“I love you.”
“How is the work going? Have you chosen your subject matter yet?”
“I’m getting ideas every day. The mountain formations, the flowers, the donkeys, the church, the monastery.”
“How exciting! What about portraits? What about Heriberto?”
“I thought of that, but it makes me too sad.”
“No! You must do it! You love him, and he must be part of your new series, to reflect where you are spiritually, your refreshed and revitalized soul. Anyone else?”
“At the hospital, there are two people: this woman doctor, a radiologist, who is very interesting and very beautiful, and a nurse. They are incredible people who live at the monastery and have given up their lives to help others—terminal patients and downtrodden people and some who don’t even know their own names.”
“Amore, what are you waiting for? Put them to canvas,” Carlotta said.
“Sì, I have thought about it, but then I felt bad—that if I did it, I would be spending all this private time with them, and, well, I didn’t think that would be fair to you. So I have not offered to paint them.”
“Rodrigo, it will be all right. I trust you. Don’t hold back!”
“Ti amo, amore mio. Would you like to come and help me with the series? Be my assistant. Come tomorrow!”
“Amore, I cannot. I have the festivals now, we are introducing all our new wines, it’s very important.”
“Always the consummate professional . . . Then we will meet in Ronda?”
“Yes, Ronda!”
“And we will go see a bullfight!”
“If you wish, amore,” Carlotta said.
I sensed an interruption. “Amore? What is it?”
“It’s over,” a voice said.
“What’s over?”
“The fMRI. You’re finished. Wake up, Rodrigo. It’s Desideria.”
I opened my eyes as she was sliding the drawer out of the bureau—me out of the machine.
“You were in a deep sleep,” Desideria said. “But fortunately, you didn’t move your head. So we got what we wanted.”
I raised myself to sit upright. “Wow. I was really out.” I looked around and was reminded that it was the radiology room. Then my hazy gaze panned right back to Desideria. I shook my head to clear my faculties.
“You have an appointment with Dr. Abreu at twelve o’clock on Friday to go over your tests.”
“Two days from now?”
“Yes.” Desideria then smiled the sweetest of soft smiles. “It’s been a pleasure working with you,” she said.
“Listen, I’m going to stay around for a few days, to plan more of my new series of canvases. I’ve been thinking about what you and Ana Paola said, and I would like to feature you in some way. In what way, I’m not sure yet. But—would you be willing to take the time from your work to pose for me?”
Her smile erupted, and she nodded quickly and exaggeratedly.
“And Ana Paola, too?” I asked. “Can you contact her?”
“Sí.”
“When can you take the day off? Tomorrow?”
“For this, of course I can. And tomorrow is Ana Paola’s day off, anyway.”
“Perfect. We will go to those little places you know about. Bueno?”
“I can’t wait.”
“Can you do your own makeup?”
“All my life.”
“Especially the eyes—we will need extraordinary eyes.”
“Don’t worry. There was a time in my life when I had thoughts of becoming an artist. There is still something left of those thoughts. I can do eyes.”
“Desideria, I’m sure you can do anything you put your mind to.”
She approached me and extended a sealed prescription envelope.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Dr. Abreu wanted me to give it to you. He said it belonged to you.”
“Oh, right.”
“Did he prescribe anything for you?”
“No. What is contained in this is, well, for a different kind of flight.” I left then but paused at the door and turned back. “I am giving you and Ana Paola an assignment. I want you to choose the animal you think is closest to your spirit, and text me tonight with your choices. Tomorrow I want you to be that creature, breathe it, live it, and own it—all day long. Can you do that for me?”
“I feel so honored you have asked me to pose for you, and Ana Paola will, too. In the spirit of making art, we will be happy to do anything you ask of us, Rodrigo.”
“Gracias. We will all soar and make art together! Okay?”
25
SPANISH BEAUTIES
I had rented a two-bedroom suite at the Hotel Valldemossa that gave me a sweeping view of the Mediterranean. I prepared for the following day by choosing various locations. I would take my Nikon D800 to capture the day, so that when it was time to go to canvas, I could be refreshed and reminded of all the places and colors we had seen.
In my earlier days, I did things haphazardly, recklessly—as in anywhere, anytime, with little forethought. And that’s a viable creative process, but this was a transformed me. I still embraced spontaneity, but I had learned discipline—and with that came preparation. Taking the camera was part of that diligence, to record everything, something I’d never done before. The big difference was, I was hoping to maximize my talents with all resources available to me. And the integrity I sought now in my work came from one place—Carlotta.
The two Spanish lovelies were to pick me up in front of my hotel at six in the morning so we could start the day with the colors of the sunrise. I was waiting for them when Ana Paola pulled up in her brand-new lime green Volkswagen Beetle convertible. The girls were wearing sunglasses, their hair blown wild. Both were wrapped in African sarongs—Ana Paola in turquoise, Desideria in fuchsia.
I had one request. “Let me see your eyes.”
They lifted their sunglasses. Their eyes were painted with a rainbow’s worth of colors, tastefully done; as they explained to me, one depicted a Spanish sunrise, the other a Spanish sunset. And dark mascara to underscore it all. Their eyes popped like jewels. Just what I’d been hoping for.
