A medication reminder.
"Hello Sir. This is your friendly evening medication reminder visit."
--client gets meds. Client takes meds. I sign his book. He signs my book.
In and out. 5 or ten minutes tops.
I had forgotten to drive by this home to see where it was in the daylight.
Generally I do not work out of my posting but there is another snowfall today making certain areas inaccessible and some workers cannot get to work for love nor money.
Being a reasonable person I took MY share of extra clients. I did 3 more and the last one was this med reminder.
Driving along the beautiful homes road and trying desparatly to see through the fog from the now-melting snow to the house numbers with little success. I would drive a few hundred feet, put my flashers on, dash from the car to the driveway entrances and look for the number. (repeat) Finally I got my address and was rather surprised to see the driveway unploughed. A very long driveway at that. I left my car on the roadway and hiked on in.
The home was large and looked like an outsize chalet. It was also dark. A very large dog began to bark and then the door opened to a gentleman in his housecoat. He was somewhat dishevelled and offered an apology and a greeting.
"I cannot see. May I turn a light on please?"
"Certainly." He flicked a switch to reveal a huge kitchen. There were three very large paintings on the walls. I knew right away the artist was in front of me.
"What do you see my dear?"
"I see emotion. Alot of emotion."
"Come through here. I want to show you something. What do you see in here?"
He opened the door to a very large living room/dining room. The walls were pumpkin coloured and again on each wall a huge canvas was on display. The calibre of craftsmanship was very high. The works owed alot to Picasso but had a very strong flavour of the gentleman by my side. He was watching me intently.
"I could care less what you think of them. Just tell me what you see."
I looked at the first. It was perplexing. And complicated. I was not sure what I saw.
The second and third were easy. People at the beach. Children playing in the sun.
"I see joy."
He turned me to the large canvas the complicated one.
"And here? What is this here?"
I really could not put a word to it. It was a woman. Two or three poses justaposed onto each other. She was blank. She was angry. She was uncertain. I was uncertain!
"Well? What do you see?"
I still could not form a response.
"This is LOVE. This is the woman I loved. I married. I had three children with."
No wonder I couldnt make sense of it. Love has always made me so.
"She is also the women who left me. Who had enough of it and left. I don't blame her."
I could feel the sorrow in the air.
"Come here and see this"
He took me to his studio. It was dark and he shut the door after me.
I had a dim awareness that this perhaps was not the wisest course of events.
But art and artists are very familiar to me.
I did, however, notice that ALOT of the paintings were nudes. Alot of them were female nudes.
"What do you see in here?"
Before I could answer he said: "This is my life. You are surrounded by MY life."
Yes, I certainly was.
"I see a life dedicated to art."
"And what do you think about artists?"
What indeed. If he only knew what he was asking and who he is asking it of.
What indeed do I think of artists?
"I think it is a calling and a demand. You do not choose art. It chooses you."
"NOONE would choose this life." He was almost crying.
"The pain of it is unbearable at times."
Yes, I know.
Surrounding me were newspaper clippings and art show notices.; sketches and notebooks stuffed full with musings. I saw thousands of canvasses stored. I saw a life.
"You are showing me a HUGE life."
"This is me. This was me. Before this medical happening. I am lost in it now."
He saw my book. He saw my name.
"Are you related to
"Very distantly. We share a common ancestor, in fact its my great-great-grandmother. Tenuous relationship at best."
"I never did like mathematics. Did you read his books?"
"Is this a test? its HISTORY. And no. I never much cared for his books either. I found them largely pendantic and boring. The premise is interesting. The execution of ideas ponderous. Not my cuppa."
"Yes yes quite right. It was a test. haha! History indeed."
We both laughed.
"But you are not related to the Royal family are you?"
"Oh horrors. I sure hope not."
He roared with laughter.
Suddenly he looked at me appraising me... mene mene tekel...?
"What do you really do?"
"hmm?"
"Oh you do more than this, You are more than this. What do you do?"
"I suppose I write."
"Yes that fits. I can see that."
He was satisified.
He showed me a few more things and then suddenly he knew it was time for me to go. Past time really. Past time plus 30 minutes.
"Next time we will resume where we left off."
"This is a beautiful home Sir."
"It is beautiful with your energy in it. You fill up the space with happiness."
He took my hand as if to shake it and then grasped it tightly.
I looked at him quizzicly.
"I am really rather quite a snob." He said looking intently at me again.
"You are?"
"I like the idea you are related to
I laughed. It was a funny thing to say.
But you know I am a little bit that way myself and not half as honest about it.
"Ok I have to go now."
He saw me to the walkway, bathrobe and all.
Thank GOD I am not his bathgirl.
Rogues and artists..... not like the Scribe so genteel and refined. This is more raw more primal more unpredictable. Even if he was 100 years old I would not want to be his bathgirl.
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Artists can color the sky red because they know it's blue. Those of us who aren't artists must color things the way they really are or people might think we're stupid.
- Jules Feiffer
I remember Francis Bacon would say that he felt he was giving art what he thought it previously lacked. With me, it's what Yeats called the fascination with what's difficult. I'm only trying to do what I can't do.
Lucian Feud
