"The Place Is Still There"

"Her windowsill is still hers."

"Whiskers was nineteen. Nineteen years of her, and seventeen of those years were spent on the same windowsill chair — third one from the kitchen, the one that caught the morning sun at the perfect angle. She watched the bird feeder every morning. I made coffee every morning. That was the deal. She passed in March. For three months I couldn't sit in the kitchen because the chair was empty and the morning light still fell on it and there was no cat in it. I ordered the portrait in June. I sent the artist a photo of Whiskers in the chair — her last summer, the bird feeder visible through the window — and a long email about the angle of the light and the exact slats of the windowsill and how she always tucked her tail under her body. The artist wrote back: 'Tell me about the light.' I wrote back about the light. The portrait arrived in 17 days. It's the chair. It's the window. It's the light. And Whiskers, in the chair, watching the feeder, the way she did for seventeen years. The frame hangs above the actual chair now. The chair is no longer empty — I sit in it some mornings, and Whiskers is above me, watching the feeder, and the morning is the morning again."

D0 · Photo

D3 · Sketch

D10 · Final

D17 · Chair

"The dent in the cushion is still there."

"Buddy was a 14-year golden retriever. He claimed the left corner of our sofa the day we brought him home and he never relinquished it. Fourteen years of him curled into that exact corner cushion, head on the armrest, the throw blanket pulled into a nest. The cushion has the dent. The dent has not gone away. He passed last April. We had it painted before we could wash the cushion. I sent the artist three photos — Buddy in the corner, Buddy in the corner, Buddy in the corner — and a paragraph about the throw blanket and the dent and the exact angle the afternoon light hit. The artist asked me one question: 'Do you want the dent in the painting?' I said yes. She painted the dent. She painted the throw blanket. She painted the way the afternoon light fell on the cushion just before he'd settle in. Walking past the sofa used to hurt. Now the portrait hangs above the corner. The dent is below. Buddy is above. The corner is no longer empty — it's held. My wife cried when it arrived. I cried when she cried. The dog is gone but the corner is full again. This was a one-year anniversary order — I'd recommend it to any family who lost the dog who had a SPOT. The spot is what kills you. The portrait holds it."

Dent

Light

Gold

"I couldn't take the bench. The portrait came with us."

"Luna was a 16-year tortoiseshell cat. She had ONE spot, for thirteen years — the wooden garden bench under the rose bush, the one with the four slats that the four-o'clock sun came through. Every afternoon from May to September, Luna was on that bench. I knew the angle of her tail. I knew the exact moment she'd close her eyes. I knew the rose bush like I knew her. She passed in November. We sold the house in February — a job change, nothing dramatic, but it broke me twice over because the bench wasn't ours to take. The new owners said no when I asked. I ordered the Last Favorite Place portrait two weeks after we closed on the new place. I sent the artist a photo of Luna on the bench (her last summer), and a long email about the rose bush and the slat angles and the four-o'clock light. The artist sketched it back in three days. She'd painted the slats. The rose bush. Luna in her exact tail-tucked pose. I cried. We put the portrait in our new garden, above a new bench we bought from a flea market — different bench, different roses, different yard. But the portrait makes the new bench feel like Luna's. Sometimes I sit there at four o'clock and the sun comes through differently but Luna is there. Wherever we live, that's her bench now. The portrait carries the place with us. I'd recommend it to anyone who lost their pet and then lost the place too. The portrait is the place."

Box

Note

Bench