by Robbi McCoy
Nodding, Harper said, “Very cool.”
“Wait here. I’ll get Mary.”
Chelsea left the room. Harper put her movie camera and notebook on a table, careful not to jar a smooth soapstone carving which resembled, abstractly, two intertwined female bodies. She walked around the room’s perimeter, studying the paintings. There was a Jackson Pollack, all splatters and blue and black lines, hung beside a canvas heaped with fleshy female bodies that Harper recognized as a Rubens. She wondered briefly if these were reproductions or originals.
Above the fireplace was a huge (at least five feet long) impressionistic reclining nude. The face, though lacking detail, was obviously Chelsea’s. The painting was an intriguing work— soft tones of blue and pink, swaths of gray. The head was thrown back, golden hair streaming down behind, the face in profile, eyes closed. The breasts, sharp triangles, were thrust upward, and the back was arched, leaving a curving gap between the figure and the surface on which it reclined. It could easily be interpreted as a woman in the throes of passion.
“Do you like it?” asked Mary from behind.
Harper turned to see Mary and Chelsea in the doorway. “Yes,” she said. “Captivating.”
Chelsea stood beaming. For what was she so pleased with herself? Harper wondered. For being young and beautiful? For being Mary’s lover?
“It’s quite recent,” Mary explained, stepping into the room. She placed herself in the center of an Oriental rug about twenty feet from the painting, her gaze absorbing her creation. Harper waited, but Mary continued to stare for a moment longer before saying, “I’m delighted with it. Do you see how, if you let it take hold of you, it moves?” As she made this observation, she raised a hand toward the work, her head tilted upward, her face blissful. Had she been wearing white robes instead of jeans and a silk blouse, Harper would have described her as saintly. Even dressed as she was, she seemed to emit a nimbus-like glow.
“Oh,” laughed Mary, abruptly, “I’m such an egotist!”
“With absolute justification,” Chelsea remarked, her expression adoring. Harper wondered how long Chelsea had been installed in this house. It had to be less than a year, she decided, based on her observations of the two of them on campus. The rumors had escalated about six months ago, spurred on, perhaps, by the news of cohabitation.
“Yes,” Harper agreed. “It must be wonderful to be able to create something you love, to make a work of art that seems to have a life of its own. I admire and envy that in artists.”
“But, Harper,” Mary objected, “you’re an artist too. You’re a musician.”
Harper laughed nervously. “Maybe, but I’m not an artist in any sense that I think of when I use that word. I love music, but to be an artist, I think you have to have that drive to do it, the inability to not do it.”
Mary sighed wistfully. “That drive, yes, it’s vitality itself. Though it can be a tormentor.” Mary dropped onto the sofa with one of her legs bent underneath her, then beckoned with her hand. “Come here, Harper, and tell me what you’ve got in mind.” Then, to Chelsea, she said, “Darling, how about getting us all a cognac? Does that suit you, Harper?”
“Yes, that would be nice.” Harper sat on the other side of a coffee table that supported an immense Grecian urn. “I’m not sure how to go about this. Dr. Lerner suggested that we approach this project as though it would actually be televised.”
“You mean it won’t?” Mary asked indignantly.
“The best ones might, on a local cable channel. But I’m an amateur at this. It’s only been two months since I first held one of these cameras. Please don’t expect too much.”
Mary leaned forward, her eyes intense and focused. “I always expect too much. If you’re going to produce a film about me, I want it to be exceptional. I’m going to make sure it is. Yours will be the best one.”
Chelsea distributed three glasses among them, then stood behind the sofa, behind Mary, in a possessive pose. There had to be almost thirty years between them, Harper thought. A case of idolatry, obviously, although Mary was, in her way, exceptionally charming. Harper herself found Mary interesting and attractive. It was easy to see how a student might develop a crush on her. And for Mary? What was the attraction of this girl? Being worshipped, especially by an apostle as adorable as Chelsea, probably needed no further explanation.
