by Kieran York
The creative spirit was forever infused with that panic of losing one’s ability. Yet apprehension further diminished the creative process. So, for now, I’d look longingly at my brushes and my tubes of paint. I’d resist pessimism. The empty canvases Fiona sent were stacked against the wall and awaited my brush. For me, blank canvases were always lonely.
I got out of bed and walked to where the canvases leaned against the wall. I bent down and picked up a paintbrush that had fallen. Carefully, I replaced it in my wooden artist’s case. Where it belonged. Where I would find it when I next needed it. Then I returned to bed.
When morning arrived, I’d go to the gallery then meet Bethany for our picnic lunch. She mentioned an excursion to somewhere special. I had no doubt that it would be. She also had mentioned models. Maybe she would invite Esther and Carrie along. I needed to bring my sketchpad and pencils and a watercolor set to capture proper pigmentation.
I would always be grateful to Bethany. She’d taken on the cause of repairing my sorrow. I felt comforted that many blessings surrounded me. My eyes fluttered closed, weighed down by exhaustion. Thankfully, I drifted toward what I hoped would be a peaceful sleep.
Chapter 44
“According to Esther, you’re dining alfresco with that adorable Bethany?” Fiona’s questions began the instant I entered the gallery. “Yummy edibles this noon.”
I gestured at my art supplies. “I’ll try to do a little pleine-air painting with watercolors. Draw a little. How’s the show going?”
She led me through the gallery, pointing out the various paintings that had sold. “I’m not sure how it could be better. Success is a great reason to return to your easel.” She pushed her designer glasses slightly down the ridge of her nose and looked at me pointedly over the rims. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes, Fiona,” I answered dutifully.
Continuing to another painting, she pointed. “This one goes to Germany. Who would have thought the Germans like contemporary realism?”
“Let’s not exclude anyone. There are some extraordinarily fine German artists and art experts.”
“Well, Rome loves you. Italy adores class and elegance. Always has and always will. A museum there purchased the one of the garden…”
“Sunflowers and Sunshine Mixing. I painted it several years ago.”
“Italy approves of your daffy and dumb era. Back when you were a one-date woman. Unlike now when you’ve actually had multiple dates with Bethany. She’s a saint. I hope you appreciate that.”
“I can tell you’ve recently had a gabfest with Esther.” She didn’t try to deny it. “Back then I was just cautious. I didn’t want my love life to get out of hand.”
“For all we know, you don’t have more than half a sex hormone in your entire body. That brings us back to a picnic hamper. An afternoon in the great outdoors is exactly what you need to get your artistic drive zooming again. Add a lovely woman, and it can’t hurt your sex drive.”
“You’ve got sex drive enough for both of us.” I declined to talk about my love life. Fiona had no such limit, so I thought I’d goad her. “Speaking of which, how are you scoring?”
“This city is bursting with young studs. I love it. And I’m going to Paris and Germany next. Consider the possibilities. What an absolute festival. I’ll only be in Europe a couple weeks before I return to New York. Back to the sanity of mass confusion. I’ll miss you and your friends. But I’ll see you again in Boston. Think you’ll have a Boston show ready for me?”
“Yes. I’ll dig out some of the pictures I’ve done in the past—whatever’s left over from your raiding pictures for this show. I’ll photograph and send photos. Let me know what you want for Boston. Add to that, we’ll have whatever I can produce in the next few months.”
“Might want to consider storing your paintings in a secured place from now on. Get an alarm system set up. Your personal collection is damned valuable. As for your new work—just do it. Danielle, you’ve never been a prissy diva. Let’s not start that business in your golden years. You aren’t cut out to be a prima donna.”
“No? Should I take that as an insult?” I joked.
“Money and fame are diseases. You exude an innocence, a simplicity. Don’t let fame corrupt you. I’ve seen artists devoured and exploited by celebrity and money.”
“Your admonition is noted. I’ll be careful.”
