Finding Jim

by Susan Oakey-Baker

  After a warm-up five-minute pose, the instructor explains the next challenge.

  “You will have three minutes to draw the next pose and then the model will cover up and you will have three minutes to draw the same pose from memory.” I gulp. I try to focus on the essential but still only get half of the figure drawn. Reluctantly, I turn the page, keeping my drawing from view. Memory. I can’t even remember the pose. Was her right hand up or her left? Should I peek? No. The point is not to get it exact.

  “Okay, you have three minutes.”

  Scratching. Paper rustling. Some groans. For a few seconds my pencil hovers over the paper because I am not sure. Time is wasting and finally I think what the hell and start to draw. I get a bit of an endorphin rush. When time is up, I flip back to my original drawing and compare it to the blind one and have a good chuckle. I am learning to be brave, to be less perfect. Feel the fear and do it anyway.

  The next pose is seven minutes, and I use the time to add as much detail as I can. My figure looks like a woman, and I lean back so that my drawing is in full view.

  “All right, now you have another seven minutes to do the same drawing but with your opposite hand.” Groans. Several minutes in, most people are laughing. I catch myself with my tongue half out of my mouth, concentrating. The instructor asks us to display both drawings on the wall side by side. I rub my earring between my thumb and forefinger as I silently compare and critique. My right-hand drawing is anatomically correct and my eye recognizes it as a naked woman reclining. I am satisfied. My left-hand drawing does not look anatomically correct. The bum and thighs on which her weight sits are much too large. But the more I look, the more I like the left-hand drawing. It feels less sterile, more alive. The figure is distorted and by no means perfect, but I relate to it more as a human being. I stare at the drawings on the wall after the class has returned to their seats. Why is the more perfect one less appealing, less alive? Perfect is good, isn’t it?

  A lively discussion ensues in response to Rembrandt’s statement on drawing, which is that physical likeness is recognized and appreciated by the masses because it perpetuates the illusion that we are all separate, perfect, independent beings. But one of the most important roles of art is that it reveals truth: we are all connected; we are not perfect; we are not the most important in the universe. This can be a disturbing truth. An artist distorts in order to find this truth. But first the artist must know the truth. You have to know and understand something in order to let it go.

  I fill two pages of my artist journal with notes.

  Voices rise and fall with the opinions of the group, and I raise my hand several times. After I reread my notes, I bow my head and slump my shoulders. You have to know and understand something in order to let it go. I knew Jim. I understood him. But can I face the truth so that I can let him be dead?

  In my perfect memory, Jim was perfect and we were perfect together. Being perfect makes me lovable. If I remember the argument where Jim called me a bitch and asked, “Do we need to split for awhile?” If I include the image of Jim yanking me to my feet when he lost his temper after I’d bugged him just a bit too much. If I uncover the conversation of me crying and leaning on Jim for support when I felt insecure. If I reveal these imperfections, people will be appalled at the real me.

  Jim courses through my veins, but I can only paint part of him. And so I can only let part of him be dead. And I can only paint part of me so only part of me can be alive.

  People judge my recovery by how much I move on, let go of my old life, of Jim. New job, new place to live, new puppy, new relationship. I crave external praise and reinforcement so that I know I will be okay. How can I move on and take Jim with me? I will try to repaint Jim in my mind and in my heart as “dead Jim,” not “alive Jim.” But how the hell do I do that?

  When the cathedral bells clang the next morning, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. My irrational, deeply ingrained belief is that if I paint my imperfections, people will not love me. And what if I paint something incredible? Then what? It’s almost as scary. I skip yoga and dress for a day off. No painting class today.

  At the American University, one block from my apartment, an expert offers a seminar on wines from Bordeaux and the Rhône. Cathleen, Jennifer and I sit in the classroom along with 75 other students, mostly younger. The hum of chatter eases when the middle-aged Frenchman at the front of the room turns his ample nose to his audience to introduce himself. He moves with the calm enthusiasm of someone fully engaged in his job. His even tone and odd, innocent humour remind me of l’Inspecteur Jacques Clouseau in The Pink Panther.

