Mr. Simon's Tree

I don't know why, but I have to say there was just something about that tree. It just seemed to condone art. Every day Mr. Simon sent his art class out onto the grounds for an afternoon to paint a natural scene in the style of the Renaissance masters, they would return with a decent, but ultimately simple painting of this tree. One day, he grew tired of the monotony. He'd never understood how 25 inexperienced and often lazy tenth graders managed to produce such consistently mediocre work, or why the paintings were so similar. That very afternoon, he packed up the apples and the skulls from his 3-d sketching class and dismissed the students early. They eagerly trooped back to their dorms, and he packed up a portable easel and paints for the first time in years.

Mr. Simon had never considered himself an excellent painter, and was always more a scholar than a practitioner of art, but he nevertheless trusted in his undergraduate training to carry him through the ordeal of painting something other than the same tree. He started out walking towards the campus Pond. It had a long, elaborate name on the school maps, no doubt a memorial to a rich graduate's richer uncle, but all the students and all the teachers he had met simply called it the Pond. The Pond could be beautiful at this time of year, and Mr. Simon was going to try to capture it in the strong afternoon sun of mid-April.

He set up the easel on a small rise above the Pond, looking down at a picturesque brick sidewalk behind it. He took out a pencil and sketched out an outline of the scene he was meaning to paint, then set out paints in the appropriate colors. He decided he would do an impressionist painting of the scene. He mixed the paints lovingly as he created the blurred and colorful reflection of the trees in the Pond. He painted the nice brick path with reds and browns, and finally finished off with a brilliant and exaggerated sky, practically shining out from between the treetops on the far side of the path. The sun soared beautifully in the sky and tinted everything just a hair with its yellow glow. The scene was almost too filled with idyllic, pastoral beauty, like fruit at the onset of overripeness, still brightly colored, but inedible.

It was nearing dinnertime when Mr. Simon finally stepped back to admire his work. He had painted quickly, and he thought well. It made him feel young and creative again, glad to be creating art and not lecturing on it. His heart swelled in him as he reflected that he really wasn't all that bad a painter, after all. The years of staring at students' work and producing almost none of his own hadn't dulled his eyes or his brushes nearly as much as he'd suspected. But still, something struck him as odd.

Then he found it. There was a weeping willow, prominent in the left-foreground of the painting. Mr. Simon stared at it for a moment before realizing it was the tree from his students' work. He looked at the way he'd painted it reflected in the Pond, impossibly so from his angle. He stared at how all the other trees, the blades of grass and even the sun looked at the willow with rapt attention. Everything in the painting was waiting on that sad tree hand and foot, the landscape holding its breath as it waited for the tree's next command. On an impulse, he titled the painting "Julianna," and went back to his studio. He set the painting up in his classroom where he could easily see it from his desk. Then he got himself a fresh cup of coffee and just stared at the willow in the painting. After a time he couldn't stand the thought of the willow any more. It began to seem like a blemish on an otherwise perfect landscape. It all seemed dishonest, distorted and weirdly out of place like some surrealist's nightmare had wandered into his landscape. Mr. Simon continued to stare at the tree, bleary eyed and indecisive.

Several hours after dinner, he finally rose from his desk. He walked back to his car and drove numbly to his apartment. That night, he dreamed of the tree. Every blade of grass and point of reference in his entire field of vision seemed to point to it. He awake in the morning feeling as though he'd slept on a whitewater raft - stiff and cold and frazzled.

When he woke up, the he rewrote all of his course schedules. He removed every outdoor painting assignment from every single one of his courses. He looked up modeling services. He knew his students weren't ready for human figures or even portraits, but by God he couldn't send them out to deal with that tree again. He spent the rest of the semester in a terrible depression, brought on by grading repetitive and awful sketches and portraits, and by visiting, with his own acrylics, the tree by the Pond very single day after school. It didn't matter where he set his easel, or how the light was, or how beautiful and intricate he made everything except the tree, all thoughts on the painting pointed to the tree, Julianna's tree, he began to call it. He kept burning with an inexplicable desire to finish these paintings, to make the tree look right, but he never could. He tried painting everything in the scene but the tree, and the tree shaped space loomed vacuous and intimidating, swallowing up his canvas. He tried painting the tree in perfect detail, but it seemed to weep at its own inadequacy, like a beautiful girl with a birthmark on her face, everyone who ever looked at her doing so either in spite of or because of her mark, so that it defined her appearance.
It was October 15 when I received Mr. Simon's letter explaining all this. He begged me in the letter to come and to try to paint the tree with him. Mr. Simon, or Jeff, as I knew him, He had been a student of mine, when he was an undergraduate. He was never my best student, but we had always been close. I admired his diligence, and the way he looked at things and saw the fine details and the subtleties that most of my students, even many of the more adept painters I taught, completely missed. It was in this frame of mind that I read the letter with some concern. I knew Jeff had briefly required anti-psychotics in college, and I hoped he was alright.

