I.

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The memorial—or what they now refer to as a “celebration of life”—was held at the house where Mr. Jon Phillips had lived, taught, and worked as a portrait artist for over fifty years. Judy, Jon’s widowed wife, was just as warm and welcoming as Jamie remembered her to be. The house also had changed little. Its white paint remained crisp against the backdrop of old oak trees, and the familiar stone path still led to Mr. Phillip’s studio, tucked just off the main house.

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Jamie had caught word of Mr. Phillips’s passing through her mother, who had learned about it from a friend at church. She did a quick internet search and found a short obituary written in the local newspaper.

 

Jonathan T. Phillips

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May 2, 1940 – September 14, 2023

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Jon Phillips passed away unexpectedly on September 14, 2023, at age 83. Jon was a portrait artist, beloved art instructor, and longtime resident of El Dorado County, where he attended El Dorado High School. After graduating, he served in the Marine Corps for four years before studying art in San Francisco, where he refined the classical painting style that would earn him a devoted following.

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For most of his life, Jon worked in his small art studio, where he frequently welcomed clients and students into his world of portraiture. Besides painting and teaching art, he found joy in the outdoors—fishing, camping, and soaking in the quiet beauty of nature.

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Jon was preceded in death by his parents, Robert and Margaret, his brother Steven, and his sister, Megan. He is survived by his wife, Judy, and his brother Mark.

 

Jamie no longer lived in the area where she had grown up and knew Mr. Phillips as a teenager. Nevertheless, she decided to take a few days off from teaching at UCLA, where she was known for her course, “Genetics, Evolution, and Ecology,” to make the long drive up north so that she could collect her thoughts, spend some time with her aging mother, and pay her respects to a gracious man who had opened her eyes to more than just art.

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Jamie and her mother, Susan, had first met Mr. Phillips the day her mother took her and her sister, all dressed up in their Sunday best, to pose for a commissioned portrait. Susan had learned about Mr. Phillips while at a dinner party. The hostess had proudly displayed in her living room a painted portrait of each of their three sons, beautifully done in oils by the artist.

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Mr. Phillips’s chosen style was realism, and he took much inspiration from the old masters, such as Rembrandt, Vermeer, and Caravaggio. Like these masters, Mr. Phillips knew something about light and how to use it to create mood and bring out the character of his subject. He didn’t paint directly from tube to canvas, like many of his contemporaries. Instead, he painted in layers, slowly building a luminescent three-dimensional illusion of life using thin glazes. His paintings had a translucent, glassy quality about them that was missing from today’s use of opaque colors. This “lost technique,” as some call it, also allowed him to create an impeccable photorealistic likeness of his subject. The result was a portrait that often appeared more real than the subject itself.

 

Once Susan saw the boys’ portraits hanging on the wall in the home of their hostess, she immediately inquired who the artist was. The next day, she called Mr. Phillips to commission a portrait of her two daughters sitting together. Mr. Phillips’s wife, Judy, oversaw managing his clients for him and told Susan she would need to be placed on a waiting list. Almost a year later, Susan would carefully lay out matching outfits for the girls, caringly brush their hair, and then drive them to Mr. Phillips’s home studio for their first session with the artist.

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The house where the painter lived and worked was a modest home with peeling white paint and landscaping that had long been neglected. There was a granite path that bypassed the house and led to Mr. Phillips’s studio in the back. Susan, Jamie, and her sister, Kristy—all prim and proper in contrast to the rural surroundings—got out of the car and quickly crossed the street. Both girls, fraternal twins, were a bit nervous about posing for an artist. Their mother had already warned them that they would need to sit without moving for several minutes and maybe even for several sessions while Mr. Phillips captured their likeness. She negotiated this by letting them know she would treat them to ice cream afterward.

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The three of them walked up to the studio door, which had a wobbly brass knob and a traditional four-paned glass window that rattled when they knocked on it. After a few moments, footsteps on old wooden flooring could be heard approaching. A cat came running out as Mr. Phillips opened the door to welcome his guests with a broad smile. In the background, Bach’s “Goldberg Variations” could be heard playing on the radio.

