The Shadow Portrait by Gilbert Morris Read Free Book Online Page B

out, closed his eyes, and went to sleep fully dressed.

    To Phil’s surprise his painting supplies arrived shortly after he had settled into his rooms. He had spent the time until then wandering the streets of New York and had already decided on what his first painting would be. The most spectacular building in the city was a “skyscraper,” the term having first been applied to tall buildings a few years earlier. It was the elevator that made such buildings possible, and of all the New York skyscrapers, the Flatiron Building was the most striking. Its jutting wedge shape rose twenty stories straight up into the sky without a break, except for the symmetrically arranged windows on each floor. Something about the structure fascinated Phil, as it did the whole nation. Perhaps it was because all the buildings he had ever seen were square, and this wedge-shaped skyscraper reminded him of slices of pie stacked one upon another.
    Early on the day after his supplies arrived, he set out with his palette, box of paints and brushes, and his folding easel and chair. Seating himself firmly in front of the wedge, as far back as he could get, he quickly sketched out the building. Soon a small crowd had gathered around him. It amused him, for in Paris painters were so common that people paid them no more attention than if they were a mailbox or a signpost. Now he was constantly bombarded with opinions such as, “I think you ain’t makin’ it tall enough, mister,” or, “Look,you ain’t got enough windows in it. You want me to count the stories for you?”
    Phil answered all their questions, rather enjoying the novel experience. It was a refreshing thing to be admired, and obviously those who gathered around felt he was doing something worthwhile.
    One young man, no more than seventeen, stayed for a long time. Finally, Phil turned and smiled at him. “You ever do any painting?”
    “Me? Oh, I used to try a little, but I never done stuff like that.”
    “Here.” Phil handed him the brush. “Why don’t you give me a hand?”
    The young man, who had large innocent blue eyes and a thatch of tow-colored hair, was astonished. “Why, I’d mess it up!”
    “No you won’t. Just have a try at it.”
    Phil stood back and watched, and the small gathering of onlookers egged the young man on until finally he stepped forward and began adding some of the pigment that formed the windows on one side of the wedge. “Why, you’re doing just fine,” Phil said as he watched the young man. “You’ve got a real touch for it.”
    “Do you really think so, mister?”
    “Sure. You ought to keep up with your painting.”
    “I will! That’s just exactly what I’ll do!”
    After his morning’s work, Phil picked up his supplies and headed back to his rooms, feeling he had been an encouragement to somebody. As he made his way through the crowds, he thought, Maybe I didn’t do that young fellow any favor. Most artists never make a dime off of what they do.
    He slept well that night, and the next day he rose and dressed, his mind on the art institute. He wore a pair of Levi’s, faded through many washings and with the cuffs a little ragged, and a pale blue cotton shirt, also limp and loose fitting. He looked at himself in the mirror and grinned. “Idon’t know if I look eccentric enough for an artist.” But then, maybe artists in New York City were more uppercrust, he thought. He wondered if he should be wearing a top hat and tails instead. He had written a letter to the institute and had been invited to come for a “visit”—which Phil understood to mean that they would refuse to admit him if he had no talent.
    He took four of his smaller paintings, wrapped them in brown paper, and tied a string around them. The sun was shining, but he felt some apprehension, despite the beautiful morning. When he arrived at the art institute, he stood for a moment outside and took a deep breath. Well, he thought, I can always punch cows if this