“And it wouldn’t hurt to have someone along on your journey. Someone who loves you and has business acumen. You’re dismal with finances.”
“How have you managed alone all of these years, Fiona?”
“I’m smarter than most everyone else. All those fools out there are clueless next to me.” Her expression reflected a pride in her statement, not merely an explanation. “And I’m more heartless than anyone else.”
“You keep in touch with your inner bitch, and I’ll stay as sweet as I am.”
“It’s good to see you up and about. I was worried about your productivity. Any movement on the paint-splattering front?”
“I promise I’ll get back to it. I’ve been resting up.”
“Think of Boston and make it a fucking brief intermission. Take the afternoon and have fun. Then grab your brushes.”
“I plan on it.”
“You do realize shutting down isn’t an option, don’t you?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve never shut down.” I meant my words to bolster myself, as well as Fiona. “I’ll paint again.”
“We need a celebration before you Saphs leave for the hinterland. A party.”
Knowing Fiona’s world revolved around festivals, I agreed. “How about a pub crawl with Ladybugs Rock before we leave?”
“Let’s consider closing night after the finishing ceremony. Meanwhile, between your picnics, do pick up a brush.”
“I will.” I left the gallery. I needed a walk to clear my mind. Accolades, fortunes, all the sublime goals became less important without love.
When I was very young, my mother once mentioned something while she was telling me about the birds and the bees. The conversation stumbled. Her eyes were glittered with drugs, and her ramblings were often unintelligible.
I’d asked what love was supposed to feel like. She had touched my face. Then she answered that love felt like a smile. A smile was an aphrodisiac, she’d said. I had needed to look up the word. Then it made sense.
Within two blocks, I’d arrived back in front of my hotel. Waiting was a cab with Bethany, and her face brightened when she saw me. She pushed a basket aside so I could slide in.
I took her hand and squeezed it gently. “Sorry you had to wait a few minutes.”
“I think we’ve been over that. I’m prepared to wait much longer. Forever if I have to.”
Chapter 45
I had squeezed a 7x10 spiral-bound sketchpad, a metal tin containing a dozen graphite drawing pencils, and a set of watercolors with brushes into my oversized handbag. I felt some fear about delving into my art again.
The cab driver drove us to a lovely park. Bright with autumn’s floral color, it looked lush and inviting. A few people were milling, playing, and snuggling. I followed behind Bethany as we trekked to a small space surrounded by bushes as a wall of privacy. A tree had been planted in the middle of the area as if it were an altar. Bethany set the hamper down.
“This is absolutely amazing,” I said. “How did you find it?”
“Tricia and I met in this park. We’d been walking our Yorkies. We spoke about the dogs. I think they call it ‘gaydar’ rather than radar. At any rate, we began seeing one another. Fell in love. Then moved in together.”
“Yorkies?”
“We always had at least one Yorkie. Our last died three years after Tricia, and I didn’t have the heart to get another.”
“I’m glad you’re a dog lover. I somehow trust animal lovers more.”
“I didn’t bring the subject up before because I knew you miss little Clover. I’d like to one day get another Yorkie. When I
retire, I shall.”
I didn’t say it but wished I had. Clover would welcome a cute little scampering Yorkie sister.
“This was our place of retreat. I’m sure that by night it’s probably a favorite snog spot,” she said.
“Almost without a doubt. It should be a place for lovers. It’s beautiful.”
She removed a blanket from the hamper and quickly shut the lid. “I have a surprise lunch for us. No peeking.” After spreading the blanket on the ground, she motioned for me to sit. Then she pulled out a fancy tablecloth and began to assemble the picnic.
I reclined on the soft blanket. “So you came here often?”
“We did. I haven’t been here since Tricia died. I even walked our little Yorkie, Gidget, in another park. The loveliness of this spot deserves sharing, but I never knew anyone special enough to show it to.”
“Thank you,” I said softly as our eyes met.