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Mr. Phillips always wore an old pair of Wranglers with a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a brown leather vest, and Birkenstocks. He reminded Jamie a bit of that singer/songwriter, James Taylor, whom her mother always listened to. He was tall and thin, with medium-length brown hair and eyes that were soft but focused. As Jamie walked in, she could immediately smell the linseed oil and raw linen canvas—smells she would grow to love for the rest of her life.

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Susan introduced herself and her two daughters. “Nice to meet you. I’m Susan, and this is Kristy, and this is Jamie.”

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“Delighted to meet you all. Come on in. Would you like to sit down for a few minutes before we start?” asked Mr. Phillips.

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The studio was a small cottage. On one side was a walled-off section full of stacked canvases, and on the other, a similar walled-off living space that had a sofa, a bookshelf, a kitchenette, and an old coffee table with candle wax stuck to it. Further into the studio, there was a bathroom, and in the back, a larger room where Mr. Phillips painted and periodically taught classes to a small group of dedicated students. The studio wasn’t tidy, but neither was it littered. It was the kind of controlled mess that only an artist in their own workspace could appreciate.

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The room where he painted had two large windows nicely framed with Douglas fur that let in the even, cool northern-facing light sought by artists. There was a large maple easel that looked strong enough to hold a marble slab, and a small portable heater next to it. Opposite the windows was a long table—actually, a repurposed closet door with two sawhorses propping it up. On top of the table were various painter’s palettes, jars full of brushes, and smaller capped ones of dirtied turpentine. Next to the table was a deep sink for cleaning up. Lastly, beneath the table were gallon containers of gesso, as well as cabinets full of tubes of paint, pigments, and other painting mediums.

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Mr. Phillips quickly grabbed a couple of folding chairs and invited the three to sit down at the coffee table in the living space. “Some tea or water, or perhaps a soda for the girls?” he offered.

“Sure,” the girls said at the same time, after their mother signaled her approval.

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“Nothing for me, thank you,” replied Susan, who felt a bit uncomfortable being in a man’s private workspace with her two daughters all dolled up.

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Mr. Phillips opened a small refrigerator on the other end of the living space, grabbed two bottles of Coke, popped the lids off, and rushed back, eager to learn more about his new subjects.

“Is your wife also an artist?” Susan asked.

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“No, just me. Judy teaches third graders at Sutter Mill School near Coloma. She has many talents, but art isn’t one of them,” he said with a smile that didn’t reflect any judgment. “So, Kristy and Jamie, what grade are you in?”

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“Sixth grade, but it’s getting boring, and we can’t wait to start middle school next fall.” Kristy was the more outspoken of the two and often acted as the twins’ unofficial spokeswoman—much to Jamie’s chagrin.

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“Yes, sixth grade,” followed a muted Jamie. She wished she were as fearless and outgoing as her sister, but her introverted nature always seemed to keep her on the sidelines.

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“I really like your studio,” said Kristy. “What’s it like to have your own studio? There are so many paintings to look at. Did you paint them all?”

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“A few were done by my students,” Mr. Phillips remarked.

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“You paint so well,” said Susan, “and we’re so glad you could fit us into your busy schedule. I’m really looking forward to having a beautiful portrait of the two.”

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In truth, Susan had little appreciation for art. For her, art was no more than decoration, and at that, best used as a status symbol—something she could show off to her guests in the entryway of their immaculate suburban home. Even before the portrait had been commissioned, she had picked out a gilded rococo-style picture frame for it.

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“Yes, sorry, it took so long to get you in. Judy manages my schedule for me, and I didn’t realize I was so booked up.” Smiling at both girls, he asked, “So, what do each of you like to do in your spare time? I’m sure you have many hobbies.”

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“Well, I like to play soccer, and Jamie plays clarinet, and we both are in Girl Scouts, and no, we don’t have any cookies to sell! And well, yeah, we like to do a lot of other things too. Let me think… For example, this summer, we’re planning to…”

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The conversation continued for a good twenty minutes, with Kristy doing most of the talking and her mother chiming in from time to time to provide more details. Jamie mostly just nodded her head in agreement, nervously holding her bottle of Coke the whole time without once taking a sip.

