This is another short, true story about a ‘little boy lost – named Quintin’
Watercolour portrait of Quintin
‘I was staying with friends in Scaer, a small town in Brittany, France. It was the summer of 1995, and the day was very hot.
Friends of my hosts came to visit with their children, along with a little boy who had recently become the victim of a difficult divorce. His Mother, a solicitor, had recently moved to Paris for work – and the Father had gone elsewhere.
It was clear from the moment I met the little boy that he felt alienated…unable to join in with the other children. For that matter, I was feeling a little alienated myself, in that the talk was all about the parent’s divorce.
I took him into the garden where we found a shady spot beneath a beautiful tree. We sat together for a long time…just quietly taking one another in.
When I started to sketch him with my watercolours, he began to show interest. For the first time he spoke and told me his name was ‘Quintin’ – in England we would spell and pronounce it as Quentin.
I am not sure exactly how long we sat together, but I do know that by the time I painted the portrait shown here, we had established a special bond.
Sometime later that day, Quintin and the people who had brought him left. I will never forget how difficult it was for us both to say goodbye.
I never saw Quintin again, or found out what happened to him. Today he would be about 25 years old. If I were ever to meet him again, I would give him this portrait.
I also hope that the magical hummingbirds are looking over him, wherever he is.
A bientôt