  He holds the foot of a glass and swirls the wine before inserting his whole nose into the glass and then gulps a mouthful and swishes it around, almost like mouthwash. You must hold it in your mouth for at least 10 seconds. The first flavour is called l’attaque. After four or five seconds, l’évolution develops. The third flavour hits after eight seconds and is labelled la finale. Then you swallow. The fourth and final flavour comes after you swallow and is called la persistance. Seventy-five novices mimic his actions: lift, smell, swirl, taste and burst into a babble of commentary.

  After the fourth tasting, the lecturer raises his voice considerably to get the audience’s attention. Cathleen, Jennifer and I stumble off to dinner at a Moroccan restaurant.

  The maître d’ shows us to an inner courtyard lit by candles, surrounded by lush greenery. Elbows on the starched white tablecloth, we gaze at the stars and giggle when the waiter comments on our beauty. My thoughts race to interlock with theirs as we talk about creativity, writing and the relationship of art to all things. Four hours pass easily as the wine makes us friendly. Jennifer talks of a potential boyfriend who will visit; Cathleen talks of her husband, who is in Spain; and I listen and ask questions. My body is warm with wine, and even though I think I know what is coming and I try to steer the conversation, the drunk part of me thinks Bring it on, I can take it.

  Cathleen veers off in a surprise direction.

  She leans forward and rolls the beads of her necklace between her fingers, looks both ways as if she is going to cross a street and lowers her voice. “You guys might think this is crazy, but I feel something in my apartment, a presence, and some stuff has happened.”

  “What do you mean?” Jennifer and I both lean forward.

  “There is this covering on my skylight and it moves at night, on its own. There’s no wind or anything. And I just feel as if I am not alone there.” She sits up and picks up her fork.

  “Are you scared?” My skin prickles and I rub my forearms.

  “At first, yes. But it doesn’t feel like a scary energy.” She raises her eyebrows and nods her head. She is so beautiful, so openhearted, I want to believe everything she says. Jennifer adds her own ghost story. It feels risky talking about ghosts. I have my own ghosts. There is a pause as we drink and eat and ponder. Here it goes, I think to myself.

  “I don’t know if I believe in ghosts, but I believe in something spiritual.” I look down before continuing. “I was married to a wonderful man. His name was Jim. He was killed in an avalanche four years ago.” I shove these sentences out and wait as they fall with a thud on Cathleen and Jennifer. Wide eyes. Horror. Hand covers mouth in shock. I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news. I shift in my seat.

  “I’m so sorry. That is awful.” Cathleen has tears in her eyes. Jennifer’s mouth quivers.

  “Thank you.” I'm learning to say thank you and move on. “So, I understand when you talk of seeing ghosts, because I feel Jim, his energy. I believe when you connect with someone you share some of his or her energy. A channel opens and there’s a flow, an exchange that is vital for life.” I take a breath and sneak a peek at their warm, open faces. Encouraged, I keep talking. “The more you connect with people and nature, the more your spirit lives on. Jim was a very connected guy. He was a good guy.” I finish my speech, clear my throat and wait.

  “So, how are you doing now? Have you met any
one else?” Cathleen looks at me with hopeful eyes. I feel my body start to float, but I expose more anyway.

  “I was seeing this other fellow, Scott, for two years. He’s a mountain guide like Jim was. He asked me to marry him last summer.” I pause here because their faces light up. “But then at Christmas he got cold feet and we went our separate ways.” Their faces fall again.

  A minute passes as all of these feelings bounce around between us and find a place. I bend over my stewed lamb and couscous. It’s uncomfortable at first to peel back onion layers. But as you get used to being connected to someone more deeply, a tenderness develops in the relationship. Cathleen, Jennifer and I venture to the next level.

  The next morning, I walk to the weekly marché where stalls fill the cobbled square. The smells hint at where I am before I’ve arrived: the meaty smokiness of the sausage stall where oblong casings hang from above like a fringe framing the smiling white-aproned vendor, who balances a fresh sample between his thumb and a sharp knife. The earthy, humid, sweet lingering of the fruit and vegetable stand where the plump, ruddy-faced farmer’s wife convinces me to buy the best field strawberries ever. The pungent, salty assault of fish at the slippery seafood section, where a man dressed in waterproof overalls sprays the floor with a hose regularly. The sweaty-sock smell of fresh cheeses. Within half an hour, little plastic bags hang from my arms like Christmas-tree ornaments.

