CHAPTER NINE
I love the monumental building of the Cardiff National Museum; the architecture alone controls not only an air of high value, but also the charisma of a national edifice.
Established in 1912, it has undergone a series architectural modification and reconstruction over the years to finally arrive at what it looks today. The museum houses a wealth of historic assemblage from zoology to botany, archaeology, fine and applied arts and geology; but of course my interest resides mostly on the assemblage of the fine and applied art masterpieces.
School is not too far away from it and sometimes after school; I walk to the museum to get some inspiration before going home.
I do feel a sense of belonging when I walked the halls of the gallery sections to look at paintings. It reminds me of the good promises embedded in the job I'm trying to make a career out of. History is best told by the people who commanded the events of past; people that sweat and bled on the paths of the scorching struggle in order to realise their dreams and to make history itself. I see these struggles in those paintings on the wall; they remind me again and again how bumpy the ride is and would be to me.
It also gives me some courage to learn the art well and be the best at whatever piece I may produce. So as we walked through the doors of the museum with Pam that afternoon, I knew I was at my best.
"Why don't I think of this place often?" She asked in her usual sarcastic tone. "I feel strange coming in here; I don't feel it's in Cardiff."
I smiled and said "It's because you have no interest in it in the first place. It's natural though; there were times when I come here every day."
"Every day; for what?"
"That's what I'm here to show you."
"Ok, Mr John Constable, show me."
I looked at her, a little surprised. "You know Constable?"
"Yes, I know Constable; I have his work in my house and a father that worships him. Dad always says he was the father of British landscape art."
"Your dad is wrong."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes, Thomas Wilson 1714 to 1782, Welsh born. He's considered the Father of British Landscape art."
"Oh that's great; thank God." She chuckled. "Now I'll take dad out of his misery. I need to know more about him."
I took her to some of his paintings, telling her the little I know about them; and for the first time since we got in, she showed a high level of interest. I have no idea exactly why the sudden interest but it led me to think again of a non-cordial relationship she harbours with her parents. I never touched that part even though our friendship had grown stronger.
"So it was said Thomas Wilson was the first landscape artist ever produced by Welsh and also the first that painted his county in recognition of the aesthetic beauty. He was also the first British artist that concentrated on landscape painting; his works influenced Constable not only in the field of landscape art, but also the style."
"Yes, it’s obvious." She said, looking closely at Wilson's Lake Avernus I, 1765. "Constable's paintings seemed to be clearer than this. The one in my home has clearer subjects."
"That's because Wilson has a subjective way of rendering his landscapes which are based mostly on the season. I think he loved to make them hazy. Look at the trees in this painting, the tops were painted softly. Look at that painting over there." I pointed to another painting.
"What's this?" She moved closer to it. "River Scene with Castle."
"Yes, see how hazy it is? He obviously loved indulging to personal influence in the finishing, thereby creating an Ideal style."
"Yeah." She nodded.
"What's the name of the Constable in your home?"
"I don't know; I don't care." The attitude seemed to be coming by again.
"Ok. Let's go to my favourite spot then."
The next minute, we were standing before the two Water Lilly paintings by Cloud Monet; Gallery Sixteen
Visiting that section is a must, every time I visit the museum and my favourites are the Water Lilies and the Rouen Cathedral. The feeling I have on seeing these paintings shows physically. So as we stood before the paintings, my reaction was obviously more wondrous to Pam than the masterpieces; I just looked mutely at them.
"Are we having a moment of silence?"
"What? No; sorry. I was just taken by the mastery that's all. I always do that when I'm here."
"Why do you always do that?"
"Your father worships John Constable, I guess Monet is one of the art gods I worship. But there's this intense natural feeling artists have for the Masters and their works. It's like the way you looked when watching the fishes swimming in the pool at the greenhouse the other day." She smiled and nodded. We proceeded to the Rouen Cathedral.
"I like the painting because of the concept."
"Rouen Cathedral, 1893." She read up. "What's the concept behind it?"
"The Rouen Cathedral are series of paintings by Monet in 1890s of the Cathedral from different viewpoints, time of the day and year. It's said that Monet did about thirty of them."
"Thirty..." She bumped into a man who was standing behind her. She turned and apologized. The gentleman smiled at us, nodded and went on to view another painting. "thirty paintings of the same place?" She said.
"Yes, he captured the subject from different angles, and painted them in different colours. Critics say Monet have deep interest in the study of the impact of light on subjects. They call it visual sensation. Monet believed the effect of light on a subject becomes part of the object itself. This interest, I think, seemed to be his drive on embarking on the cathedral series and he made a huge success from it."
