Picasso had painted Guernica in thirty-five days. Plagued with doubts, she had to face the fact that she was no Picasso. She wasn’t even an experienced painter. She’d never painted on such a large canvas before or for such an important audience. What made her think any painting of hers would be worthy of an exhibition? But she was determined to work day and night and complete her painting in only one more day than the master—thirty-six days, double Chai or eighteen, a spiritual number in Judaism—in honor of the Jews who had lost their lives.
She’d always been drawn to Chagall, and now she knew why. She would paint in the tradition for which Chagall was known, to honor him, but with her grandfather’s touch and her own unique style. She captured these ideas and others in her mind, then refined her key figures in sketch after sketch, which she would rework several times before she transferred the sketches to the canvas.
She would portray the drowning victims, especially the children, as cherubic angels floating toward heaven, each safe in its mother’s arms. Truly, they were headed for a better place than their original destination, almost certain death in the concentration camps.
Theia’s work would be all about color and joy. She would call it The Ascending Souls of Chania.
She would paint the scene her grandfather saw in his final minutes, a scene he had no way of painting. His spirit had imbued her with his vision, and he was working through her like a writer’s characters spoke to the author from the cosmos, urging them to put their feelings into words on the page. Her grandfather was channeling through her. Her fingers were electrified, her mind aflame. She was driven to complete this painting.
The paintings she had seen of her grandfather’s in the museum vault were not horrifying. That was what she was had been doing wrong. Those paintings were light and hopeful and full of color.
Theia got out her paints and her palette. Suddenly she saw the finished work in her mind’s eye, and she worked feverishly to achieve that vision.
With a blue background, she painted the ship before it had been blown to bits by the torpedoes. The unwilling passengers had escaped this life and were on their way to a better place before their ship had even been sighted.
Babies swaddled in pink and blue blankets, cradled in their mothers’ arms, heartbeats synchronized until their final beat when they ascended to heaven, each with a set of strong wings, fluttering up to a cornflower-blue sky with wisps of billowing white clouds. Husbands and wives, clinging to each other, love in their eyes, because they knew when they got to their destination they would be united forever. Families, hand in hand with their children.
It was the middle of the night on rough seas, but in her painting, the full moon would illuminate the sky, kissing the waves. There was no utter darkness, no debilitating final moments of fear and hopelessness, no lurking submarine lying in wait. Only smiling faces, looking upward toward the bright light.
And, in pride of place, her grandfather, Theo, larger than life, magnificent angel wings unfurled, leading the way. Yes, that is how she wanted to remember him. How she wanted the world to remember him. The stars rode high in the sky, especially one shining star, representing her grandmother.
Swirls of color—yellows, greens, and blues. The painting was wild, Impressionistic. Her interpretation of events would be hopeful.
She worked through the night, and when she finally slept, she slept peacefully for the first time since her trip abroad, uninterrupted by bad dreams or night sweats.
She woke up the next day, painted some more, painting until her hands were raw. But she definitely had something, at least the beginnings of something, something original, something she could be proud of, something she thought Theo would be proud of.
At night, she lay still and quiet in bed, in her summer nightgown, the only sound being the air conditioner cycling on and off. Eventually, she drifted off to sleep.
During the days, she didn’t go out for sustenance. She ordered in. Shut off from the world, albeit by her choice, she lived with her fears and insecurities. What if she weren’t good enough to tell the story the way it needed to be told? What made her think she had the talent to bring the tragedy to life? She was not her grandfather.
Then one of her brothers called.
“T, some dude named Wade dropped by asking about you, wondering where you are and when you’re coming home.”
“He actually came to the house? What did you tell him?”
“Nothing, just like you told us to say. But this guy seems like he’s on the level. He’s really hurting. I think you broke his heart.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Theia said. “We hardly know each other.”
“That’s not what he said.”
“What did he say, exactly?”
“It’s not what he said, but how he said it. Why don’t you give him a break?”
“I can’t focus on anyone or anything until I finish this painting. I’m facing a deadline, and I’m not making enough progress.”
“Maybe you’re too caught up in it. Relax and maybe things will look different. Meanwhile, can I give the guy your address so he can visit, or at least your phone number? He’s called every one of us, including Mom and Dad.”
“No, you can’t. I’m sorry, but I have to finish this project.”
“He says he’s not Greek.”
“He’s not.”
“Or Jewish.”
“That’s right, he’s neither of these.”
“And that that’s the reason you broke up with him, as if any of that mattered if you love the guy. That’s just plain crazy. Welcome to the twenty-first century. You’re free to do whatever you want.”
“Then how come you and all of my brothers are dating or married to Greek girls?”
“That’s all we know. We’ve been around them all our lives, in synagogue, school, hanging out with the children of Mom and Dad’s friends.”
“I rest my case.”
“Do you love him?” her brother asked.
Theia was quiet. She had given it enough thought all these weeks—months, really—alone.