“I have a couple of students in the studio,” Mary said. “I thought you’d like to film me working with them. I want to be sure, though, that I’m allowed to see the final product before Lerner does. And that I get to cut anything I don’t like.”
Harper agreed.
“What is your theme going to be?” Mary asked. “What is the focus?”
Harper hesitated. “I guess it’s pretty straightforward. I’m just going to feature some of your work, listen to you talk about it. The focus, I suppose, is simply to show what a brilliant artist you are.”
Mary grinned and tilted her head slightly. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said flirtatiously. Harper flushed. “But try to be more objective, dear. Let’s focus on my unique vision as a painter. We aren’t simply putting up a PowerPoint show of my paintings and saying, ‘Oh, aren’t these interesting.’ You’ve got to get an angle, and I’ll be happy to talk to you at length about my vision, what makes me Mary Tillotson, and why I’m not, for instance, Constance Hooper. Do you see?”
Harper felt intimidated, vainly trying to remember anything she could about Constance Hooper, another contemporary painter, and then deciding it didn’t matter, that she’d gotten the point. Mary obviously wanted this to be more than a project to satisfy a class assignment. Harper glanced at Chelsea, who was looking at her with an inquiring, amused expression. She’s going to challenge you, she seemed to be intimating.
“Yes, I understand,” said Harper, “I really appreciate your taking the time to do this. Some of the students in my class are filming their dogs, you know.” “I’ll make time for anyone who is serious about art,” Mary said. “You are serious, aren’t you? I mean, this class you’re taking, you must have some aspiration that involves filmmaking.”
Harper hesitated. She hadn’t given it that much thought. She searched for something to say besides, “Well, no, I just thought it’d be interesting.”
Mary, not waiting for her answer, said, “I have no intention of being the subject of a mediocre student project, like somebody’s dog. If I’m the star of this show, it has to be the real thing. I don’t give many interviews, Harper. I agreed to this because you’re a friend and colleague. So, you, in turn, must make this a shining testimonial to me.”
“I’ll do my best,” Harper said. “I understand you don’t want it to look like an encyclopedia entry.”
Mary nodded and sipped her cognac. “Or Who’s Who in the art world. I want it to be me. It should reflect who I am in every aspect, right down to the choice of font for the credits. Oh, and will you have music?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Fabulous. Classical?”
“Yes, that’s what I know best. And I think it suits you.”
Mary looked satisfied. “Okay, then. Look, Harper, if I’m going to entertain you with my art, how about entertaining us with a bit of yours? Play something for us.”
“Oh, yes,” Chelsea urged, “play for us.”
Harper, taken off guard, said, “I didn’t bring my cello.”
“You can play that, can’t you?” said Mary, waving toward the baby grand.
“Yes, actually, I’d love to play that.” Harper went to the landing and pulled the stool out, sitting before the magnificent instrument.
“Do you need music?” Mary asked.
“No,” Harper said, uncovering the keys. “I’ve been practicing Beethoven’s Appassionata. I can play that. Maybe the first movement.”
Chelsea pulled the drapes open. Light poured in, shining almost blindingly off the luminous black surface of the piano. She then ran over to Mary, plopping down next to her on the sofa.
“Appassionata,” she repeated. Her eyes flashed with delight. She placed her head in Mary’s lap, looking childlike.
“Yes, a perfect selection,” Mary agreed, laying a tender hand on the girl’s head. What a charming tableau they created in that pose. Harper would have liked to have filmed that, but Chelsea was not to be a player in this documentary. It was strictly about the art, not about the artist’s life. That was the agreement.
Harper waited for the two of them to settle into stillness before beginning the piece. As her fingers touched the keys, she heard with elation the richness and perfect tone of the instrument. Immediately, she was alone with the music, her body melding with the keys.
Let it play itself, she reminded herself. Let your body become the music. Forget fingers, lose the sensation of touch. The music is all.
