Portrait

(PLVN) - For generations, Mr. Tran Duc's family on Hang But Street has earned their living by painting portraits.

For ordinary people, portrait painting is simply a capture of the eyes, revealing a glimpse of the soul in a moment. But at his house, portrait painting wasn't about remembrance or beauty. It was a ritual. A ritual to see through the soul, to strip away the veil that people often put on each other. His portrait paintings avoided depicting the living, only the deceased. Because only when the soul leaves the body does the face truly reflect what has passed.

The Trần family genealogy on Hàng Bút Street records that their ancestors were silversmiths during the Lê Trung Hưng era, but it was not until the generation of Trần Miên – the great-grandfather of Trần Đức – that they switched to portrait painting. Trần Đức lived his entire life as a portrait painter. Nearly a hundred years old, his eyesight is failing, his hands tremble, but his memory remains sharp. Each time he tells a story, he doesn't look at anyone, but gazes into space. It's as if he sees the people he once painted appearing one by one… “Some people say that portrait painting is about resemblance, about painting beautifully. Wrong. Resemblance doesn't necessarily mean it's a portrait. And if it's too beautiful… then it's fake.”

The eldest grandson, Tran Duy, was an art student studying to eventually work in a film studio or create comic book illustrations. He wasn't interested in portraiture. One day, while cleaning his attic, he discovered a strange portrait, painted using an ancient technique, but the eyes of the subject were deliberately obscured with black ink. Below the painting was an inscription: "Only those skilled in portraiture know the truth of the world."

The grandson brought the strange painting down to ask Mr. Tran Duc about it. Mr. Tran Duc remained silent for a long time, his eyes fixed on the erased eyes in the painting. Then, instead of answering, he began to tell stories – not about the painting itself, but about other faces, old tales etched in his hand. It was as if, to understand the painting, one must first journey through the shadows of the deceased – places where "spirits" had appeared, against the will of the living.

Grandfather Tran Mien, the great-grandfather of Mr. Duc, was once invited to Thang Long (Hanoi) to paint a portrait of a Le Dynasty king. According to orders, he was only allowed to meet the king in the shadows behind a curtain, to hear his voice, and was given a piece of cloth with the king's distinctive fragrance...

For reasons unknown, the story of Mr. Tran Mien painting the king spread throughout the country. People from all over sought him out. Among them, he was commissioned to paint a portrait of a famous scholar, a man praised throughout the region, whose temple was erected in his honor. The family approached him to request a portrait for the inauguration of their ancestral temple. The painting took nearly a month to complete. It wasn't because it was difficult to paint, but because each time Mr. Mien touched the brush, the man's face changed. Sometimes saintly, sometimes lewd, sometimes infatuated, sometimes scheming. Only when Mr. Mien dreamt that the man wept, begging him not to paint any more, did the painting finally stop.

Portraiture doesn't always lead to a truth that people accept. Some paintings, once completed, even spark controversy – not because of the brushstrokes, but because of things people are unwilling to acknowledge. The story goes that a wealthy family from Ha Dong came to the home of Mr. Tran Lan, the grandfather of Mr. Duc. They wanted a portrait of their deceased ancestor painted. There was no painting left, only the narrative: he was a kind and compassionate man, a landowner who cared for the people, secretly feeding the poor, and helping the resistance fighters…

They brought their old maid, Mrs. Bay, to describe him. She said, "Our ancestor has a square face, eyes sparkling like well water, and a deep voice like a gong; everyone who sees him respects him." Mr. Tran Lan listened and then began sketching. He spent three days painting the eyes. A week, he finished the nose, forehead, and lips. The portrait appeared exactly as described – benevolent and majestic. However, one night, while searching through the family's old storeroom, he suddenly found an old portrait with the inscription: "Pham Van Huy - Chinh Hoa second year." It was indeed the ancestor of the Pham family. But the face in the old painting was cold, with cunning eyes, a hawk-like nose, and a sharp, snake-like chin. There wasn't a single trace of compassion. Mr. Lan was alarmed. The next morning, he quietly brought both portraits to the family. The homeowner looked at them and flatly denied it: "It can't be our ancestor! Our ancestor was a good person! Mrs. Bay said so!" Mr. Lan pointed to the old painting: "This wasn't painted by me. It was painted by someone from the past – my grandfather." From then on, the painting that Mr. Lãn had painted was quietly put away and never hung up. The Phạm family never mentioned the story again.

Portrait painting is not just a profession, but sometimes a curse. It was portrait painting that brought the Tran family glory, but also plunged them into danger. During wartime, Mr. Tran Tac – the father of Mr. Tran Duc – was asked by the villagers to paint portraits of families whose loved ones had died in battle. Most of the paintings were from memory, from stories told. One night, Mr. Tac sat in his thatched house, surrounded by his elderly wife and mothers weeping. One mother said, “My son had single eyelids, always smiled, and had a dimple.” Another said, “My son had a mole under his chin, but he was kind, the whole village loved him.” He painted and painted, painting until he forgot to eat. He painted to the point where he couldn't tell who was real and who was a shadow.

