southwestern part of the United States. I am particularly interested in the many art galleries and shops in the part of the country. These shops often exhibit paintings of young artists who have not yet won much attention. If one has a good eye for such things and chooses carefully, one can sometimes pick up some real bargains. At least it has been my experience in the past that I can find paintings which later prove to be true works of art. In fact, several of these now hang on the walls of my apartment and give me pleasure each time I look at them. They give me pleasure, first, because I was able to pick them up at a low price and, second, because I had the good sense to recognize the work of a young artist who later became famous.
Thus, it happened that one summer I drove into the quaint little town of Taos, New Mexico, where many exhibitions were being held. In one small shop my eye caught a lovely painting of a young woman of perhaps nineteen to twenty. The painting was extraordinary. Although there are many portraits of this kind, this particular one especially attracted me. The composing was good, and it had a certain feeling of warmth and affection that touched me. A woman, who was about thirty-five years old was in charge of the shop and I asked her the price of the painting.
"Oh," she said, "that particular painting is not for sale."
"But it's out here with the rest of the exhibits." I replied sadly.
"That painting belongs to the owner of the store," she explained, "and he doesn't want it sold. Perhaps I can interest you in one of the other works of our local artists?"
"No," I said, "Not today, thank you." I looked around her shop a bit longer and them left.
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I drove to several other towns on that vacation, but kept thinking about the young woman in the portrait. I headed back toward Los Angeles and drove through Taos once again. I went to the same gallery and asked about the same painting. The woman remembered me at once.
"No," she said, "That painting's still not for sale. I'm afraid it never will be. It belongs to the owner of the store, as I told you, and he seems to value it highly."
The last remark interested me. I tried not to appear too curious, but nonetheless asked her if there was some story behind the picture. "Perhaps the owner is waiting for a really high price," I said as an opening move. "Who was the artist?"
"The owner of the shop painted it himself," she said. "It was done years ago, but he has always kept it. Do you really think it's so good?"
"It's not bad."
Two other customers came into the shop at that moment, and the woman left to attend to them. Nothing more was said about the painting by either of us on this visit, but after that I fell into the habit of driving through Taos and going to that little gallery every chance I had. Over the years, I got to know the woman better, and one day she told me the whole story.
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It seems that the owner of the store - some twenty years ago - had gone to New York in order to complete his art studies. While living and painting in Greenwich Village, an area of New York City where many artists work and study, he met a young woman from New Mexico. She, too, was an art student. They had a lot in common and soon fell deeply in love. New York is a wonderful place for young people in love; they were very happy. They decided to get married. They set a date and invited all their student friends to the wedding. They planned to continue painting and to encourage each other's careers.
Then a few weeks before the wedding, the young woman fell sick. She did not have to go into the hospital; she did not even appear ill; but she had sudden attacks of fainting which left her weak and shaking.
She did not wish to alarm her fiance, so she told him nothing of her sickness. She hoped that it was a passing condition. But the attacks continued. Finally, she went to a doctor, who, in turn, sent her to two specialists. She was told that she had a rare blood disease and that there was no cure. She had six months to live, they told her a year at most.
It is not difficult to imagine the emotions of the young woman. She was, of course, concerned about herself, but she was equally concerned about the situation of her lover. If he learnt the truth about her condition, he might insist on marrying her - simply out of a feeling of obligation. She did not want this to happen. It would not be fair to him. He had talent as a young painter, and she wanted him to go on with his studies instead of foolishly sacrificing his life for hers.
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