I had asked them to choose an animal spirit to embody for the day. “I am a hummingbird,” Ana Paola avowed. “Dancing in the island air.”
“And I am a mariposa—a beautiful Spanish butterfly fluttering in the Mediterranean winds,” Desideria said.
I jumped in the backseat of the car with my canvas bag. It contained my camera, cigarettes, two bottles of champagne, and the baggie from Dr. Abreu that held my vitamins.
I gave them only one direction: to take the exhilarating drive on the MA-10 coastal road that went from Valldemossa to Andratx. From there we could venture off to wherever we wished.
We were in search of the charms of the Tramuntana; this would be Mallorca at its wildest, where valleys sliced through jagged peaks and cliffs plunged abruptly to the sea. Little villages made of golden stone were precariously positioned on hillsides that rose above olive groves and citrus orchards.
I wanted to use that view as the backdrop to the sea: I was now looking out on the Mediterranean from within the Tramuntana—just the opposite of the Cala de Deià series of paintings, which looked from the sea toward the jagged mountains.
I sensed that this spectacular drive would be a sojourn into the heart of creation. And some exotic and unforgettable canvases were sure to come of it. In this way, The Unified Universe was painting itself already.
As we motored along high above the sea, the light from the sunrise was a splash of watercolors—peach, mauve, violet, fiery red, orange, pink, and magenta—an appropriate backdrop and gateway to our creative mission.
We toured alluring little villages like Estellencs and the vine-draped Banyalbufar, founded by Moors in the tenth century, where stone-walled terraces tapered down to the sea. We ventured onward. The coastline of the Tramuntana was punctuated with bays sheltered by steep forest-cloaked cliffs.
<
br /> At the end of the hairpin coastal road was our reward and our chosen picnic locale: Cap de Formentor, a wild peninsula that appeared to flick out like a dragon’s tail. We skipped the busy main beach in favor of a tiny, tranquil, unoccupied cove called Cala Murta, huddled below the wind-buckled peaks. It was an easy hike on foot.
After we had a picnic lunch of cheese, fruit, chewy bread from a roadside stand, and white wine, the girls swam while I remained on the beach.
I thought of Carlotta, as I did often, but today, while the girls splashed in the water, I thought in particular about her encouraging me to paint the girls: “It will be all right. I trust you.” I said a prayer then and thanked all gods of all religions for bringing her into my life.
“Rodrigo? Do you have another destination in mind?” Desideria asked.
I told them I didn’t.
“We do,” they said in tandem. “But it’s a surprise.”
26
HUMMINGBIRD AND BUTTERFLY IN FLIGHT
We hiked back to the Beetle. The girls had a Mallorcan surprise for me, and I couldn’t wait to see it. Having grown up on the island, I was well aware there were places I still hadn’t explored. We got back on the MA-10 and serpentined our way eastward, eventually through Alcúdia and beyond, to the Cap des Pinar peninsula, known for its pretty coves with a sea of bluest blue—a favorite of boaters, as the jagged coastal cliffs made passage virtually impossible by land, even on foot. It wasn’t long until we veered off onto a dirt track, making for a bumpier, woodsy ride.
The girls chatted animatedly. They were laughing nonstop and singing, and it was a festival of good cheer. It appeared that their brief sabbatical from the monastery was quickly becoming the time of their lives.
Desideria spun back toward me suddenly. “Who are you calling, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’m calling Carlotta—”
The girls exchanged quick looks.
“I told her I would keep her posted on how everything was going.”
“Well—tell her the Butterfly and Hummingbird say hi!”
“Can’t get through. No signal up here.”
Ana Paola stopped the car in the middle of a heavily wooded area. It was about three in the afternoon when we began our hike, and the sun was slashing through the canopies of the thick treetops. We had trekked almost two kilometers on the footpath when Desideria made me pause as she drew a bandana from her beach bag. Then she tied it around my head and blindfolded me. “Like we said, it’s a surprise!”
I did not protest. I was sandwiched between the girls, and they steered me along the path.
We stopped abruptly, the bandana was lifted from my eyes, and I was able to look down, from high above, upon the most dazzling beach I’d ever seen. Called Platja des Coll Baix, this immaculate, deserted white crescent was embraced by pine-speckled cliffs that dropped off steeply a good hundred feet below. There was a shabby wire ladder in place; it would require effort, strength, and care to negotiate it safely. It looked borderline dangerous.
There was no question this uncommon setting would find its place in The Unified Universe. I could envision about six canvases already.
“We came by boat the first time,” Desideria said. “And heard that was the only way.”
“Then someone told us about the footpath,” Ana Paola said.
“I’m in awe!” I said. “In my own backyard, no less.”
The girls smiled proudly at my reaction to their excellent choice.
“Thank you so very, very much,” I said. “I just hope we can climb back up!”
The girls scaled down the ladder like ninjas. I slung my bag over my shoulder, and by observing them descend the ladder, I managed without pause to get down to the beach.