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As with all those who sat for Mr. Phillips, he wanted to get to know the twins. He wanted to understand more than just their outer physical appearance. It was the subject’s inner character that he most wished to capture on canvas. Susan, who was always in a rush and complained about having too many things to do—even though she was a homemaker with no imposed agenda—grew impatient and began to look at her watch.

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“Well, let’s get started, shall we?” Mr. Phillips suggested.

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Next, he walked them to the back painting room, where he had already set up two stools close to the window for the girls to sit on. He grabbed another of the folding chairs for Susan. He asked Kristy to stand slightly behind Jamie and to look straight ahead with her hands crossed in front of her, while Jamie was instructed to put her hands on her lap and look out toward the window. Susan thought the pose was just perfect, missing how much the composition reflected the twin’s contrasting personalities.

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Once the girls were in place, Mr. Phillips stepped back and studied them for some time: the angle at which they stood or sat, the facial gestures, the placement of the hands, the position of the feet, the skin tone, the delicate eyes and mouth, the color of their matching dresses and shoes, the falling of the drapery, and the highlights, mid-tones, and dark shadows. Next, he looked for small details he might have overlooked: the ever-so-slight gold necklaces each wore with tiny matching earrings, a red bow seen slightly above the crest of the head, and an ankle bracelet on Jamie that must have missed Mom’s close inspection.

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“Okay,” said Mr. Phillips with a single handclap, “I think we’re all good to go. Please allow me about two months to complete the portrait. Judy or I will call you when it’s ready. It was so nice to get to know you girls!”

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“That’s it?” replied Susan, astonished. “Don’t you need to do a sketch, or at least take a photograph?”

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Mr. Phillips had the uncanny ability to draw a stranger’s face long after meeting them. He had dozens of sketchbooks full of faces of people he had encountered, even while just stopping at the gas station or the grocery store. It had become a favorite pastime of his to record every person he stumbled across. However, the sketches reflected more than his ability to capture a physical likeness, but also something deeper within the subject—their desires, hopes, conditioning, even their ignorance. But in general, the sketches showed empathy and a special connection with his fellow human beings. Never did any of Mr. Phillips’s sketches or portraits ridicule or disparage his subject. For him, portraits were more than just a recording device to capture such-and-such a person at such-and-such time—cameras could already do that. His portraits had a more profound objective. When Mr. Phillips drew or painted a portrait, he wasn’t just studying the subject; he was studying everyone, including himself. It was this fascination with human nature and our shared existence that had kept him painting for so many years.

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“I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Mr. Phillips kindly. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to keep you any longer. I really have enough to work with already.”

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“Wow!” Kristy remarked. “You must have a photographic memory!”

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“Well, sort of,” he said before changing the subject. “You girls have been so patient. Would you like another soda for the road?”

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“No, I think they’ve had enough, but thank you,” replied Susan with a smile. “It was certainly nice to meet you, Mr. Phillips, and I look forward to seeing the finished product. I’m sure it will turn out just great!” she said, now feeling a bit uneasy about commissioning a painting from an artist who claimed to “have enough to work with” without even lifting a finger.

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“Thank you for coming. Let me show you out,” said Mr. Phillips.

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As he opened the door for them, the cat came scurrying back in.

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“What’s your cat’s name?” asked Jamie, who had now gotten past some of her initial shyness.

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“Oh, that’s Shanti.”

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“That’s a nice name.”

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The cat, who moments ago had its ears back and tail down, was making a quick beeline for the back of the studio when it suddenly stopped, swung back, and approached Mr. Phillips’s young visitor. Jamie bent down and petted the cat several times, unconcerned that her mother and sister were already halfway to the car.

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“Jamie, let’s go! We have lots of things to do today,” Susan could be heard saying from afar.

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“Coming!” Jamie looked up at Mr. Phillips and gave him a quick smile before running out the door to catch up.

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Continue to Part II

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