From the hamper she pulled a cooled bottle of wine and an opener. “Will you do the honors while I set the table?”
I worked on opening and pouring the wine while she placed four plates on the cloth. She took out the silverware and set all four place settings. Then she spread out an alfresco delight.
The small platters held poached salmon and cucumber sandwiches, cold beef brisket sandwiches, artichoke and sausage quiche in small pastry shells, crab-stuffed mushroom caps, spinach-and-cheese-stuffed caps, and miniature champagne grapes. She told me dessert would be crepes with almond macaroon crumbs soaked in Kahlua.
“This looks wonderful, Bethany. What a feast. Did you invite Esther and Carrie?” I pointed to the two extra services.
“No. Only two models for you to draw.” Her eyes sparkled with mirth. She reached inside the hamper and pulled out two stuffed toys. They were fluffy bison, and she rested them against the empty plates. “They won’t eat much, but they’re our guests. As well as your models.”
I burst out laughing. “Where did you get these?”
“finding them was rather difficult. I tried toy stores, but when I said bison or buffalo, the clerks led me to the mastodons. I nearly gave up. Finally, I called a pilot friend and told her of my dilemma. She was doing a turn from New York and called one of the crew members boarding there. The famous toy store FAO Swartz has everything. Here they are. Happily enough, they escaped the usual animal quarantine.”
“They’re absolutely precious. I can’t believe you went to all that trouble.”
“No trouble. I remember you told me about sketching bison while you were in Kansas. Well, these aren’t real, but they’ll be very still, well-behaved models for you. They might even jumpstart your desire to create.”
“I brought my supplies to sketch you.”
“I’m not meant to be the model today. Only a friend to be with you, Danielle.”
“And a lover?”
“If a lover is what you’d like.”
I lowered my head. “There’s what I’d like, barring difficulties. And there are realities.”
Bethany tilted my chin up with her fingertips. “In my work, I learned early that if I were to survive, I must resolve difficulties quickly and confidently. Tell me what you’d like to have happen to our relationship and what difficulties you foresee.”
I pondered as I ate. “I’m not sure. I know I want to return home. Back to my territory, my dog, my garden, all the things that make my life work. My bohemian habits of art. It would be nice if you were with me, but that shouldn’t happen.”
“Shouldn’t?” she asked with a hopeful tone. “Is it inconceivable to believe it could happen?”
“Your life is here, as I’ve said before. Leaving would be such a major risk. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for your unhappiness. I’m difficult to live with. I’m exhausting. I’m driven.” I twisted the napkin in my lap as I spoke.
Bethany stilled my fidgeting with a touch. “I know you, Danielle. I know you from the sensitivity with which you paint. The enormous agony you’re in from losing a past lover. I know you from the friend who flew across an ocean to be with you. A woman you work with who has a deep and abiding respect for you. And mostly I know you from your gentle nature. A nature that loves for decades, against all hope.”
“Maybe if you visited me when you take your next vacation, you’d be able to see how I live. Where I live. Will you visit me?”
She squeezed my hand. “Of course. If I’m willing to march off into the sunset with you at this very moment, I’m certainly more than happy to visit you. And more than willing.”
“If you still feel this way after a little pause…”
“I’m pretty sure a pause, as you say, isn’t going to change how I feel. I’m not certain how you feel. You’ve been purposely noncommittal.”
“Not so purposely. I’ve explained about Molly. I thought it best that I sort myself out before telling you how I feel.” I hesitated. “Bethany, I’ve been falling in love with you for some time.”
She leaned in, and when our lips met, I felt her softness and warmth. She cupped my face in her hands. Her thumb passed over my lips. When our eyes met, she said. “And I’ve been falling in love with you. Now, are you planning on immortalizing those bison on paper? Or are you just going to sit there and allow them to pretend to graze?”