I arrived at Jeff's apartment in the evening of October 20th. It was a dismal little place, a dreary one room studio apartment overlooking Main Street in Nowheresville, VA. I pitied the man for living out here in the wild, teaching ungrateful high schoolers at an old boarding school. I had often invited him to come back with me to New York and study there, but he always claimed to be happy where he was.

I paid the taxi driver and took my single bag up to the door. The apartment building had been converted from an old hotel by some ambitious landlord, and there was still a sort of lobby inside the door. I took the antique and tedious elevator up to his room on the third floor, and knocked on the door.
"Come in," Said a voice from within. It was Jeff's voice, distracted and annoyed as though I'd broken his concentration.

"Jeff Simon!" I said as I walked through the door. I really had missed the kid since he'd graduated seven years earlier. "How have you been? What are you working on these days?" I tried to be as friendly as I could.

"Oh," Jeff said, almost surprised to see me, "I suppose I've been doing well enough. How are you?"

"I'm doing wonderfully! What've you been painting these days? It's been seven years since I've seen your work, remember, so if you show me something where the paint's already dry, I'll forgive you." I looked at him, trying to exaggerate my enthusiasm to restore a little bit of his. He looked at me with sad and hollow eyes. They even seemed to have changed color, grey now where they'd been almost green.

"Oh, just these, really," He said, and got up to flick on the light. A gasp of horror almost escaped me as I saw the far wall of his apartment illuminated by a thin incandescent bulb. There were rows and rows of paintings of the same natural scene, a pond and a tree, covering the entire wall. It was painted in every light, from every angle, in every style I could imagine. There was even some abstract work, very uncharacteristic for Jeff, and it bore a shocking resemblance to a tree. "These are called 'Julianna'," He said sheepishly, like he was hoping for modest approval. I sat down awkwardly on an ottoman, breathless, and continued to stare at these paintings. There was something terrible about watching it. I could see the process, see that the paintings were arranged in chronological order like the words in a book, each painting more obsessed than the last. It must have destroyed his mind, whatever had happened there.

"Well, do you like Her?" Jeff asked. I nearly fell of the ottoman in shock as I turned to stare at him. It took my breath away with sorrow to see him torn apart by such an obsession.

"Oh Jeff," I said, genuinely scared, "What's wrong Jeff?"

"I was just wondering if you liked my painting," He said, genuinely confused.

"These are beautiful, Jeff, but why are they all of the same tree?" I asked, hoping there was some rationale, hoping he'd read some odd book about painting the same scene differently over and over as a technical exercise.

"O, I just really like that tree," He said, "It's the funniest thing: One of my students painted it first, and I liked it so much I had to go and find it, and when I finally did, I decided I liked it so much I had to paint it and paint it until I got it right. That's part of why I invited you here, Professor. I was hoping you could tell me what I'm doing wrong."

"Jeff, Jeff, Jeff," I said, realizing just how far this obsession had gone, "Why don't you try painting something else?" At this question he exploded.

"Have you no faith in me? It's a tree, damnit, a little tiny ugly tree, and I CAN paint it right and God help me I WILL paint it right whether or not you believe me. It's just a tree, don't you SEE? Professor, help me! I need to paint this tree, and I can't make the colors right, or if the colors are right I can't make the balance right, or the lighting will be all wrong. I've tried everything! That's why I wrote to you. I can't go on like this. I need to see one, just one perfect and correct painting of this tree or I will lose my mind. 'Julianna' must be perfect."

"Jeff, will you just hear me out?" I bellowed, finally cutting him off. He stood there and stared at me for a second before he slowly nodded, almost bowing in submission. "Jeff, you have a serious problem. I'm not sure what to do about it yet, but I want you to sit down and take a deep breath." I had no idea what to tell him, and was secretly hoping he'd suddenly return to his senses. He didn't.

"Professor," He whined now, sounding like he was five years old, "Professor, will you show me how to paint the tree so it looks right? I can't figure it out." I had no idea what to do. I told him to go to bed, and that I'd go with him to the tree in the morning and we'd look at it then.

The next day was a Saturday, and Jeff woke me up at some ungodly hour.

"The tree looks best at dawn," He said, whispering as though truth would fade if overheard. He looked at me expectantly until I gave a conspiratorial nod of comprehension. Lord, I thought, he's lost it. I hope after I paint this tree I can convince him to seek help. He dressed and packed up his paints and easel in total silence. I was nervous, and would have felt better if I'd had something to say, but the silence was oppressive and complete. He made dark, bitter coffee for himself, and didn't offer me any. He didn't speak when I helped myself.

After coffee we drove in silence towards the school where Jeff taught. It was an old school, with a wrought iron fence around the grounds. Jeff parked the car at a gas station down the road from the school.

"Jeff," I asked, looking over at him, "Why aren't we parking at the school?"

