“It arrived in the mail today.”
“From where?” I ask and walk over to the canvas in the middle of the room.
“Somewhere in the city, the return address is one of the PO Box places. I mean, I knew her work was amazing, but today was the first time I’ve even considered nominating her.”
“Do you know the artist?”
“No, well, I mean. Yes. Kind of. Hold on, here.” She hands me her phone and I take it, holding my breath as I turn it over to look at the screen.
It’s open to a picture she posted on IG. In it, she’s standing next to the painting on her wall, her cheek pressed to it to give a side by side comparison. I read the post slowly trying to focus on the words instead of the millions of questions that are rushing around my mind.
“Thank you to the life changing artist, @thefreebeth for this mirror to my soul. It’s hard to be a woman who doesn’t look the part - The reality is that if you want to succeed in almost any career, looking as close to the standard of beauty as possible has become a requisite. So, I wear these extensions, and I don’t leave my house without my face contoured and my brows perfectly done. But nothing can be done about the half of my face paralyzed by Bell’s Palsy. I’m one of the rare cases where it hasn’t gone away on its own. Since I was seventeen, I’ve looked like I’m frowning or in pain all of the time. Even when I’m happy - which is most of the time because despite this face, I’ve got a great job, a wonderful husband and loving friends. But I’ve always wished people could see beyond it. A few months ago, I came across this IG account just by chance and saw the most beautiful paintings, and then read the stories behind them. There is something powerful about the idea of giving your spirit and soul an actual face and showing the world what you would look like if they could see your heart. I contacted the artist, told her my story, sent her a selfie and she sent me this. It arrived this morning and I couldn’t wait to show the world. This is who I am. Aren’t I beautiful?”
I hand Hetal back her phone with a trembling hand. “Wow. So, she does these for people?”
She nods. “Completely for free. And it was only yesterday when I scrolled all the way to the bottom of her feed to see the first picture that I realized she’s making the kind of difference that our organization seeks to. To help people find a sense of self that’s not tied to the way the rest of the world sees them. And these paintings, if she sold them, would cost a mint. I mean, this should be in a museum. I’ve never thought I was beautiful, until I saw my heart.” Her eyes mist over and she stares at the painting with pride.
Oh my God.
Beth. She’s in New York and I’m looking at a painting she made with her beautiful hands.
“Yeah, so yeah.” I’m at a loss for words.
“So, is it okay? If I nominate her? I mean, we have some amazing nominees already, but I think she’ll win.”
“Yes, do it. She will absolutely win. I know she’s got my vote,” I say eagerly.
“I will. But, she’s completely anonymous. No one knows who she is. A least I think she’s a she. I have her address though. I can mail the invite. But who knows if she’ll attend? Maybe her anonymity is something she needs to maintain.”
“Well, I think we should at least try. And maybe she just needs a good reason to show her face. And I have feeling an organization like ours recognizing her contribution to the mission we serve might do the trick.”
“Okay, I’m so glad you agree.”
The door to the library opens and Ryan sticks his head in.
“Hey, your mama’s here,” he says before his eyes land on the painting. “Damn, that’s nice,” he drawls, his eyebrows raised in appreciation before he ducks back out.
“Come on, let’s join the party. They’ve been waiting to eat.”
I spend the rest of the evening watching the clock.
I left as soon as we’d been there long enough not to look like we were eating and running. And then I’d locked myself in my studio, gone to Hetal’s profile and used it to find Beth’s again.
I clicked on the profile @thefreebeth. My jaw dropped when I saw she has 500,000 followers. For an anonymous account with nothing but paintings, sketches and stories, it’s a lot. One look at the art, though and it’s clear why she’s so popular.
The mission behind the profile is as compelling as the art itself.
Her profile description read “What would people see if your heart was reflected on your face? Tell me your story and I’ll paint it. Currently booked through December 2020.❤️❤️ #thefreebeth #LiveFreeOrDieTrying
I scrolled to the bottom of her feed so that I could see her first post. It’s a video. I press play and sag with disappointment when she doesn’t show her face.
“I started this account because I want a place to show the world who I am with some anonymity. I know what it’s like when the face you show the world doesn’t reflect the real you. This painting is my face reflecting my heart. Those stars in my eyes are the dreams inside me that refuse to die. The wings on my mouth are the beautiful words that my less than brilliant brain won’t let me express. The red clover is the stain on my soul that I know I should lament, but that I think is the best thing that ever happened to me. And the tears are just that— tears I cry every day, but only when no one can see. I’ll use this portrait as a mirror when I need to be reminded of who I’m fighting for. Do you have a secret self? One you wish the world could see? DM me your story and your picture and I’ll paint it.”
I play it repeatedly. It’s been so long since I heard her voice and I want to absorb it.
I make myself move on to the next picture. It’s her profile thumbnail. Now A headless woman’s naked torso covered blue paint, except for a sliver of skin on her rib with writing on it. I zoomed the picture and almost had a heart attack. Scrawled on her ribs in loose script were the words “Between Now and Always, I will love him.”
I run my fingers over it and my heart swells with the knowledge that she’s talking about me.
The second picture is a self -portrait. She has stars for eyes, blue butterfly wings for lips, and a red metallic four leaf clover on her left cheek. And silver teardrops on running down both sides of her face.
The rest of the pictures on her profile are extraordinary portraits with each person’s story in the comment. The account is four months old and she has fifteen portraits and stories up.
I’m scrolling when I see a painting of myself. I know it’s me, but I’m not worried that anyone else would.
I don’t look like that anymore. Not even when I’m playing the piano.
The last few months have erased the peace I used to find in my music. So while my career has taken off, I feel like I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole of frustration.
I’ve learned to live with the worry and longing, but there’s not a morning I don’t wake up wishing it away. I grimace when I think of the ways I’ve tried to find solace.
Hetal’s timing couldn’t be better. But it hurts to know she’s in the same city and hasn’t tried to get in touch.
She said she wanted space and distance in her letter. But, if she comes to the award ceremony, I won’t let her leave without trying to reconnect. I need to see her again. Even if it’s just long enough to know she’s okay, I’ll live with it.