secrets of a moonlight angel

It was only after my grandmother’s passing that her artwork began to attract attention. She had sold a single piece while she was alive; the very first piece she’d ever completed, in fact. After that sale she decided she didn’t care for the attention and kept the rest of her work private as long as she was alive.

When I was younger the idea of hiding the works that would make you famous seemed peculiar, and because of this, my grandmother became an interesting and mysterious character in my life. Due to our close relationship, Theodora Estelle allowed me, her only grandchild, into her studio to watch her painting process. I would sit on the small love seat that stood away from all the walls, taking up unnecessary space in the studio, and would watch as she arranged her canvases on the easel before beginning. Referring to her sketches, she buzzed back and forth countless times. She’d sit with white paint and prime the canvas, coating certain areas more than others depending on her work. Only after this process did she begin adding colour, and watching her visions come to life was true magic before my eyes.

My grandmother had the gift of awakening emotions in people for which they had no words to explain themselves. When I saw her work unfolding my emotions became an experience much like her work, private and inexplicable. Nearing the end of each piece she would stop and turn to me. “Close your eyes, Leona,” she’d tell me. I could hear her smile through her words even if my eyes were already closed.

I had asked her once why I had to close my eyes and she responded simply, “Because there are secrets and surprises in art that you need to find on your own.” So I would always close my eyes, I wouldn’t dare peek, but through my eyelids I could see the lights change and I could hear her soft movements as she drifted back and forth from her notes once more. I didn’t know then that she wouldn’t take all of these secrets to the grave with her.

Since her death, the only work of hers that was sold was given to a local museum to honour her. By a chance encounter, this lone piece of hers captured the attention of a curator who was passing through. Felix Gallant was a man from the city and he was made of dull colours and harsh angles. His attention was always on the next thing that he strove to obtain, but when he came across the work of Theodora Estelle he was bewitched by emotions that demanded attention. Suddenly there was nothing beyond him and his experience of the abstract work, moonlight angel.

Eventually, breaking himself away from his enchanted state, he became determined to find Theodora. In his search for her he found me and the dismal news of her passing. His tone wavered, but his enthusiasm seemed to rest behind his words as he offered to share my grandmother’s work in a gallery. I was hesitant, unsure what my grandmother had wanted for her work after her death. I listened as he offered a $20,000 advance for a small fraction of her works.

I felt the tension rise in myself as I considered my own unstable finances. Perhaps this would be a gift from her after death, I thought to myself. We talked more, and finally, I agreed to a small number of her works being a part of an upcoming instalment. Felix was delighted, his once grey face seemed to illuminate with colour as excitement filled him and I wondered if the emotions that stirred in me sometimes were painted so evidently in my expressions.

The next week I set to going through the different artworks to decide which to let Felix take. It didn’t take long after I had made the decision for Felix to come by with a truck to load them. I helped to carry out the canvases, but as I lifted one of the larger pieces I heard something fall to the ground. I looked to my feet and there before me laid a small black book. I looked around, Felix had not seen it yet, so I picked it up and tucked it into the back of my jeans and hid it with my shirt. There are secrets and surprises in art that you need to find on your own, I thought to myself, determined to understand my grandmother's thoughts before I would share them with a stranger.

After Felix left, I retreated to the studio where I took up my usual place on love seat and began to page through the black book. Inside were rough ideas for art pieces, but the majority of the book was filled with journal entries and bizarre symbols in random areas. I furrowed my brow and squinted in the lamplight of the studio, but these characters were nonsensical to me. I poured over the book for hours, reading my grandmother’s thoughts and feelings as she developed the emotional story she’d bring to life through abstract visuals. Despite the beauty of her words, my eyes kept tracing back to the parts of the pages with bizarre markings.

Eventually I realized the hour, and I decided to go to bed. My head had grown heavy and my eyes threatened to close every second of my journey to my room. I set the book on my nightstand and determined that I would attempt to make sense of it all once I was rested.

The next morning came quickly, and I was awakened by the sudden ring of the doorbell. Confused, I stumbled out of bed and quickly prepared myself to answer the door. On the front porch stood Felix, his eyes bright with excitement and wonder.

“Good morning,” I began, but he hardly heard me.

