Eleanor At The Bar
Wide eyes drew me in. Eyes the colour of sea glass and molten gold set down by a painter’s touch. I coveted her story, listened within silence.
I studied her eyes, eyes that appeared to see beyond the realm of ordinary, sensed her bewilderment. A glance as if asking: why is it that others can’t see how light casts shadow, how waves kiss the shore, how a smile deceives?
Lips, slightly pursed, held tangled secrets, if only she dared speak. Her side swept hair, a mix of caramel and honey, suggested an elegant yet strong ancestral line. Scandinavian vigour lingered like a shield to cover fine bones.
Eleanor. Salvaged from a Vancouver vintage shop. This is her given name, penciled to the back of a plywood board. Painted in oil, she remains bespoke for all time.
I brought her home.
“I am intrigued by the smile upon your face, and the sadness within your eyes”
― Jeremy Aldana
you are here for the story
I wonder who the real Eleanor was.
I wonder as well. Perhaps she is a daughter or an artist’s true love. On the backside of the plywood are the letters HBC 551.
Artist: B Barber
Eleanor is lovely.