Chapter 46
I sketched the stuffed bison and colored in hues and lighting. Although they were only about eight inches long and five or six inches tall, they fit beautifully in front of their plates. In a few sketches, I placed Bethany alongside the bison. I also took some photos with my phone to refer to when painting them. I was confident that when I actually did face an empty canvas, excitement would return.
After I closed the cover of the sketchpad and packed it away, we strolled along the park’s pathways. I carried the hamper while Bethany carried the bison. Perhaps I would paint my remembrances of live bison and somehow superimpose the two stuffed toys.
When we returned to the hotel, Bethany gave me a fantastic backrub. Afterwards, she handed me a brush and pointed to my easel. She’d make phone calls and read a book she’d brought with her, and I was to finish the painting of us. Maybe begin a new one.
I sat before the canvas showing the two of us. Bethany’s smile made me thrill all over again. I highlighted our faces with brightness. Finally, the picture was completed.
I set it aside and automatically reached for a larger canvas. I selected a photo of Bethany hugging the two bison near her face. In the background, the picnic basket rested on the lush burgundy blanket. Verdant foliage and blotches of sunshine surrounded the scene.
Feverishly, I began under-painting and slathered paint where the canvas itself seemed to be craving it. Without my usual tonal sketch, I dabbed the places requiring life. There would be very little shadowing or slight shading. I wanted her resplendence to show as brightly as possible. I wanted an explosion of life.
I felt Bethany’s arm around my shoulder. “You’ve started a new painting.”
“You inspired me not only to finish our painting but to begin a new one.”
She kissed my temple. “I have so many questions. I used to pester Tricia with questions about her art. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I’m glad you’re interested,” I said as I continued my work.
“How do you decide on brushes, colors, and all?”
“For some unknown reason, each decision is nearly without my conscious selection. Each brush seems correct. Each color exact. It’s humbling when I think about it. The symmetry falls into place from what was the confusion in my mind. I’m certain it begins with experience. Suddenly, I reach for the correct implement and use the right technique. A rainbow of colors finds their home on the canvas.”
“Amazing. Even the bison are taking on character of their own. And you paint me very much as I feel I am.”
“How could I fail to paint you with less beauty than you have?”
She gave me a quick kiss. “When you were a child, did you recogniz
e that you wanted to be an artist?”
“I think so. It occupied and entertained me, and I seemed less alone. I felt a sense of abandonment because of my parents leaving when I was young. My maternal grandparents became primary custodians, so I shouldn’t have been lonely.”
“You never talk about your parents.”
“For many years I considered that I never measured up in their eyes. Or they wouldn’t have left. Thus, a low self-esteem. With the exception of my art.”
“I’m sure being addicts didn’t allow them to see goodness.”
“I know you’re right. My grandparents certainly helped my art vocation. They made up sketching games. Awards were cookies, small toys, and decorative stickers. They’re responsible for the beginnings of my love of art.”
“I think I would have liked them immensely.”
“Yes. And they would have loved you.” I closed my eyes as I pictured them. “They trained me so completely that I impressed my teachers. I remember in kindergarten, the teacher’s assignment was to draw an apple like the example on the side of our paper. I refused to draw. The teacher asked why I wasn’t doing what she requested. I told her the picture, a circle with a line on top, didn’t look like an apple. She told me to draw what I thought an apple looked like. I drew the apple with shading, definition, and depth, and it looked like an apple. When I handed it to her, she was dumbfounded.”
“Look where you are now.”
“I’ve got a monstrous compulsion to create,” I said jokingly.
“Thankfully. I’ll let you get back to it.” She squeezed my shoulder and returned to the bedroom.
I considered our conversation as I worked on the painting. Where I was now, I thought. I’d never had illusions of grandeur. Still, I had to have believed in myself, for I received no accolades early on. After forty years, a reward had appeared on the horizon.
The morning arrived quickly. I placed my brush down and wiped my hands on a splattered cloth. The vast majority of the painting was in place and reliably accurate.