  Back at my apartment, I survey my loot and consult the cookbook I’ve just bought, The Best of Mediterranean Cooking. On the counter, I line up the main characters: egg, eggplant and onion. Cathleen and Jennifer will arrive for dinner at 7 p.m. I hum as I cook, and when the dish is ready, I play guitar and sing until my guests arrive.

  On Sunday I force myself to meditate, do yoga and write before I pull on my stretchy capri climbing pants and a tank top. In my knapsack, I stuff a windbreaker, a water bottle, snacks, money and sunscreen. The local climbing group is waiting outside their clubhouse on the other side of town. Inside my head I practise my French greetings. I’m quite fluent in French, but I am nervous. I coach myself. Good for me – I found some people I can go climbing with. I’m stepping out. That’s brave.

  “Bonjour. Comment ça va? Je m’appelle Sue.” I set my pack down to shake hands. The two fellows are in their late 20s. Gérard is a clean-cut, motorcycle-riding accountant who started out training sled dogs and Michel is a gentle, brown-eyed architect who smiles shyly when he grips my hand. Christine shakes my hand vigorously, “Bonjour, bonjour.” Her green eyes sparkle and her spiky blonde hair does a jig. Her leg muscles bulge under her skintight climbing shorts. As we drive to the climbing crag, they burst into laughter every few minutes. Pretty easy audience. I relax into my seat and do my best to follow the quick dialogue. When they speak to me directly, they speak more slowly.

  We arrive at the treed river that borders the smooth, steep gorge known as Chateauvert. Climbers dot the rock face like coat hooks. My palms sweat; I run my tongue along my lips. At the base of the climb, we sit on boulders in the dust to yank on our snug climbing shoes. Climbers call in French to the right and to the left of us. I stand up to buckle my harness, my “natural laxative.” My bowels rumble from the impending fear. The rest of the group laughs at some joke.

  I breathe deeply when Gérard hands me the sharp end of the rope and asks if I want to lead. I ask to borrow a helmet. More laughter. Apparently helmets are not à la mode. I hand the sharp end back and tie the other end to my harness. I’ll belay. Gérard squeezes my mousqueton (carabiner) to make sure it is locked and I file the new word. As he labours up the face and reaches the hardest move, the crux (named after le crucifix), I call encouragement.

  “Je suis vaché,” he cries, which I learn means exhausted. I use the term frequently that day. The rope goes taut, and it is my turn. I rub my hands together to dry the sweat, double-check my tie-in and place my hands on the warm rock. Breathe. The trillions of grains of sand and water that have formed the rock push strength into my limbs. “Je grimpe!” I call out as I leave the ground.

  At the crux, my arms burn and fear takes over. What if I fall?

  “Vas-y,” Gérard cheers with a grin. His spirit feels so light that I finish the climb. Up and down we go all morning. I even lead a pitch sans helmet, and sweat puddles in my cleavage. At lunch we wade into the river and float in an eddy, spouting water comme des baleines. After a siesta under the willow trees, we walk to the nearby château for ice cream. Vachée from a morning of climbing, I take a long break in the shade and paint. At 9 p.m. we pack up our climbing gear and head home.

  Good for me.

  Tomorrow we begin to paint in class.

  “Van Gogh copied the masters’ paintings for 12 years before he adopted his own style. Today, you will copy a master.” The art teacher motions to a cupboard full of poster art prints. I choose to copy Paul Cézanne’s rendition of Mont Sainte-Victoire, done right out the back door. My perfectly detailed, perfectly mountain-like pencil drawing peeks at me from my sketchbook. It takes another hour to transfer the sketch to my larger canvas. Oil colours ring my palette, waiting. I jerk the flat palette knife from one primary colour to the next, mixing. All of nature is made up of red, blue and yellow in different combinations. Sunset, sunrise, autumn leaves, Mediterranean Sea. Everything. Several times my brush ventures to the canvas, but it never makes contact. I huff, wheeze, cock my head from side to side, back up to get a different perspective.