"Oh," Jeff said, looking down at the gearshift for a second, "Um, the parking lot isn't open on weekends." I got out of the car and he got his paints and things out of the trunk. He handed me the easel to carry. We walked past the gate to point where there were just woods on the far side of the fence. Jeff quickly looked both ways, like he was about to cross a street, then nimbly jumped over the fence.

"Come on," he said urgently. His eyes lit up like a little kid, leading me to his secret cave in the backyard bushes. Cursing my idiocy the whole time, I split my suit in two places clambering up over that fence. We started a brisk hike. I was quickly amazed at the size of the campus. It had looked tiny from the outside.
When we came to the pond and the tree, I was immediately struck by the natural beauty of the scene. It just seemed so... paintable, like it was just waiting to be captured. The weeping willow swept gracefully into the water, trailing carelessly, beautifully. The scene even smelled right. I got dizzy. I felt some hopeless, trapped. I started feverishly unpacking Jeff's easel, quick as I could. I kept fumbling, dropping it. I couldn't get it put together fast enough. My hands shook with nervous excitement. I knew without a doubt that this would be the single greatest painting of my career, if I could only get the damn thing set up before the light changed. Why was it taking so long? I wasn't used to this easel, why wasn't Jeff helping? Finally, the easel stood, it's three legs awkward in the mud by the pond. Jeff took out a canvas and set it on the easel. Lovingly, slowly he set it in place. He knelt facing the tree and held his palette absently in one hand. He'd set the paints out on it already, and I took it. He slowly sank down to lie on his face, facing the pond. Feverishly I began to paint. I felt like every part of me shook, but my gaze was steady, and my hand was steady. I stared mesmerized as scene before me began to unfold on the canvas. It looked like life itself bled through the canvas, soaking it the color of poignancy. My breath came in gasps as I neared finishing the painting. The sun climbed, and I continued, heedless. I wasn't even looking at the scene any longer. The scene was inside me. I shook and coughed and art poured forth from my longs like I was the unwilling vessel of some ancient god.

All at once, my revels were over. I stepped back and stared at the finished work. The tree stood, beautiful, complete, on the canvas before me. My chest loosened and I breathed easy. My senses slowly returned and I heard another breathing, ragged and forced at my shoulder.

"It's perfect," Jeff breathed, "I can hardly believe it. You've done it." I gradually realized he sounded more bitter than impressed. "You really did it, you bastard. All my work, all my pain and you outdid me at one go. I knew I should never have tried. I knew I wasn't worthy, but you could've left my illusions intact just a little bit longer. Just a little bit longer." He started crying, then shaking. I bathed in success. The sunlight shone on me through the tree like a halo, and I drank up every second of it. I felt my chest swell with pride - this was it, my masterpiece. I signed my name lovingly and gazed at it. "How did you do it?" He asked, staring jealously. The sunlight held my gaze, and I couldn't turn my head aside or speak. I stared into the painting, watching it improve even as it dried. Suddenly I felt a crack on my head and fell to the ground, dizzy, bleeding. I lay on my side and struggled to stand, to see through the blood and blurred haze. Jeff took something from his pocket and held it to the canvas a moment. A small flame appeared where I had painted the pond, directly in the center of the water, and began slowly spreading, black smoke curling angrily up from the canvas. I was shocked to a standstill. I just lay there, gasping, as my masterpiece was burning. My disbelieving eyes finally looked beyond the canvas and saw tendrils of smoke rising from the pond. The water was beginning to writhe and boil as though possessed by some unseen force. Jeff stared into the water, petrified. He began frantically trying to extinguish the painting, but could not. I lay immobile, and bleeding badly from my forehead. Jeff screamed incoherently, an animal noise that I hope I never hear again, before diving headlong into the furious water. I lay there and watched him writhe and scream in the smoky water. I watched, petrified, until he sank beneath the surface and did not rise. Little tendrils of smoke were curling around the willow now, marring that beautiful, perfect tree. I found I was able to stand, and began to run from the scene. I got caught up on the top of the fence and left half my jacket there. I didn't have keys to Jeff's car, so I left my torn up jacket in a trashcan and walked to a gas station to use their phone. I guess I looked a mess.

"Oh my God, sir, are you alright?" The young woman behind the counter said. I realized I was still bleeding.

"I..I slipped and fell," I managed, though I was getting rather weak by this point.

"Jen!" She yelled, apparently to another employee, "I'm gonna drive this guy over to urgent care real quick. Watch the place, will you?" I gratefully accepted the young woman's help as she walked me to her car. I held a paper towel to my head as she drove a few blocks to a small clinic in a shopping center. I got out of the car and thanked her profusely. She waited to make sure I got inside before driving off.

The cut on my head turned out to be nothing serious, although the doctor did remark that I must have fallen at an awfully funny angle to hit my head that way. I read in the paper the next day that a painter, carrying no identification, had apparently drowned in a small scenic pond, having slipped and fallen. I shook my head and tried to forget about that tree.