Trevor Romain Foundation

It seems to happen every time I get a little too big for my boots.

It was early one Sunday morning. I was in Italy sitting at a quaint outdoor cafe drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

The cafe was situated in a quaint cobblestone courtyard. Each table had a yellow umbrella and a vase of fresh flowers. The cafe had just opened for the day and I was the first person there.

I glanced up from the paper and noticed an artist setting up his easel a short way from where I sat. He placed the back of the easel toward me and began mixing paint. He smiled. I nodded and went back to the newspaper.

A few minutes later, I paid the bill, folded the newspaper and got up to leave.

“Excuse me,” he said in broken English. “Is hokay I paint?”

“You talking to me?” I said, pressing my thumb into my chest and looking around. There was no one else in sight.

“You,” he said pointing the end of the brush at me. “Yes. You sit. I paint.”

“I’d be flattered,” I said smiling. I sat down and re-read the parts of the paper I had skipped.

“Where are you from? He asked after he’d been painting for a while.

“South Africa,” I replied. “And you?’

He didn’t reply. He continued painting. I think he was French. He had a white moustache that was curled up at the ends and he wore a maroon beret.

I sat for two hours as he painted. I did the crossword, had two more cups of coffee and did a quiz to determine if I was a good husband. It turned out that I was a great husband, probably because I wasn’t married.

Eventually after almost falling asleep from sheer boredom, I saw the artist put his down brush and wipe his hands with a dirty, paint stained cloth. He tilted his head to the side and looked at his work.

“I like,” he said to himself as he rubbed his hands together. “You like?”

I got up and walked over to the easel. The painting was magnificent. The man was an amazing artist. He had captured the early morning light on the yellow umbrellas and the colors of the café. The painting was almost true to life. There was one thing missing from the picture though. Me.

I was a little angry that he made me sit for so long without putting me in the picture.

“Why didn’t you put me in the picture?” I asked.

He looked at me like I was crazy.

“Look at the cafe,” he said, pointing over the easel at the scene he had just painted

I looked over the top of the easel at the cafe.

“Are you in the picture?” he said.

“No,” I said, “I’m obviously not in the picture because I’m standing here with you.”

“Well then,” he said, smiling. “If you are not in the picture how can I put you in the picture?”