“Yes.”
“Then I really don’t get it. I’ll tell him you’re as stubborn as a mule’s mother-in-law and once you make up your mind, you never change it, and what does he see in you anyway.”
“Thanks.”
Her brother’s voice was serious. “T, I’ve been elected to tell you that we all miss you. We’re here for you, if you’d only reach out.”
“Thanks, but I have to do this myself. Finishing this painting is my top priority.”
“Mom wants to talk to you.”
“Putting on the big guns?”
“Yep.”
She said goodbye to her brother.
“Hi, honey,” said Carolina. “I like your young man. We all do.”
“He’s not my young man.”
“He could be.”
“He’s not Greek.”
“What does that matter? It’s obvious he loves you. Don’t turn your back on love. It’s a gift from God.”
“You don’t even know him.”
Carolina was silent.
“He doesn’t live in Atlanta. It would never work out.”
“He said actuaries can work anywhere.”
“Are you his agent or a matchmaker?”
“No, I’m your mother, and I don’t want you to make a mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake. I’m too busy painting. I don’t have time for a relationship.”
“We miss you.”
“I miss you all too. I’m looking forward to seeing you all at the exhibition.” She broke the connection with her mother, possessed and eager to get back to her project.
Theia worked day and night, almost without a break. She subsisted on minimal meals and rarely dined out. And, miraculously, thirty-six days after she started, the end was in sight.
She wanted to shout. She wanted to call someone. She wanted—no needed—to talk to Wade. She’d thought about calling him ma
ny times since she’d arrived in New York, but each time she stopped herself. He had been part of her journey, and she had sent him an invitation to the exhibition. She didn’t have much time to miss him during the day, but she did in fact miss him fiercely in the quiet hours of the evening.
She sat on the bed and dialed his number.
He answered on the first ring, like he’d been waiting by the phone.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hay is for horses.”
Theia laughed, for the first time in a long time. “You’re a dork. You know that, don’t you?”
“You haven’t talked to me in more than a month, and that’s the best you can come up with?”
“Sorry.” She smiled through the phone. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Theia, I want more than to hear your voice. I need to see you.”
Theia exhaled.
“Don’t shut me out,” Wade implored.
“I just called to tell you that I’m done.”
“Done with me?”
“No, done with the painting, silly. Well, I still have to add the finishing touches. I am almost ready to put my signature on it. I’m sorry I wouldn’t let you visit, but I was so caught up. I lost my way at first, but then I had a breakthrough, and I’ve been painting day and night. Did you get my invitation to the opening?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, I put your name on the list. I’d like you to come to New York for the reception. I was afraid I’d lost you.”
“I’m still yours to lose,” Wade said. “I’d go anywhere for you, Theia. Just name the place and time.”
She gave him the details.
“I can’t wait. See you soon, then, love,” Wade added.
Theia hung up the phone and sighed. He’d called her “love.” If there was such a thing as floating on air, then she was weightless. She flipped herself backward on the bed and imagined Wade was there with her. What would it be like when she saw him again after all this time? She couldn’t wait.
Like a caged tiger, Theia paced the length of the apartment, anxious for a new day to dawn. The next morning, she walked to Sarabeth’s at Central Park South and had a big breakfast. She started with a glass of Four Flowers Juice, with orange, fresh pineapple, banana, and pomegranate juice, followed by Fat & Fluffy French Toast and a basket of muffins to take back to the apartment.
Her clothes were hanging on her. She had been thin to begin with, and now none of her clothes fit. It hadn’t mattered, because she painted in an old T-shirt, a T-shirt she’d stolen from Wade’s luggage before she left for New York. It was still infused with Wade’s manly smell. It was what had sustained her all these weeks.
She needed to go shopping for a perfect dress for the opening. And she was in the right town to do her shopping. She stuck the bag with the muffins into her purse and stopped into Sak’s couture department. Browsing through the designer gowns, she settled on a Carmen Marc Valvo floor-length chiffon gown with a beaded neck. Its pattern looked like a palette Monet could have painted, streaked with hot pink, royal blue, green, gray, blue-green accent flowers arrayed on a white background. It was flowy and tied at the waist in a simple bow. She took a cab back to drop off her packages and spent the rest of the day walking through the park, finally taking in the sights and sounds of New York City. It felt good to walk and to stretch. To have accomplished something she was proud of.
When she got back to her apartment, she called the curator at the museum.
“I finished,” said Theia, the relief obvious in her voice. “Well, except for a few touchups, and then it needs to dry. You can come take a look, if you’d like.”
“You know I’ve been dying to see it,” said Farrah. “And I have the proofs for the brochure to show you.”
“How is planning coming for the reception?”
“Everything is going great. We’ve already received a lot of RSVPs. It’s going to be a full event, with your family and friends, our donors, the board, and the media. The response has been overwhelming. The Greek Consul General in New York is coming, and the Consul from Atlanta.”
