The Artist in His Time
Brannington Orchard, Art Critic
Is it a failure in the artist to be unfashionable? Each artist lives in his or her own “modern” time. Are we simply looking for landmarks? Ever hoping, through a recognisable historical pattern, to tame something essentially timeless. The artistic impulse.
I pose these questions—perhaps awkwardly—because Miss Elizabeth Ashbridge is that most awkward thing, an unfashionable artist. Her work has been exhibited occasionally over the past ten years. It is rarely reviewed. Perhaps an understandable decision on the part of editors who have more “fashionable” artists to cover. Nevertheless I contend that though not contemporary—in the normal usage of the word—and though not an innovative force (the very nature of genius is ever to innovate), Miss Ashbridge is an artist worthy of our most serious appreciation.
Skies, mostly English—her obsession—are executed with a growing note of desolation. As though the tension between the narrowness of our lives and the broad freedom of the skies was becoming clearer and ever more painful to her. Compare her earlier, charming “Blues London” with her more stark “Flight.” A single slightly ragged cloud seemingly beating against the edges of the canvas, as though desperate for escape from a harsh, high, almost searing blue. One can see why it is naive in the extreme to dismiss Miss Ashbridge’s work as that of a minor “lady” painter who has “a thing” about skies.
Her “Athens Revisited” is a major development from the work “Athens Morning.” The latter, I believe, was executed on Miss Ashbridge’s honeymoon when she was married to Hubert Baathus. He was tragically killed early on in their marriage. I also recommend “Studio Sky.” It has a haunting quality, as though the artist was trapped in her studio, and, like Oscar Wilde, trying to catch “that little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky.”
There are many other fine pieces, sympathetically mounted in Adrian Carendon’s small gallery in Mount Street. I recommend a visit.
Reports from strangers. Reports from a distant land. The past.
TWENTY-THREE
* * *
“I know.”
“Know what, Dominick?”
“Ruth. I know.”
Silence.
“I know.” Again. And again silence. Silence gives consent. To the knowledge I would have kept from him.
Know. It has a heavy beat. Should I say, “I’m sorry”? Lie again? I take the coward’s way. I say nothing.
“Ruth?”
I put down my drink. We were having dinner.
“Yes.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Don’t you want to know how?”
“No.”
I only want to know if you know who.
“I have only one question.”
“Only one?”
“Yes. Will you continue?”
Silence. Oh, what a coward soul is mine.
“I see, Ruth, that once again you have risen to the occasion.”
Does that sardonic note mean that I may be “let off”? Is that the phrase? So cheaply. I’ve won. I can be carefree. I am loved. And I love. Is it my fault that I do not love where I am loved? That I accepted the gift I should have rejected? But then he would have been unhappy. Perhaps not. If I had acted honourably from the start. Such harsh demands, Ruth. Such terrible penalties, Ruth. Listen. Listen to the man.
“I am rooted in you. From the day I saw you, I loved you.”
Did love enter through the eye? I thought that was lust.
“You were a kind of perfection.”
Like a formula. I had, perhaps, pleasing proportions. I wore the numbers 36 24 36. Draw it. Add some clothes, or not, as you like. Top it with a face. A vision of planes and pools. Dark brown, actually, for the pupils, black for the brow. Skin unpitted, the colour of full cream. And lips “bite red.” The way they like it. And lower down, legs in proportion. Fine and long. Was that the geometry of his downfall?
So why does Charles resist? But he doesn’t. Yes, he does. There’s no not knowing that knowledge. I am the other. The addition. To Elizabeth. Again. Was he evenhanded, do you think?
