“Theia. And you must call me Farrah. We had given up all hope of ever finding the artist or any of his descendants. We’ve been wondering for decades about the artist whose paintings we had possession of and whether anyone would ever claim them. For us, it was one of the great mysteries of the twentieth century, like the disappearance of Amelia Earhart or the assassination of JFK or where the body of Jimmy Hoffa is buried. To date, we’ve not been able to do anything about this amazing discovery. We’ve had Chagall scholars researching the artist’s paintings. They are so amazing, so alive, so hopeful, and they’ve been hidden away in our vaults all these years where no one could appreciate them. I hope they’re finally going to see the light of day.”
Theia didn’t want to appear too anxious, although she felt a little lightheaded. She hadn’t eaten anything since the lukewarm breakfast served on the flight. “M-may I see them?” she asked tentatively.
“Of course. Let me take you down to the vaults where they’re stored. Have you ever seen any of your grandfather’s paintings?”
“No,” said Theia. “I was led to understand that most of them were destroyed during the war.”
“Well, fortunately, Marc Chagall and his daughter had the foresight to bring them to us to have them preserved until the artist could come to collect them. If for no other reason, your grandfather’s paintings have incalculable historic value, not to mention monetary value. We’ve been dying to know more, or even anything, about this artist Theo Frangos and how he came to be associated with Chagall. We had all but given up hope, and then you called.”
Perhaps Farrah was nervous, the way she was chattering on, but it was difficult for Theia to concentrate on what the curator was saying. Still lightheaded, Theia steadied herself before she fainted dead away.
“Theia, you look a little pale. Sit down here. Have you had anything to eat or drink today?”
“No, I flew in yesterday and slept, but I really haven’t eaten anything. I think it’s just low blood sugar.”
Farrah reached into her desk drawer, then handed Theia a candy bar. “We’re on the run here, so we often don’t get regular meals. This is from my secret stash.”
Theia stripped off the wrapper, bit into the nutty-chocolate candy, and sighed. Farrah excused herself, stepped across the hall to a break room, and brought back a bottle of fruit juice. Theia downed the whole bottle at once.
“I must have been dehydrated.”
Farrah took the candy wrapper and the empty bottle from Theia and took them back to the break room.
“And now, what you’ve been waiting for—really, what we’ve all been waiting for.”
She led Theia to a bank of elevators, and they went down, stopping on a lower floor where Theia followed her into a temperature-controlled room with an open area in the middle.
“Your grandfather’s paintings stand on their own as magnificent examples of a personal style that frankly is indefinable,” Farrah said. “His style was influenced by Chagall, of course—part impressionism, post-impressionism, and realism. But his work is unique, and we would classify him as one of the great modern artists. As you’ll see, his imagery is whimsical, with a dreamlike quality. Just as Chagall’s paintings were reminiscent of his native village of Vitebsk in Belorussia, your grandfather used what we are calling ‘Crete Scenes’ as his inspiration, especially scenes of Chania. I have displayed the paintings over here so you can get a feel for his entire body of work. According to our records, he spent a year in southern France with Chagall. He must have painted feverishly during that period. I think this probably calls for a drum roll.” She stepped aside to let Theia study the paintings.
When Theia set eyes on the display, she wept. “Sorry, Miss Stone…um, Farrah.”
“I’m sure you’re overwhelmed. Like Chagall often painted his first wife, Bella, your grandfather seemed to favor a particular model as his subject.”
“That would be my grandmother, Eleni,” Theia said, marveling at how Ya-Ya seemed to come alive on the canvas. It was as if she were right here in the room with her.
“The model looks a lot like you, in fact,” Farrah pointed out.
“People say I favor her.”
Theia paced the makeshift display with wonder. The paintings depicted slices of life in Greece, in the background, whitewashed buildings, splashed with crystal seas of various shades of blue and green: the artist’s own wedding scene, scenes with Eleni alone, scenes at the beach, scenes of families, of everyday people doing everyday tasks—hanging laundry, working in shops, eating in restaurants—a vibrant community, in a style reminiscent of Chagall but also unique. Then there was the artist’s French period, scenes in the south of France.