Farrah came to the apartment the next day. Theia drew her into her studio, set up in the second bedroom. Because she was on the fiftieth floor, there was plenty of light, thanks to the open spaces beyond the windows. Theia unveiled the painting, and Farrah just stood there, open-mouthed.
“What do you think?”
“I’m speechless. Theia, I had no idea. It’s amazing. It’s a masterpiece. I didn’t know that you…I mean…I thought…I mean I’d hoped…”
“You had no idea what to expect. It could have been a complete disaster, right?”
Farrah laughed. “The thought had crossed my mind. But Theia, your style is just like your grandfather’s. This is phenomenal. You’ve taken a tragedy and made it uplifting.”
“That was not my original intent,” Theia explained. “I started in the direction of Guernica, and for days, nothing happened. I had a wastebasket full of useless sketches. Then it came to me in a dream. I think Theo’s spirit must have taken hold and painted through me. And when I thought about my grandfather’s style, I realized he wouldn’t have painted anything so dark.”
“It’s astounding. I can’t stop looking at it. I feel like we need some Champagne to celebrate.”
“I could certainly use a drink.”
“I’m taking you out to dinner tonight. There will be bubbly. When you’re finished with the painting, I’ll have it transported to the museum. The space is ready, and all we need to do is frame and hang the paintings. Your help in naming the pieces has been invaluable. What will you call this final piece?”
“I had originally named it Lost Souls of Chania,” Theia began. “But now I’m thinking more along the lines of The Spirit of Chania or Ascending Souls of Chania.”
“I like it. Ascending Souls. It’s perfect.”
Farrah handed Theia the catalogue proof. “Here, take a look at this and see what you think. I need to have the photographer come by and shoot your painting for the cover.”
The women discussed a number of things in connection with the opening, and after Farrah left, Theia spent several hours putting the finishing touches on the painting and, finally, adding her signature.
The promised dinner went farther toward cementing their friendship, and they parted with an appointment to meet in a week at the gallery to finalize placement of the painting in the museum.
Chapter Fourteen
When Theia arrived at MOMA, she took the elevator to Farrah’s office.
Farrah grasped her hands. “Well, this is it. I can’t wait for you to see it! I couldn’t be happier with the way the exhibition is turning out. I hope you will be too.”
When Theia walked into the space where the exhibition would be housed, the impact was so powerful, she was transported back to Chania. As she entered the first room, her hand flew to her mouth. There, on the walls in front of her, was the whole story in paintings and photographs, assaulting her senses. The first thing she noticed were the colors, the colors of Greece. The whitewashed buildings with a smattering of colors—pale yellow, peach, blue. She was back in Chania and could feel the warmth and the spirit of the city, could almost soak up the atmosphere. She saw again the Venetian Harbour, the old port, the maze of narrow side streets, the souvenir and arts and craft shops, the Greek tavernas. There was the synagogue with the Memorial Wall, and there on the walls were the actual pictures, borrowed for the exhibit. On the white wall were the names of the victims of the Tanais. She touched her hand to her family’s name.
Then she entered a giant room devoted to the featured artist—Theo’s breathtaking paintings—paintings of Chania, the harbor, the markets, the beaches, pictures of Theo and his bride, pictures of her ya-ya as a young girl, the story of their romance and their love blossoming in full color. And then as she wandered into the central room, there on the full expanse of wall was her painting.
Choked up, Theia could hardly mo
ve. Farrah came up behind her and held her hand.
“There. There it is, Theia. It’s remarkable. I don’t think the word ‘masterpiece’ is too overstated.”
Theia expelled a breath and couldn’t stop the flow of tears.
“The world will finally see your grandfather’s talent and your tribute.”
There was a long bench in front of the painting. Farrah helped her over to it.
“I’m overwhelmed. I just wish my ya-ya could have seen this,” Theia said.
“She would have been proud, I think,” said Farrah. “Your family will be proud.”
“You’ve created a lovely exhibition,” Theia said. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. Without you, none of this would have been possible.”
“And now, for the final surprise.” Farrah handed Theia a finished full-color, high-gloss catalogue.
There was her painting on the cover of the brochure, with her name. And in the following pages, pictures of each painting, with explanations, history, and background of the last Jewish community of Chania. The descriptive narrative was supplemented with pictures of the six children who had fled the island all those years ago, and their descendants. There was a section about the artist and his wife, her grandmother.
The curator had asked a Chagall scholar to write a monograph on Theo’s paintings. He had been allowed to preview the artist’s works before the exhibition opening, and he was excited to discover what he thought was a gifted painter to introduce to the world.
The catalogue created to accompany the exhibition had a table of contents, an acknowledgement written by Theia, a preface, an essay written by the Chagall scholar, photos of artworks in the exhibition, plus other photos provided by Theia, a checklist of the artworks in the exhibition, a bibliography, and an index. The booklet also contained artist monographs or thematic texts by named authors.
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