It was something about that painting…
Or perhaps it was the girl in it.
Maybe I fell in love that day with both…I’ll never know.
But from that day on all I knew I had wanted to do was to create—to paint. I’ve had no technical training—only stupidity along with trial and error has made me the artist I am.
I have always loved color—red, yellow, blue, orange, purple, green…The full spectrum of the wheel. The visions of it all always did something to my insides, had me bursting with excitement about the things I could do with them once I was able to put the paint on the canvas. I wanted to splash color on everything like a crazed woman. Even on my own skin sometimes, transform it from pale to pink or red or blue.
There are no limitations when it comes to art.
I was free to do whatever it was that I wanted.
Looking around at all the white walls in this house, I almost vomit. In my heart I know that they should be covered in paintings, preferably my own creations, but I would settle for an original Degas or Renoir, yet they are blank. The lack of color is almost painful to the eyes. Adriaan had always said that white meant purity and cleanliness. He also felt that it was brighter than any color I could ever splash on those walls. So, I was overruled when it came to changing the color of the walls in this house but Adriaan did allow me to paint one thing…In fact, I made him pull it right from its own home and place it in the attic for a while so that I could get to work undisturbed.
My attention is stolen for just a moment when a loud breath slips from Sadie where she’s curled up in a ball in a corner on the floor across the room and in dreamland. A warm hand caresses my cheek once again. Adriaan is much determined this morning to get my attention. My chin is lifted, and I face my husband.
I smile.
“Are you okay, Tess?” His eyes narrow.
“Yes.” I laugh just a little. “Yes, of course.”
With a breath followed by a long pause, he frowns.
I smile a bit more, hoping to convince him that it’s genuine and soon he relents, though I’m uncertain if he buys my pretend sincerity. “Okay, then.” He presses a kiss to my cheek then rakes his fingers through my hair adoringly. “I’ll see you a later then.”
“Yes.”
“What will you do today?” He tilts his head as if he doesn’t know the answer.
Adriaan always asks this question, every single day in fact.
And I always provide him with the sammme answer…
I make a face. “I’ll likely paint for much of the day, Adriaan.”
It’s always the same!
“Oh.” He jerks his head back, feigns interest. “That sounds wonderful, Tess. Have you finished the bouquet of lilies?”
I have been painting flowers for the last seven months—all sorts of flowers—roses, tulips, carnations…arranged in different ways and beneath varying shades of light. Before that it was fruit—oranges, apples, bananas. And before that it was household items—plates, teacups, bowls.
Still life…
An arrangement of inanimate objects as the subject.
Capturing it has become somewhat important to me.
Edouard Manet—the French modernist painter—once called still life “the touchstone of painting.”
I have always wondered if I could do his words justice when it comes to the canvas.
Something churns in my stomach which is akin to pure dread when I accept just how uninspired I have been as of lately. Each time I pick up the paintbrush, I’m simply going through the motions. A little dab of color there. A dollop of paint here. A fancy brushstroke this way and that way. It’s as if my lifeless hand is simply dragging that paintbrush across the canvas with no real purpose other than to say I finished something I had started.
I am no Mary Cassatt or Angelica Kauffman. I am not even close because at least those women had passion where I no longer do. The colors no longer leap off the canvas to stun the viewer. The images no longer captivate. The paintings are no longer memorable. They are as forgettable as each of my passing days have become.
Still, I remind myself that there is no such thing as “bad” art—it is all subjective…
It is difficult to contest that there is no life in my work anymore.
There just might not be any life left in me too.
Where did it all go?
Tapping on the table just once with a finger, I ponder the question and then I shake it away not wanting to think about it for too long and ruin this wonderful morning.
What would be the sense?
This is my life here in this house…which is spent mostly upstairs in the attic where I paint and create work that no one values. Often, I tilt my head left then right, eyeing over the masterpieces I’ve created and wonder if any of it is worth looking at at all…Probably explains why no one has purchased any of my work in the last six years. Maybe it’s all bloody horrible so it should be free.
Lips parted, I gaze out the window, adoring the waves which wash into the harbor in the distance and loving the ease with which they move. And then my eyes are on the busy street below…
The young woman heads east along it today as she always does at the same time each morning—wicker basket in hand, hat-covered head low and her left hand clutching the pleated skirt she’s wearing, its hem brushing her ankles. The sunlight hits her skin and turns it all golden. Long strands of her blonde hair spill around her shoulders in lazy waves. And that smile…it could light up the entire world and make it brighter than the sun already does. That smile does something to me whenever the nameless woman offers it up to whomever on the street below may need it.
I probably need it the most…
The woman I have come to adore is stunning.
Perhaps worth painting too.
Tilting my head left then right, I consider the thought and then make it go away.
I don’t get to enjoy this flash of her for long each day because in just a moment she will hand off her basket of mystery goods to the man who owns the busy produce stand and then she will leave. And I’ll sit here again tomorrow morning and hope that I’ll see her once more then too. But today, she lingers there for a while and speaks to the man…
My interest only grows, and I find that I’m happy that I’ll get to observe her for a little while longer. This waiting and watching has almost become the highlight of my uneventful days.
Adriaan clears his throat, earning my attention and quickly I’m pulled out of my daydream and my eyes snap back to his. His brows are arched high as if he has been waiting quite some time for me to answer his question that I’d almost completely forgotten about.
“Yes.” I nod. “Yes, I—I—I finished the portrait of the lilies. I’m quite happy with it. It just might be my favorite work to date.” My heart beats a little harder. “Would you like to see it?”
He flinches then fumbles with his crisp shirt sleeve. I admire it with pride for a moment since it had taken me hours to get it that way. Keeping this home—ironing, cooking, cleaning is the other half of my life. Evi, a young and bubbly woman who it feels I met so long ago yet I’ve really only known for a short while, comes to this home each day, usually in the late mornings long after Adriaan is gone, to deliver food, assorted supplies and other personal items I request for her to purchase for us. And often when she is done with those duties, Evi then takes Sadie out for walks which I am immensely grateful for since I never have the time…We could have hired more help, as many couples like us have done to assist with the maintenance of this home, but it was ultimately my decision not to. It is my role as a woman to keep my husband happy and this home in the best shape it could possibly be in. Afterall, we are childless.