“They’re magnificent,” whispered Theia as she approached one of the paintings. She touched her grandfather’s signature—Theo Frangos. It was the closest she was going to get to the artist, the man. If things had been different, she might have been born in Crete, lived her life there.
Theo’s “Crete Scenes” were realistic yet had a fairytale quality. Theia recognized the Venetian Harbour of Chania, the Venetian Lighthouse, and views of the Old Port of Chania, which evoked memories of her moonlight strolls with Wade in Old Town after a delicious dinner. There were marvelous views from the fortress on top of Gramvousa, narrow cobblestone alleyways, quaint street scenes, a fish stall, Balos Lagoon, landmarks, a shipwreck, grazing sheep. So his memories of Crete had not been obliterated.
The curator was beyond excited, and her energy was contagious. “We have to show these as soon as possible. Imagine, they’ve been sitting in this vault since Marc Chagall left them during the war. We thought, or rather hoped, there were more of this man’s paintings out in the world. But it seems that’s not the case. Could you fill me in on the artist’s life?”
“Yes, certainly. I will tell you what I know.” Theia communicated as much as she could remember of what she had learned from Sophia in the synagogue in Crete. When she got to the sinking of the Tanais, the curator was almost in tears.
“And there are letters, letters from the artist to his wife, my grandmother.”
“They would be priceless,” said Farrah. “The paintings are priceless.”
“I’ve made copies of the letters and brought them to you. Will you put the paintings up for sale?” Theia wondered.
“That would be entirely up to you. Our hope is that you’ll allow us to put together a retrospective exhibition of the artist’s work.”
“An exhibition? Isn’t that every artist’s dream? I would love that for him.”
“Are you an artist?”
“Yes. Though I never knew my grandfather or ever saw one of his paintings, our styles are similar.”
Farrah’s hand flew to her heart. “We have to explore this. I’m picturing a display of his paintings with his letters, perhaps some photographs if you have them, and information about the life of the artist.”
“I’ve left the photographs in Crete, but I’m sure I can arrange to have them sent over for the exhibition. I will have to talk to my mother, but I think she would be agreeable. I’d like to have her fly up right away to see her father’s paintings.”
“I would love to meet her,” Farrah said.
“Ever since I made the pilgrimage to Crete I have imagined a scene depicting the tragedy of the Tanais. I would like to paint it. If it turns out the way I imagine it, the way I hope it will, and it is up to your standards, perhaps it could be part of the exhibition.”
“It will be a welcome addition,” Farrah assured her. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
“I envision a large horizontal canvas, similar in size to Picasso’s Guernica, so I will need a studio. I thought I’d stay in New York and paint. Do you have any recommendations for space and an apartment I could rent?”
“I have in mind just the place. It’s across from the Frick on East Seventieth Street. A beautiful, quiet neighborhood. Your use of the space would be complimentary. We have an apartment set aside
for our visiting artists, and it’s currently available. I believe you’ll find the accommodations comfortable and the surroundings inspirational. And one of the rooms is already set up as a studio. Let me write down the address. How soon can you move in?”
“I’d like to take occupancy right away and start on the project. I’ll probably need it for at least three months.”
“That will work out perfectly as far as timing. We have a lot of work to do to complete the exhibition. That way you can be close by so we can collaborate.”
****
Theia and Farrah parted ways, and Theia called her mother. Carolina agreed to take the first flight out from Atlanta to New York City.
After a tearful reunion with her mother, in which Theia explained everything she had learned, the two wept again when they spent the day at MOMA looking at Theo’s paintings. Theia’s plan was to spend the next three months locked in her studio to complete the new painting and work with the museum curator on the catalogue that would accompany the special exhibition.