“Leona!” He cried back with joy. I’d never seen a business man from the city so consumed with wild, childlike wonder. “I was moving the art into the gallery last night when I saw that the paintings have some kind of secret message in them!”

I was aghast, and nearly slipped into defensiveness, but I concealed my feelings and let him continue.

“At first I thought it was just the one that had dark spots that showed through when light was behind it, but every single one you gave me had the symbols.”

I processed what he was saying and then asked him, if he could remember, to sketch out some of the symbols. To the best of his ability, he recalled some lines that had shown through the art when it had been backlit. I recognized them immediately as the same markings in the journal.

“Have you seen them before? Do you know what they mean?” Felix asked, his questions toppling over each other as if he couldn’t ask them fast enough.

“No,” I lied, or rather, only partially. I wanted to keep the journal to myself, but I had no idea of what the symbols meant.

I wrapped up my morning with Felix, not giving him any more information than what he arrived with, and sent him on his way. Immediately after his departure I retrieved the black book from my room and went to the studio. I arranged the light behind the easel, remembering how I’d see the light change through my eyelids when I was young and would stay in the studio while my grandmother painted. The secret. But I knew there was more to discover.

Over the course of the day I held painting after painting over the light, noting down the scribbles and symbols that appeared as darkened spots. Hours passed and I still couldn’t decipher what the symbols meant.

As night began to creep up on me again I lifted the last painting I had of hers onto the easel and stepped back to look at the symbols that showed through. For a moment, the world stopped. I stared, unsure if my eyes were playing tricks on me. Before me, in the darkened spots of the canvas was a full sentence.

I know no peace like that of his presence, was all it said.

I flipped through the notebook, remembering the plots of the journals and the emotions she included in them, alluding to her first love despite never naming him.

I went to the canvas, trying to see what made it different from all the rest. As I lifted it again I realized a smaller canvas was nestled inside the larger one. I removed it and set it against the light again. Sure enough, only the bizarre fragmented symbols showed through. By placing the right two canvases together the symbols merged to create the sentences.

Reluctantly, I went to bed with the intention of waking up early to go through each of the canvases again to find their matches, and reveal the rest of my grandmother’s final message.

As planned, the next day I set to work, and over the many hours I discovered that the chronology of her works was key to uncovering the lines of this lasting, secret poem. I quickly came to realize, however, that I didn’t have the ability to complete the poem without the pieces I had given to Felix for the gallery. Even the black book seemed to have its limitations as the secret markings were used less and less as the journal entries went on.

Despite initially not wanting to share these secrets with anyone, I decided I needed to uncover the rest of the poem, and I called Felix to bring the canvases back. I told him I was uncovering answers.

He arrived and we immediately collaborated to organize the order of the works. It was exciting to work with him and we shared each other's joy and elation as we pieced the symbols together and watched them build sentences. By the end of the day we had gone through the 22 paintings she had made, finding their pairs easily when we ordered them chronologically.

We looked at the completed poem before us, examining each line with new eyes.

moonlight angels have sharp wings that flinch and then settle with light touches.

their voices get soft and blurry as the stars twinkle and the night passes.

I’m lucky to find a moonlight angel,

they are few and far between and they are known to vanish quickly.

but should you find a moonlight angel, rest there a while.

I know no peace like that of his presence,

of the twilight tracings of his features.

of the sounds of his breathing as he falls asleep.

but moonlight angels are known to vanish quickly, with the daylight they say.

and so, I am never surprised when the moonlight finds its way across my bedroom walls,

and flees to the terrace to catch the indigo sky as she fades to morning.

As we read the piece, Felix was reminded of the first work he had seen of Theodora’s. “What about the painting in the museum?” He asked. I smiled to myself as I realized that she had only sold the one, perhaps knowing that it was a hint at the secrets that laid in the strokes of each painting.

“The 23rd piece, the one you saw, it’s called moonlight angel and it was dedicated to her love, or so she had written in her journal.” It was then that I revealed the book. Felix’s eyes grew wide. I continued, “In her entries she said that he died when he was young, I don’t know his name, but I believe the woman who bought the piece was his sister. She donated it to the museum after my grandmother’s death.”

There was a moment of silence between us then as we both understood that she, like him, had become a moonlight angel and joined him as the indigo sky faded to morning.