As Dominick spoke, I tried to listen. I knew it was important. I tried. One should. He was in pain. The pain of isolation. The isolation of pain. I listened to his pain. It’s hard to hear. One listens so rarely. Certainly can’t feel it. Another’s pain. Why does everyone in pain want to share it? There is no diminution. Me divided into your pain will not diminish it. Surely you knew that, Dominick? Your pain divided by my decent—yes, decent—concern, would not diminish it. And eventually, Dominick, I would grow bored by your pain. And wish to be the victim—just for a change. And now, listening to pain, I wanted to race towards pleasure. Any kind of pleasure. For relief.
“You had a kind of light around you. An intelligence. A quickness.”
Speed of light? Do you know what you say, Dominick? How you pick your words from your version of the world.
“I see you, turning … on a point. Almost … towards me.”
A pedestal perhaps?
“In my visions of you … you’re always turning towards me.”
Isn’t that ironic? Listen!
“And this vision of you, as I reached towards it, kept turning towards me. Because I wanted it so much. It didn’t move away.”
Will he remember me as a vision? Like the man who fell in love with the face of a passenger on a ship, sailing away? Just a face. And stayed faithful. I might have been just a remembered face. And done no harm. Such an innocent thing. A face, when loved. From a distance.
“I thought … Ruth. It’s her. It’s Ruth. And so it always has been. Such a simple thing.”
I should have let you go, Dominick. I should have known I was dealing with an idealist. An idealist in love, worse than a romantic. Oh, infinitely. An idealist. Always faithful. Loyal. Trustworthy. Rare, of course, but not treasured. Few buyers.
“And now I don’t know what to do. It’s just impossible. …”
Yes, Professor. You have a dilemma. Indeed you have. What to do … with the pain. With the love. Too much love.
Should this be presented in percentages? Quantities? Liquid, perhaps? Comparatively? Statistically? Geometrically? In algebraic terms? If x = ? I don’t know. I’m not the mathematician. Just picked up some phrases. Extra love marks the critical point. What does one do with the extra love? Add an extra ingredient? Bitterness? Some contrast? Hate perhaps?
“You have destroyed our past, it just seems to lead to now.”
His past had been unpredictable. And the future … ?
Has a shadow. It falls across the path. We will stumble if we continue on the road.
“It’s not, Ruth, that I could ever stop loving you. Ever. It is simply that I’m not brave enough to see you all the time and know what I know.”
“No.”
“I’m a coward.”
“No.”
“I’m afraid of you—in the morning … it’s …”
Even I do not know the word. He continues: “And I fear … other … things.”
Naked power. At night. But sometimes in the morning. Naked mornings. Morning power.
“Even the hidden sweetness in you when you touch or talk to William. I suppose I fear … my fear.”
“So?”
“I’ll just go.”
Go? To where? And to what?
“I’ll live apart from you. I can’t … I can’t live with you.”
Oh, God. This is going to be very difficult. What will Charles say? Think, Ruth. Think. I could lose him. Charles.
Dominick is still talking.
“Elizabeth is giving up her studio here.”
“Elizabeth.” What is her name doing here? In this room. In this conversation?
“What?”
“I see I’ve got your attention. Charles means to spend less time in London. He’s building her a special studio at Frimton.”
“How do you kno
w?”
“Because I talked to Charles.”
“When?”
“A few days ago. I suppose he thought it more appropriate to tell me about the studio.”
More appropriate? To talk to Dominick? About new “arrangements”?
“Did you talk on the telephone?” Freud always hated the telephone.
“Is that relevant?”
“No.”
I just want to know how I was betrayed. For it is a betrayal. Within my world—with him—I thought I was hermetically sealed. No possible intruder. Even casual visitors. Not allowed. But now I feel the terror of the periphery. I feel the force that could trap me there forever. And an even stronger force that might propel me into an eternal free-fall. But I won’t let this happen. I have hooks to hold on to. And though suspended above it, I am not in the abyss. Yet.
“I’ve lost you totally.”
“What?”
These are unlucky words. I do not want to hear them. In case I learn to say them.
“Ruth, please. Please listen.”
“Yes. … Yes.”