From then on, the afternoon unfolded like magic. We had the entire sweep of white sand beach to ourselves. I drew out the camera and set it on manual. The girls perched on their towels to sun themselves and warm up. I took a lengthy stroll and recorded the bay from every angle. When I returned, the girls had opened a bottle of champagne.
They were Butterfly and Hummingbird, and they flew and danced and twirled and spun, and I photographed. They lay in the sand, they stood tall, they oiled their skin, they sat up, they went to all fours, they did whatever they wanted, without any fears, distractions, or judgments. It was pure, it was innocent, it was naughty, it was sensual, and it was very revealing. They did not hold back. They were as professional in following my directions as they were in their daily work.
We shot through the golden hour of the afternoon Mallorcan sun, which shimmered on the water like gold coins.
That day on the beach was transcendent not only for the girls but for me, too. I was filled with an unbelievable high, a raised state of consciousness of some sort that helped me to realize something about myself.
When I was young and naive, I had been hurt and betrayed by women I loved, women who just wanted to use me for their own personal gain. After that, whenever women opened themselves to me, exposing themselves for my art or in my personal life, their vulnerability gave me the feeling that I could get back at them, get revenge, for what I had suffered when I was younger. The taker in me was aroused by the act of seducing and then conquering the fresh subject at hand, like a canvas that could be bought or sold. Sure, it had led to erotic fantasies and the imagination running wild, but it had also led to the production of art.
But as Carlotta had seen so clearly, in the end, it wasn’t about art as much as it was about me and what I could use and consume. The first chance I’d gotten, I had strayed from my wife and indulged myself however I pleased. I had looked for love in the places I was least likely to find it, and where I was most likely to meet the kind of women I could never trust.
As I was packing up my things to leave this idyllic setting, perfectly chosen by the Hummingbird and the Butterfly, I realized that all the behavioral rot of my former days was because my sensibilities had not been in proper alignment. I had had no spiritual connections. I had been drawn to the wrong things, running on the fuel of vanity and ego.
But this glorious day in the Tramuntanas was different. I was genuinely enthralled and uplifted, and in my heart, I could find nothing dirty or sordid about the beautiful, sensual art we had made together.
Perhaps my prayers had been answered and I had indeed metamorphosed into someone worthy of Carlotta’s trust. I had encouraged these two wonderful young women to soar and to make sublime art with me, without my feeling that I was deceiving them or taking anything away from them, as the old me would have done. And they had made me feel exalted to be a human being. I left the beach that day feeling proud.
27
DAY INTO NIGHT
The dining room at my hotel was not busy, and we had little difficulty getting a choice table by the window with a view of the lights of the quaint town. The girls drank champagne and I ordered Scotch. I brought the camera to show them their work, and they were exhilarated by the viewing. Each thought the other had never looked more beautiful, and I had to concur as much as someone who had known them for only two days could. None of us could wait for the results on canvas. I offered to pay them a day’s rate for their work, and they rolled their eyes and waved me off.
The conversation turned to Carlotta. I had tried several times during the day to phone her, but she had not answered, nor would the machine take a message.
“Do you have any photos of Carlotta?” Ana Paola asked. I did not, but I had some phone photos of paintings of her from The Parallel Universe series. Which then led to an explanation of both the Parallel and Unified Universe series.
“Do you think there’s a possibility you engage in a little fantasy about things?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, with all these dreams, isn’t it difficult sometimes to differentiate between what’s parallel and unified, and what’s real and what isn’t?”
“Definitely.”
“I mean, I wish you no disrespect, but is
n’t it possible that you imagine or conjure events, even people, in your highly fertile imagination? Remember, we are not only professionals, we are your friends now. We mean well when we ask you these very private questions.”
“It’s possible,” I answered.
“Carlotta is real?” Ana Paola asked gently.
“She is.”
“But we see you making calls to her, and she never seems to pick up. And you don’t have any actual photos of her.”
Desideria spoke up for the first time. “Does Carlotta ever call you on the telephone?”
“Well, no. But she’s very busy and she knows I am, too. We talk as much as we can.”
“But, as you say, she appears in your dreams.”
“Well, I don’t want to get into the medical or science jargon, because that’s why I had a meeting with Dr. Abreu. And you know a little of it, Dr. Volita. I feel like there are people and events that are a dream and those that are not, but I feel that Carlotta—and our life in Florence—is real.”
“Let me add, Rodrigo, at the hospital we share information on patients. We need to, in order to be in the loop, so we know how best to handle a patient.”
“I’m not a patient. I just had one meeting.”
“I know,” Desideria said. “But what Dr. Abreu is looking for is something involving the brain, as you know. And I’m not saying it’s true, but there is a possibility that there are things you may be inventing for yourself—for any number of reasons. This does happen to people. An imaginary world may be invented that is more comfortable to the person. Sometimes that fabricated world exists inside the patient’s mind to make him happy, or to take away pressure from real life . . .”
“That’s what makes dreams beautiful—you can be who you want, meet whomever you want, and do anything you want while you are dreaming,” Ana Paola added.
“I’m not delusional. These things really happened. Carlotta is real.”
“Well, you know, Heriberto has his delusions, and there are very specific scientific reasons why he has them.”
The Beautiful Dream of Life Page 15