She had learned this technique while studying Zen. Yield and overcome. It was supposed to be a way of reaching enlightenment, but she had never managed to master the technique completely. She had, however, found a means of adapting it to music.
Halfway through the piece, Harper glanced over at Mary and Chelsea to see them smiling affectionately at one another. Harper smiled too, marveling at the power of love, basking in the power of music. As the last note subsided, she lifted her hands from the keys, euphoric.
Chelsea leapt up from the couch, applauding.
“Glorious,” Mary said, also clapping.
“That was so beautiful,” Chelsea said. “I wish I were musical. I don’t know how to play anything.”
“You have your own talents,” Mary said, looking appreciatively at Chelsea. “But I agree that an ability to make music is enviable. It’s so universally appreciated. If I weren’t a painter, I think I should like to be a musician. Music is the art of movement. It’s alive in a way that paint on canvas can never be. It lives in multiple dimensions at once, in time and space, attaining a real world depth that a master of perspective can merely imitate on a flat surface. And at the same time, it’s ephemeral, passing out of existence almost as soon as it comes into it. It exists only for that moment that it strikes your eardrum. For that reason, music is more precious and more mysterious than a painting.” Harper wished that her camera was already on. She hoped that Mary would come up with something equally quotable when it was.
“I’d settle for either of those talents,” Chelsea said.
“You, darling, are a wordsmith,” Mary countered. “There is nothing more powerful than the written word to elucidate an idea. The writer has a level of control over her audience in a way that no other form of art can attain. A piece of music can evoke a mood, like joy, but has little influence over the finer strains of feeling in the listener, who may respond with wistfulness, for example. But a poet who leaves that kind of latitude available to the reader is just a sloppy poet.”
Harper noticed that she and Chelsea were listening in the same rapt manner to Mary’s observations.
“Words and music accomplish similar goals,” continued Mary, “but they’re almost the antithesis of one another. They spring from different parts of your psyche. You would have to be an extremely exceptional individual to be able to give life to your emotions through both language and music. However,” Mary said, exuberantly, “bring together a composer and a lyricist and, well, you’ve got a show, haven’t you?”
Chelsea laughed at that, glancing from Mary to Harper, her eyes shining. Her enthusiasm was blithe and unpretentious. Mary responded to Chelsea’s delight with a serene and natural smile. Apparently they had quite a bit to offer one another, Harper thought. Despite the cynical gossip about Mary taking advantage of a child, this relationship could be viewed with a lack of skepticism if a person would allow it, and that’s how Harper was inclined to view it. She wasn’t a skeptic. If it looked like love, then it probably was, and who was she to question that?
Chapter 13
JUNE 21
Wilona greeted Harper with a crushing hug in the doorway of her house. “How was the drive?” she asked.
“Long. I could sure use something wet and cold.”
Wilona served her iced tea. From the kitchen window, Harper could see several birdhouses hanging from tree branches and a copper birdbath occupied by two blissful sparrows. On the shelf outside the window, a nuthatch pecked at loose seed. Gorgeous framed photos of birds, trees and old fence posts lined the hallways of Wilona’s house.
The last time Harper had been here, it had been December, a year and a half ago. The pine branches had been heavy with snow, a fire had crackled in the living room and she had settled heavily into this retreat like a bear into its winter den. She had come with the excuse of making a documentary. But, four months after losing Chelsea, she was in need of a refuge more than a project. Between interview sessions and filming Wilona in the snow with her camera, they talked about abstractions like happiness and personal fulfillment. Or Harper sat quietly with a book and a cup of hot chocolate, lost in her own thoughts. There was opportunity here for quiet introspection. During that week, Wilona’s healing presence had enveloped her like a cloud. By the end of the visit, she had felt more fit for the world. Today the landscape around the house was painted in noisier hues, but the atmosphere within was the same. It was an extension of Wilona herself, a mantle of warmth spreading out to envelop the house, its contents and anyone inside. Harper felt safe and welcome here.