“By moving into Elizabeth’s studio I can see William in a familiar environment. It will be less traumatic for him.”
“Yes.”
“Is that all you can say?”
Collect your thoughts, Ruth.
“No. No, it’s not. I think your decision is … is false. It’s a false move. Don’t make it.”
“You astound me, Ruth. You’re … an aberration … in some way.”
“I thought you swore eternal allegiance to me.”
“I don’t remember that phrase.”
“You’re right, Dominick. I think you said you’d love me always. Something like that.”
Well, Ruth. Make a decision. Quickly. Which is best? Make Dominick stay? Or make him go? Which is best? For your relationship with Charles. For your … suddenly … weakening relationship with Charles. Which is best?
Keep Dominick. Much better. A base. One must have a base for a secret life. Too obvious the other way. The unmarried woman with her married lover. No. Keep Dominick. He wants to stay. Such childish nonsense about the studio. It makes no sense. The pathetic business about William. William is at boarding school. And holidays and half terms are spent at Lexington. Stupid Dominick. Stupid? Dominick? Not words I’d normally put together.
So make him stay. Be subtle. Be slow. Just move. The way you can … towards the drinks cabinet. Now turn. Look a little sad. But slow sad. Let everything drain from your face so that, as you know, only sensuous silkiness remains. Watch his face. There is a tiny flicker. Hold on to it. With your eyes. Just hold it. But carefully, Ruth. Carefully. Say nothing. Silence. It is essential for concentration. For the concentration of your power. To achieve your will.
Now. Give him a drink. Stand close. Don’t move. He must reach out for you. Otherwise it’s impossible for him. For the future. Breathe deeply so your breasts move to a rhythm you know. Leave him now. You can feel the tension in him. Move to the sofa. Lie lengthways. Sigh. Sadly. And let one leg fall down so that the skirt of your dress falls away. A little. And just gaze. He is coming towards the sofa. Hold his eyes. Hold them. Sadly. And he is here. Above me. Now he is about to … and his hands betray him. Desperate. They search again for the way in. And it’s over. I’ve won. I lie back. Dominick won’t leave. Not this time. Not ever?
TWENTY-FOUR
* * *
“I’m sorry. I meant to tell you.”
Charles and I. Time together. Regularly, in my home. So easy, when you are trusted. And when you know all the arrangements of the “others.” Where they are. When they will return.
“About what?”
“My conversation with Dominick. About the studio.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Elizabeth and I spoke of it this morning. I gather you’re building her a studio in the grounds at Frimton. And that you will spend less time in London.” My tone was cold.
“Yes.”
Silence.
“If I can.”
“Do you think you can?”
“I intend to try,” he said firmly.
“Why?”
“I have surprised, in myself, a desire—”
“Indeed.”
“A desire to do what is right. However hard.”
“‘A passion for what is difficult.’”
“Perhaps.”
I won’t accept this. Don’t say that. Stay calm.
“Charles, you’re my only chance of … goodness.”
“Ruth!”
“Yes. I’ve never betrayed you.”
“To Elizabeth?”
“No.”
“You would never do that.”
An order. Obey it.
“Of course not.”
Watch carefully. Search for … a degree of weakness. In his resolution.
“Charles. Within our world I have tried … I think I have been … true.”
True to what? To what we’ve done. True to you. True to the things you hide.
He looked away. I knew his secret soul. It hid in his body. What would he do when he must kill it? Could he? He is dangerous, to me. He is strong. He may kill it. A death for me. A gift to Elizabeth. Another. Why not? No, I will triumph, in this. I must. Consider tears. No, liquid lies. He’d lacerate me.
He turned back to me.
“Dominick. Has he decided against the studio?”
“Yes. We were going to use it as a study for me. But it’s unnecessary. I can easily work at home.”
Try for normality, Ruth. Delay him.
“Work? At what?”
“I’m going to prepare an anthology … Rejections.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I’ll research rejections great authors have suffered. An interesting idea, don’t you think?”