She planned to invite members of the six families —those of the five children from Crete Eleni had managed to save, plus her own family. The survivors should be there. It was part of their legacy. The curator had agreed to display family pictures and, in pride of place, the wedding portrait of Ya-Ya and the artist. The photographs on the Memory Wall in Crete would be on loan for the exhibition. She would be so busy she wouldn’t have time to think about Wade. Maybe the ache in her heart would eventually subside.
Chapter Thirteen
Theia started by sketching a series of preliminary drawings—studies. Picasso had allowed visitors into his studio to watch him paint. Theia did not favor letting people see her work in progress. It was too intense. When she was working she couldn’t afford to lose her focus.
She had to get this right. She had to do this alone. Nothing could interrupt, not yearning or love. Because she did love Wade. How had that happened? No matter, she couldn’t fulfill her destiny with him. Ya-Ya had always been such a force in her life. What would Ya-Ya say if she were here right now? Probably that meeting Wade was fate. And fate can’t be controlled. But Ya-Ya wasn’t here.
So back to the painting. She began by thinking about what colors she would use. She’d envisioned her creation would be colorful. But even the selection of color involved a number of decisions. Cool colors? Warm colors? And there were warm and cool versions of each color. Ultramarine? Cerulean Blue? Cadmium or Lemon Yellow? Colors could not be viewed in isolation. They were selected for impact by how they related to and contrasted with other colors. And that would have to be determined by the story she wanted to tell.
All the colors of the spectrum were available to her: violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red, but artist’s pigments are not absolute like the colors of the rainbow, and she could mix almost any color under the sun from three primary colors. Adding black and white would only increase the range of possibilities. How would she use the neutral colors, the grays, the beiges, the browns, the greenish-grays as a successful framework for the brighter colors? Such necessary considerations occupied her mind before she ever started mixing colors.
The museum had sent over a large horizontal piece of linen fabric, stretched over wood, perfectly framed and squared off to her specifications. The canvas had been pulled from top to bottom and left to right and from the middle, until it was even. It was an important size for an important painting. She then primed it with gesso tinted with an undercoat of color.
Theia’s habit was to sketch the picture first before she mixed the colors or even picked up a paintbrush. She had all of her materials: her starter palette—kidney-shaped and made of wood—traditional oils, linseed oil to thin out the paint, turpentine, and the round and other shaped and sized brushes. She particularly preferred the broad, flat brushes, especially for strokes of thick, light paint to capture a sweeping sky, and one or two soft brushes used for small details. With such a large canvas, she would have to lay down little sections at a time, starting with a graphite sketch. Painting materials were not cheap, but the museum very generously supplied anything her painter’s heart desired. They were making a big investment in her, and she was not going to disappoint them.
She had already decided on an oil painting on canvas. The oil paint was thick and creamy; it would hold the marks or strokes of the brush very well, and as any artist knew, brushwork was integral to the painting. Oils could be used straight from the tube. Consistency in brushwork and approach throughout the process was as important as how to mix the colors, getting the drawing right, and depicting her subject.
So for colors… According to her ya-ya’s letters, the sun shines brighter, the sky is clearer, the sea is bluer, the fruit is sweeter, and the fish is fresher in Greece. She wanted to show those qualities.
Guernica had been kept for safekeeping at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City in 1981 before it was returned to Spain that same year, and Theia was proud her painting would also be housed in the Museum of Modern Art.
During the Spanish Civil War, the Luftwaffe had bombed the village of Guernica for about two hours, a precursor of the Blitzkrieg. It had taken the Tanais only fifteen minutes to sink. The victims were mostly women and children. How would she portray the lost children of Chania? Should her painting be similar to Guernica in the emotions it elicited?
Saying the Jews were lost made it sound like they were some misplaced tribe in the Amazon that had gone missing. They weren’t missing; they had been murdered. There was no other way to say it. From the moment she’d learned about the Tanais, she’d been angry. But anger wasn’t fueling her creativity, it was stifling it. Lately, her sleep had been interrupted with ghoulish dreams of drowning, torture, hardship, helplessness, and grief.
Theia alternately stared up at the humongous, essentially blank canvas and the crumpled sketches in the trash can. She was too overwhelmed to start.