One day, the old man suddenly painted a portrait of himself—a portrait he didn't know who it was. The face was unfamiliar, yet the eyes seemed familiar. He finished the painting and hung it on the wall. Three days later, he went mad. His eyes were constantly fixed on the painting. He mumbled, "He looks at me… as if I were his killer…"

After that incident, Mr. Tac could no longer hold a pen. His son, Mr. Duc, who was only six years old at the time, began to learn to draw. In the Tran family, everyone said, "Duc is the best painter after Mr. Mien."

Mr. Duc recounted that a woman once came to him asking him to paint a portrait of a man – without a photograph or specific description, only saying: “He died in the war. But I want to remember his true spirit.”

Mr. Duc painted for many nights, but each time he produced a different face. Sometimes the eyes blazed with fire, sometimes they looked like they were crying, and other times they were completely blank. On the seventh attempt, he managed to create a complete portrait – serene eyes, a gentle smile as if letting go. The woman looked at the painting for a long time and then said, “Thank you. This is the man I truly love.” When he asked who the man was, she simply replied:

"He was a killer who also saved my life. I want to remember him as a human being..."

On another occasion, Mr. Duc was invited to the home of a retired official—a former high-ranking figure in the judicial system. He didn't want to paint himself, but rather... a condemned prisoner. A notorious bandit whom he had sentenced to death. "I remember his face very clearly," the retired official said, "because he stared at me intently when the sentence was pronounced. It was as if he wanted to ask: 'Do you truly believe you are innocent?'"...

Mr. Duc painted based on the description, then compared it to a faded old photograph. When the painting was finished, the retired official looked at the portrait for a long time, then smiled faintly: "It's terrifying. He looks at me as if I'm the guilty one." Afterwards, he sent Mr. Duc a short letter: "I've started dreaming about him - but each time I'm sitting in the defendant's chair, and he's wearing a judge's robe. Perhaps I need this painting to have a dialogue with my conscience. Keep it. I don't dare hang it up"...

Times change, and so does the art of portraiture. People now commission portraits not only of the deceased but also of the living – to preserve their likeness, to gain recognition, or to seek prestige. Initially, Mr. Duc refused, but eventually had to take up his brush because some people didn't need to see them again – they wanted to see them in advance. One of them was Le Ngoc.

When I first met Le Ngoc, he was a high-ranking official, recently promoted to Director. He wanted a portrait to be "for life." Mr. Duc painted it. When the painting was finished, the man looked at it and burst into delighted laughter: a square face, bright eyes, thick lips, and an imposing demeanor.

Three years later, Ngoc returned.

He told the old man, "Draw it again for me. I've just been promoted."

He started painting again. But strangely, this time his expression became more serious, his eyes deeper, his forehead more somber. Mr. Duc hadn't changed at all – he was just painting from feeling.

For the third time, he returned, but this time in silence. He was gaunt, his eyes sunken, his voice a whisper like wind through a curtain: "Draw me again…"

Old Man Duc painted. And in the painting, the eyes were empty, as if devoid of mind. He looked at the painting, sighed, and then quietly walked away.

A year later, news spread that Le Ngoc had been arrested for embezzlement and held in solitary confinement until his death.

Three portraits of him – Mr. Duc still keeps them. Three faces, three different "expressions" – like three different lives.

...

The last grandson asked Grandpa Duc:

- And what about the painting he hid in the attic, whose eyes were erased black?

Mr. Duc remained silent. Then, after a long while, he began to speak:

- That's the last portrait I'll ever paint. Of… myself.

He explained that the last time he looked in the mirror to paint himself, he couldn't bring himself to paint the eyes. Because he carried within him all the "spirits" of others: pain, deceit, kindness, betrayal, love. He no longer knew who he was. He feared that if he painted it, it would no longer be a human being – but a mixture, a "living memory" of hundreds of characters who had appeared through his hands.

The grandson silently gazed at the painting that had been obscured by the painted face. That night, in his dream, he saw the old faces that had once appeared in the painting—each gaze, each smile—as if they were looking back at the painter himself.

Mr. Duc had no children to carry on the craft. Tran Duy, his grandson and the only one who knew how to draw, switched to making animation. The art of portrait painting gradually faded into the past.

When he passed away, people opened his old chest and found nearly three hundred portraits. No names. No ages. No addresses.

Only the eyes follow the viewer as if they were alive.

Some say that night, they heard the old man whispering in his studio: "To paint a person is to touch their soul. To preserve their spirit… is to hold onto a part of their destiny…"

Short stories by Tran Duc Anh

Source: https://baophapluat.vn/truyen-than-post547883.html