“Good title.”
“Yes. Excellent.”
He smiles a little. Good. Good, Ruth.
“And Dominick?”
“Dominick is … content.”
“I think he knows.”
“Knows? No, Charles.”
“But something in the way he looks at me.”
No. No knowledge. Of you, Charles.
He is relaxing. He knows it. He wants to say fatal words. Stop him. He must steel himself. To mean them. Stop him.
“I have … a rage, Charles.”
“A rage?”
“I rage for you.”
And the fire jumped suddenly between us. He was engulfed. I fanned the fire with hair and breasts and thighs. And then rolled him, shuddering, into quiet darkness.
And when it was over, there was anger. His awful anger. A different rage. Internal. Against himself. Then against me. I saw it in his eyes. In the bitter mouth. He moved, older looking somehow, towards the door.
He started to speak. But did not turn round.
“There is only one way, Ruth. I won’t ever be alone with you again. Ever. If the chance occurs, I will walk out immediately. I must. You are …”
He passed his hand across his mouth. To stop the words.
“An occasion of sin?”
The hand fell away. Became a fist.
“I will do this, Ruth. I will do this.”
Damn you! Damn you, Charles! Don’t say anything, Ruth.
You’re going to try. Aren’t you? I can see that now. But I won’t help you. Not at all. I won’t help you. I will try to undermine you in every way. And remember. I am here. Waiting. Watching. Always ready.
He leaned against the door. He was so large … he covered it. As he so abundantly covered me. Oh, God. Then he was gone.
Silently, I screamed around the room. Dominick’s room. I brushed against the globe. Spherical, completed, stomach-like thing … and beat my own stomach. Onto the warm honey of my skin came a darker mark—a blueness. Cold colour. I started to shiver. To feel the cold. I wound a woollen shawl of red around me. Blood-coloured. To warm me. I paced for hours round my prison. Then I remembered some
pact that still existed, with a reality I had created. And, I feared, had to maintain.
I went to the bathroom to prepare for my husband’s return.
That night and the next morning I gave no sign.
Appearance—a small clue to reality—is easily assembled by women, for deception. Though in England one must do this carefully. For it is more acceptable in England to feed the body than to clothe it. Though neither is deemed to be of importance. Yet we, like everyone else, can read the signals—the cardigan is as potent a garment as the blue waistcoat Goethe gave to Werther. A fatal gift.
Standing, hours later, as I waited for Dominick, I was simply and perfectly dressed. I wore a navy, belted dress. My pearls. Navy leather pumps. My hair was brushed to its normal gleaming condition. My face, after the application of soothing creams and the careful painting of a subtle mask, presented to my husband’s eyes—the appearance of his beautiful wife.
That I had raged animal-like around my room. That I had been most deeply wounded. That thoughts of violence and ferocity had burst through all normal controls. That my life had arched back in agony, and snapped. All this was hidden.
For I was proud. I had been rejected. I was not to be rejected. Ever. Not in these matters.
The knowledge of the constant betrayal of Elizabeth had not been unpleasing. Waiting with that knowledge, that I might or might not impart. Whispering it. Silently. Through weekends and dinners. Only to myself. That had been a satisfaction of considerable depth. Now I was to lose that also. Unknowing, she had defeated me. Elizabeth. Stealing what was mine. For he was most assuredly mine.
I knew his agony. Could he bear it? For a while, perhaps. Would the habit of abstinence grow? Or would desperation mount? So that he would beg. As I begged him. Silently. Surely he must feel something, beating at the ramparts of his body.
Would I beg? No. For that would lessen his need. I knew him. It was essential in such an undertaking to know the enemy. He held from me that which was mine. Therefore he was my enemy. I would not show weakness to my enemy. Never. Pride. Strength. Patience. The seeds had been sown in him, and grew in me. He would come to gather his harvest.
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