  Like a jittery hen scratching in the dirt, I swipe at the canvas. Too dark. Try again. Still too dark. In one hand I hold a rag that threatens to smudge my strokes, in the other my brush floats in the air, pecking every so often. Most people have painted at least half of their canvas. I breathe faster and slap my brush down on the palette, push my hands across my apron and flop back against the chair.

  Cézanne’s painting stands regally beside my pitiful attempt. His Mont Sainte-Victoire is faithful to nature in its colour relationships and full of his own expression – balanced, peaceful and harmonious. Mine looks like crap – broken, divided, incomplete. Is that who I am? Broken? Fearful? Full of pain? I grit my teeth and think of ways to hide my mountain, to destroy it. I want to cover it up or throw paint at it. What am I angry at? The mountain? For killing Jim?

  This mountain where Jim died, how can it be harmonious? How can I weave together muted greys to join heaven and earth? How can I express peace and calm when what I feel is anger and discord? How can I give colour and life to this mountain when I see it as death?

  I push aside the oil colours and place my sketchbook on my lap. Today, I will give my anger permission to surface. Without looking at Cézanne’s work, I pick up my brush and slash watercolour paint on a clean page of my sketchbook. I gaze around to see if anyone notices the tears welling in my eyes. No. Keep going.

  “Oh, what do we have here?” my art instructor whispers over my shoulder.

  I shift so that I can see him and laugh nervously. “I couldn’t paint the mountain that way. I have to do it this way first.” I feel like a kid who has done something wrong, who has failed.

  “That’s great. You do what you need to do.” He looks at me with a slight query but no judgment. On my paper, blood-red colour flows down the mountain like lava, outlined in black anger. I have painted the words “discord, death, red, fall, broken heart, pain” in the stormy blue sky. One more time, I think to myself. This time in black. In a few minutes, my second watercolour is complete. Black with words scattered about: anger, why, empty, hopeless, fear, alone, sadness, tears. I flip back and forth from one painting to the other and smile. I did it.

  After we have all struggled to put paint on paper, the art instructor leads a seminar on colour.

  “What colour is this leaf?” He sits before us holding a simple, oblong green leaf against his white palette. Silence, as it seems like a trick question.

  “Green, right? It’s green,” he answers himself and squeezes some green oil paint onto the palette. Holding the leaf beside
the colour, he asks, “So, is it green?” The leaf looks nothing like the colour.

  “Okay, so it’s not green. What is it? It’s grey. That’s right. The world is made up of shades of grey. And how do we get the grey of this leaf? We add its complement.” He leans over his palette, carefully mixes red in with the green until he has matched the colour of the leaf. Several ah-hahs sound from the audience.

  We paint all afternoon, but my unfinished painting of Mont Sainte-Victoire is so imperfect, I purse my lips at it. On the way home I try to be patient and look at my surroundings with a keener eye, to see the truth. But my thoughts return to the chocolate éclair and the ice-cream bar waiting at the corner store. I am scared of discovering all of the colours in nature because I am scared of discovering all of the pain in my heart.

  Painting is going to open something for me, I’m sure of it. Keep going. Be patient and gentle with my brave heart. When confronted with uncertainty, do not get afraid; learn. You have to let go. You must commit to painting the truth.

  How do baby birds know when to learn to fly? They wait in the nest until it is time and they take off. Why don’t I know when to fly? Maybe I do and I’m just not listening for the cues.

  The next day is “fieldtrip Friday” and my skirt sticks to the back of my thighs as we bus to the hilltop medieval village of Gordes, popular with famous people and the world of Peter Mayle, who wrote A Year in Provence. Narrow streets spiral past white and grey stone houses to the top of the heap where a 12th-century fortified castle encloses the city hall. We prattle on about the view of the Luberon Hills, compare purchases from the village market and sample the local jams, cheeses and olive oil. I buy a wide-brimmed straw sunhat and some olive-oil soap. Some of our sweat dries in the air-conditioned bus from Gordes to a Cistercian monastery, l’Abbaye de Sénanque.

  Our chatter dies down as we wander between rows and rows of blooming lavender to the massive limestone archways of the monastery. We stop to suck in the sweet smell. Inside, I pull my shawl over my shoulders and tilt my head back to follow the square rooms up to arches and finally into round domes. Monks dressed in earth-brown robes glide by. It’s quieter and slower than a library.