"Visual sensation; I like that." She said. "What is your own inspiration in art? I mean you talked about other artists a lot more than you talk about yourself." Now she's looking squarely at me.
"Well, landscape is my truest love and I love the concept of the lights like other artists do. Vermeer is my icon on that. He used to..."
"Who?"
"Vermeer, Jan Vermeer, a Dutch artist."
"Ok."
"So, I like the concept; I did a panting of nightclubs, setting sun, bright day lights and all.” I turned to another Monet and showed her. "This is Dusk in Venice, originally called San Giorgio Maggior at Dusk, 1908. You can observe the brilliant use of yellows and blues. If he had used whites and blues on the original sketch, it would depict a day scene."
"So in other words, you are inspired by lights as well."
"Yeah."
"You are going to be a great artist someday."
"You think?"
"I know that. You know the arts very well, you should work a little harder and you'll be there." She smiled. "I wonder how my picture would look like in different lighting conditions. I should've let you paint that sketch you drew of me at the park." I was silent. She looked at me, but then took off her gaze. "Tell me about this one." She walked to another painting on the wall.
I was momentarily taken back to the first time we met; the gravity of my rage over the feud and my initial plot against her; then followed the empathy on her hospital admission and the sudden news of her condition. But her reaction right after she made the statement notified me of a pint of regret. I think she felt it now that we are friends.
I walked towards her to the painting she was looking at; she couldn't turn to look at me even when I stood alongside her, looking at the painting. She didn't say a word.
"La Parisienne, 1875, Pierre-Auguste Renoir." I said.
She sighed; I did too.
We were out of the museum half an hour later, boarded the bus back to Roath. She was silent for the better part of the drive and I thought it was the issue of the sketch. But I was mistaken.
"Are you alright?" I asked her "You look unwell."
"I'm alright; just a little tired."
"But how was it."
"What?" She shot a glance at me.
"The museum, did you enjoy the little tour?"
"Yes, I did."
/>
She dropped her head on my shoulder and sighed. I adjusted a little for comfort, putting my right arm around her. Her head felt warm; high temperature I presumed; and the feeling I dreaded most crossed my mind: she's getting ill; her death is drawing closer.
Life is unfair; mother used to say that to Molly whenever the latter narrates a sad story to her about some awful experiences emanating from a patient's illness. Molly has many of such stories; I've been hearing her say them since when I could grab and keep long sad stories in my little head. And now she's so used to telling them and mother got so used to having interest on them. In my case, I had had enough of them ever since Molly told us Pam is dying; and the worse part, she said it without flinching.
I walked into the house that evening, worried as hell about Pam, when I met Molly and mother talking in the living room; I didn't know what they were talking about until when I stood by the fridge in the kitchen.
It was another sad story of a woman traumatized for witnessing a brutal murder just a few feet away from her. Since then, sleep never came to her as every time she closes her eyes, she sees the act, the blood and death. Molly found it funny and she laughed as she described how the woman screams. I've never felt so upset before.
"What's funny?" I asked with a can of coke in my hand.
"She was telling me about a..." Mother began but I cut her off.
"I know what it's about; I just want to know what the funny part is."
They exchanged glances. "How do you mean?"
My voice was down and in control. I walked, stood in front of them and looked straight at the women. "You were laughing and making fun of a traumatized woman suffering from witnessing something she had obviously never before seen in her life; this is something a lot worse than a nightmare and it drives her crazy every time it appears in her mind. She could have children, a husband, a friend or at least some one that finds comfort in her; I don't think laughing at her is right; she should have gotten at least some sympathy instead of to be joked at." No answer; I thought so. I turned and went upstairs.
Alone in my room, I felt the sun was about to set on me and never to rise again. It felt like I was the one whose death was fast approaching. A sudden fever began to possess me and my mouth tasted bitter. I felt no regrets over what I told mother and Molly; the anger in me made me think I should have said a lot more to them on that.
I stood up and paced; my room still smelt of oil and turpentine from the freshly finished paintings on my walls. I went close to each one of them and looked, thinking about the muse behind them. All the paintings stared back at me with pretty flat faces. If they were alive, I know they'd be thanking me for creating them and for making excellent work on them. They might not even bother to question how I came about creating them.
I turned away, went to my desk and sat; my mouth still bitter. The sketchbook was on the desk so I opened it and viewed some of the sketches especially the ones inspired by my moments with Pam. The day's outing in the museum was another good moment; the moment I held her in the bus ride home was very memorable, so unique, and so magical. Bloody hell! I grabbed a pencil and began another sketch.
My Favourite Muse Page 12