She continued to sketch all day and in the middle of the night woke up sweating, her heart pounding, parched, desperate for a drink of clean water. The room was closing in. She imagined herself trapped with hundreds of desperate people in the cramped hold of the ship, unable to see sunlight or reach the deck, strangling for a breath of fresh air, and then the torpedoes blasted open the hull of the boat with two mind-numbing explosions, and there came the agony of drowning in a deep, murky sea scattered with unrecognizable, floating body parts and the muffled cries of yearning souls.
When she awoke, she gulped in the fresh air as she threw off the cumbersome covers. It was like she was reliving the tragedy of the Tanais. Her grandfather’s spirit had possessed her, filling her mind with how it must have felt during those last desperate moments. She went into the bathroom and wiped the moisture off her body with a towel before she took a large glass of water to ward off her feelings of dread.
Another nightmare. When she had had them at the hotel in Florence, Wade had been there to hold her. But Wade wasn’t here now because she had pushed him away.
The very idea of the project was intimidating. She imagined being confronted with the desolate glare of white-on-white was like a novelist staring at a blank, flickering screen on a computer, wondering how to start a story. She wasn’t just painting for herself but for her family, for the grandfather she’d never known, whose life had been cut short, for the memory of the grandmother she loved, and for the lost souls of Chania.
She spent the day circling the room, trying to come to terms with the canvas. The next day, she tried strolling around Central Park and visiting the Frick, which was lovely, but it was even more intimidating to see all that talent on display—old masters and nineteenth-century paintings from Rembrandt and El Greco to Goya, Vermeer, and Fragonard. What an ego-buster. She was certain she was going to disappoint everyone. Why had she ever agreed to this? How could she paint the destruction of an entire community? How would she not wallow in grief when she undertook such a daunting task? How could she capture the victims’ despair?
Theia paced the condo. She looked out the window onto East 70th Street. It was a quiet haven, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. The morning sunlight spilled through the studio window. And suddenly she had a breakthrough. Maybe her approach was all wrong. Instead of imitating Picasso’s grim portrayal of universal suffering of the innocent victims of war, Theia’s work should be uplifting, hopeful. Maybe the painting should be more of a tribute, not a condemnation. Gradually her mind began to clear. She went to the coffee table in the living room, where she had a book about Chagall, and that was where she got her inspiration—from her grandfather’s mentor.
Could it be her grandfather’s spirit was speaking to her? She was approaching the piece all wrong. This painting didn’t have to be anything like Guernica. It didn’t have to depict children going down at sea to a dark watery grave, and victims trapped in a hot, stuffy hold, unsure of what fate awaited them at their destination. No, in her version of the tragedy, they would escape their fate, their souls flying into heaven to be snatched up at the last minute by a protective angel. She would depict every one of the two hundred and sixty-five Jews, including the one hundred lost children, mothers with their children, lovers clinging to each other for the last time, and her grandfather, the artist. Now that she understood the message, this painting would be one of hope. The only ones going down with the ship would be the Germans, in leg irons and Nazi uniforms, fear frozen on their ghoulish faces.
The souls would mount upward, swooping heavenward. Maybe she would call it Jews of Chania Take Flight. It would not be inspired by Picasso’s Guernica. Instead she would infuse it with hope—no screams, agonized wails, or choking. Instead, it would teem with life and hope. It would be her ancestors’ final journey, to paradise.
The color combinations began forming in her mind. In the background were the mountains, the blue and white colors depicting Greece. Her grandfather would be shown, holding out hope that his beloved and their child had been spared, rescued, and that he would see them again in heaven. Each of the two hundred and sixty-five souls would be individually rendered, drawn from the research and photos of the families that had perished. Now she knew why she had snapped copies of those photos. In her heart, she knew this was a picture her grandfather would have painted, had he lived, one he wanted her to paint, as he had communicated to her in dreams. Babies in nappies, children safe in their mothers’ arms, lovers staring into each others’ souls.
The Siege Page 11