The Uncanny Gallery by Katie Veitch

Instalment 6

"Ah, hello there, young lady. I take it you have found a painting of your face."

Mia awoke startled, only really catching the tail end of the sentence. Her eyes caught the shoes first; a practical beige sandal on slightly weathered feet. She then came up to a pair of khaki shorts, topped off with a plain white un-ironed t-shirt. Hardly the outfit you would expect of an up and coming Italian artist. As she continued, she reached the warm face of a very tan bald man, perhaps in his late 30s.

"Y-yes I have. Are you the man who sold the painting to the gallery? Was - is it you?" Mia stammered as she clumsily rose to her feet, wiping a little drool from her face.

"I brought the painting to Leo in Positano, yes, but I'm afraid I am not the painter, merely the painter's son."

"I-is your mother inside? Or father? Can I meet her? How does she know me?"

"Please, come inside, and I'll explain as much as I can."

Mia would normally have been hesitant to wander into the strange man's house, but the anticipation of her artist being behind the door took over, and she quickly gathered her things and followed suit. How could someone who knew her face this well, have an Italian son she had never seen or known? Confusion was arising amidst the anticipation.

Mia entered the apartment, which was equally as plain as the man who opened the door. He motioned her to a small table on the balcony, making her feel more comfortable in view of the street. The man brought in two glasses of water and an espresso each and sat across from her, a small understanding smile on his face.

"Okay, I'll get right into it. My mother is the painter. I'm afraid she has passed away now, but even alive she wouldn't have been able to offer you much more of an explanation than I can. You see, I've had this conversation a few times, with a few very different people, convinced that a long lost family member or ex-partner must be painting them from afar, but I'm afraid that is not the case.

"My mother was a portrait artist for years, never making much money from it all, but simply doing so from habit. As she got into her later years, her painting became very specific, at just about the same time that everything else began to fade. She was eventually diagnosed with dementia and she lost the ability to do many things; cooking, writing, and even speaking, but she could always paint, and somehow got better and better. After she passed, I sold all the paintings from the last few years, as it brought me too much pain to see them. I wanted to remember her before the illness. Ever since then, people have been showing up at my door, after going on missions to find her, and I am not able to offer them much more than this.

"The first woman that arrived believed my mother must have tapped into another dimension as her memory faded, the man after her accused me of spying on him, and each one after has had various different reactions and opinions. I cannot tell you what happened to her mind, but I can tell you that she loved painting your face, and I'm sorry if this has caused you any pain or offence. I am happy to try to answer any questions you may have, but I cannot promise many resolutions."

It was a strange feeling, she had. It wasn't shock, or anger, or sadness. She was a little disappointed, but did she really feel she had a secret Italian admirer, or a long lost relative searching for her through art? She realised she didn't really want those answers to be true all along anyway. Logic was the answer and she was able to find solace in that. She just happened to look a lot like the girl that this old woman had painted, and if she was somehow able to time travel or teleport in her dementia, then there was a spark of possibility ignited in Mia's head, that excited her beliefs for years to come.

She simply thanked the man - Matteo was his name - gathered her things and left. Once outside, Mia quickly pulled up some directions on her phone and followed them back to the port. Picking up a pastry on the way, she moved swiftly and didn't look up much at her surroundings. When she arrived at the port, she went to purchase a ticket.

Her hotel was in Sorrento, but when the words came out of her mouth, she asked instead for a ticket back to Positano. She guessed she needed to see the painting one last time before she could really let her journey conclude.

*

The winding path up the hill was etched in her brain, or really more so in her feet, it would seem, considering she wasn't paying much attention to her directions on the first visit. The air changed and the music played in the same way that it had before, and pulled her in just the same. She was scared at first, that she might return and see a completely different face that had never looked anything like her all along. But her body was making her do this, and so she trusted it as it taught her to in the past few days.

Round one corner and straight ahead, the smallest painting on the biggest wall. She wasn't first in line this time. A family were in the gallery with her, all wandering about at various speeds, but the youngest child, a small girl, with a bright yellow dress and two French plaits running down her back, was staring at the painting.

And before the thought could even cross her mind, before it has even crossed yours, I must say - no. This little girl in the gallery could not see herself in the picture, follow her imagination across various Italian islands, see beautiful scenery, gracious people, and enchanting animals, guided by the ferocious determination of finding her mystery artist. Mia hadn't realised that there was a certain amount of blind trust that she could have in this painting really being of her. She had spent her whole life being told she looked like this Disney princess, or that cartoon character, that leading role in the movie. Because she was white. And representation comes easy when you're white.

The little girl quickly moved on, to a pencil drawing of Vesuvius. Again, she lingered a few moments, and eventually ran back to her parents, bored, ready to leave. Mia nodded to herself and decided not to return to the picture after all. She turned and walked back to the pier.