As she took the first swallow from her glass, a boy appeared in the kitchen doorway, as if he had materialized out of thin air. He had made no sound. He was slight, maybe eleven or twelve, with a close-cropped Afro. His face was turned to Harper, but his eyes looked past her.
“Andrew,” Wilona said, seeing him there. “Come here, baby.”
He walked toward her and let himself be engulfed by her arms. Then she turned him to face Harper and said, “Harper, this is my grandson, Andrew. This is the lady I told you about. Her name is Harper. She’ll be visiting us for a few days.”
The boy extended his hand and said, “How do you do?”
He still didn’t seem to see her. Harper suddenly realized that he was blind. She stepped toward him and took his hand, shaking it firmly. “Nice to meet you, Andrew.”
“Now you go change your clothes for dinner,” Wilona told him. “Your shirt has grape jelly stains all over it.”
Andrew hurried out of the kitchen.
“Grandson?” Harper asked, bewildered. “I didn’t even know you had a son. Daughter?”
“Daughter.”
“Really? I made a documentary about your life, and it never came up that you had a daughter and a grandson.”
“The documentary wasn’t about my life. It was about my work.” Harper heard what Wilona said, but it was still not making sense to her.
“My daughter is at a religious retreat in the Colorado Rockies,” Wilona continued. “It’s just an excuse to escape her responsibilities, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve had Andrew a few times before, but I think this time it’s for good.”
“Is that okay with you?” Harper asked.
Wilona nodded. “Better than okay. I love that little guy. And he deserves as good as he can get.”
“But you’ve always been such a free spirit,” Harper said. “Coming and going as you please, traveling all over the world, pursuing your art.”
“‘Free spirit’?” Wilona repeated, obviously amused. “Harper, I’ve always had things that came before my art. For me, photography was an escape, but only in the sense that it allowed me to flee in my imagination, not for real. My life has always been grounded in the here and now. When I was fourteen, my mother developed a slow-growing brain cancer that took away her hearing and the use of her legs, caused horrible seizures and eventually killed her when I was nineteen. For all those years, she was helpless and I had to do everything for her, which, believe me, wasn’t pretty. Then I got pregnant with my daughter and spent the next eighteen years raising her as a single mother. She’s bipolar and has never been able to support hersel
f for more than a few months at a time, so even as an adult, she’s needed a lot of help. Then there was Andrew. That girl couldn’t even look after herself, so you can imagine what our lives were like when she ended up having a baby. Even if he hadn’t been blind, he would have been too much for her, although when she’s on her meds she functions okay.”
“I had no idea,” Harper said, stunned. “What about all those talks we had about what’s important in life? Why didn’t it come up?”
“But you remember, don’t you, that we were mainly talking about you and Chelsea? You needed to talk about that. Besides, I don’t like to dwell on my problems. I don’t want to seem to be complaining. It’s more fun to talk about photography, and you, of course, have always been most interested in my life as an artist, so that’s what I try to be for you. But I’ve never been a free spirit and that’s okay with me. I’ll continue my work. I’ve always found a way to do that. Andrew can come along. You’ll see that he’s a pleasure to be around. He’s a joyful child.”
Harper felt a little battered. In the course of a few minutes, her entire view of Wilona’s life had been upended. Wilona hadn’t changed, obviously. Harper’s view of her had just been wrong, wrong in the most fundamental way. She had imagined Wilona as carefree, concerning herself with no one’s needs but her own. In Harper’s view, the art had been the single focus, the thing that defined Wilona. She was a photographer. Now it was obvious that the focus had been too narrow. What does this mean? Harper wondered, feeling disoriented.
When dinner was ready, the three of them ate in the kitchen, birds twittering through the open window. Wilona pulled the crust off her bread and left it on the sill for the birds. Andrew, listening, named each bird as it sang—sparrow, blue jay.
“I hear a woodpecker,” he said at the end of the meal.
“Really?” Wilona asked, cocking her head to listen. “I don’t hear it.”