En route back to Aix, most people sit in silence, gazing out the windows at the golden hayfields, limestone houses under burnt-red clay roofs, lavender fields and dark-green cypress trees illuminated by the sun. No wonder so many people come to Provence to paint.
Back at the art studio we pack up our rickety, foldable easels and clamber into a van to drive along the same route Cézanne clipped along in his carriage one hundred years ago. It is a 10-minute drive to our destination, the town of Le Tholonet, where we unload beside a small creek surrounded by giant plantain trees. Across the road, hayfields run into crags of rock in the foothills of Mont Sainte-Victoire. This is painting en plein air.
My eye catches a footbridge leading over the creek into the forest. Flannery O’Connor writes in her essay “The Nature and Aim of Fiction” that painters should see the subjects in their paintings as characters in a story. As I tighten the screws on my easel, my eyes dart around, seeking the essential in the scene. Do I leave the ferns in? How do I know what to leave out? I pinch my eyebrows together to observe honestly with all six senses, to find the movement in the scene. Water moves, that seems a given. In my journal I list the possible characters and their personalities:
Bridge: stately, solid, protective, scarred, bossy, anal
Creek: energetic, happy, young, athletic, noisy
Ferns: wild, wanting, talkative, thin, tough
Plantains: tired, motherly, achy
Ivy: needy, unsatisfied
Sky: calm, peaceful
Sitting on the grass, I muse over the storyline. What happens between these characters to create heat and movement? The bridge momentarily bars the water on one side, causing an eddy, but the water escapes with a raucous laugh. The plantains scold the bridge while the ferns race the story from one to another. Where is the water going and why does the bridge want to stop it?
Great, so I’ve got my characters and a scintillating storyline. Now for the master creation. Every few seconds, I check to see that my painting looks like the real thing so that people can tell me what a good bridge I’ve done. After one hour of careful, deliberate, faint paint strokes on the canvas, I am pleased with my well-behaved, content characters. It looks like a bridge over water. But I don’t sense movement, or heat, or a mysterious sixth sense, or much personality. There is nothing confrontational or committing about my painting. I am absent. Frustrated, I assault a clean canvas with paint, raking my arm back and forth as if to heavy-metal music. Sometimes it’s easier to find the essential, the hotspot, the personality, if you paint quickly, because the ego does not have time to override creativity. My second painting is an unrecognizable mess of colour. Good grief.
My story percolates in my brain while I prepare my paints and root to my spot.
When the instructor gives the cleanup warning, I cannot believe three hours have gone by. I was in the zone. Rock climbers describe “the zone” as intense concentration on a task that cleans the mental slate of extraneous thought and demands pure reason. Somehow I forget myself when I paint, and there is a certain beauty and timelessness in forgetting yourself. Flannery O’Connor writes that the only way one can discover the spirit, the essence, of something is to “intrude upon the timeless, and that is only done by the violence of a single-minded respect for the truth.” I hold my painting at arm’s length to see if it is truthful. I can’t tell, but something feels different.
Seeing the truth takes reason, courage, time, practice and an open heart. Maybe being open to seeing the truth is just as important as actually seeing it. Someday I want to experience the reality of the world with all six of my senses and paint it in a way that is true to my heart and soul. Dante describes life as the relationship between “substance” and the “accidental.” Perhaps if I study nature enough to see its grace, I will see how life, death, love and compassion join everything in the universe, and I will be aware of the essential in life – the substance – and what is not essential – the accidental – and present their relationship truthfully.
Seeing the real world through spirit and mystery requires a deeper vision and understanding. There are feelings I cannot face right now.
My time in the zone organizes my thoughts, settles my ego and gives me perspective. I don’t want a part-time relationship. I don’t want to drive back and forth from Vancouver and Whistler. I want one home in Vancouver with an art studio. There are three weeks left for me in France.
For hours every day I paint in order to complete the required 30 canvases. In 40°C heat I walk for one hour to the exact lookout where Cézanne painted to capture Mont Sainte-Victoire. At the end of the course, we host an exhibition of all of our work. Two of my rock-climbing buddies come, and I lead them through the studio and point out my paintings, saying they aren’t very good. They linger on one of my paintings but not as long as on others’. I want mine to be the best, to get accolades, to be the most popular, but I feel a certain pride that they are mine. I have still not quite grasped the lesson that it is not all about me.
Two days before my flight leaves for home, I meet with the instructor for a one-on-one evaluation. As I wait outside the studio for my turn, I overhear the instructor complimenting one of the other students. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. You’re on the right track.” I rock back and forth and consider making a run for it. I ache to hear that I am on the right track.
“Hi,” I smile and sit down next to him. He looks up briefly and returns to his Rodin thinking posture in front of my paintings all lined up in a row.
“Hey, Sue. How’s it going?”
“Good,” I lie and match his pose.
“So, there they are.” He waves his hand at six weeks of my work.
“Yup.” I raise my eyebrows and nod my head. I sneak a peek at some of the more vibrant works belonging to other students around the room. My paintings look pale, one-dimensional and ghostlike, and I look down and clear my throat. If I reached out to grab the substance of my art, my hand would pass right through like mist.
“You know the way you paint, such small detailed brush strokes, reminds me of Renoir.” He mimics painting holding his hand up very close to his face. “Renoir was arthritic, you know. Near the end of his career, he painted from a wheelchair.”
Sweat builds behind my knees. “Oh, right, well, I am very detailed,” I confess. “I look at Elly’s painting and she seems to say so much with so little, like Cézanne. I wish I could paint like her.” I press my lips together in hopelessness.
“But that is Elly. You have to paint like Sue.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” I mumble.
“That’s why you must keep painting. It will come.” He smiles and begins a technical discussion about one of my portraits. I nod and agree every now and then, but my mind skips to images of my next painting. When my report comes, I receive an A+. I know I’m not the best painter in the course, not even close, but I made progress and tried hard.
FORTY-ONE
HOME
After the flight home, I arrive at my parents’ doorstep. Dad offers to drive me the 30 minutes out to my aunt’s acreage to pick up Habby. When my aunt opens the door, I crouch in ready position for the usual greeting. Habby races at me, licks my entire face with the vigour of a carwash, hopping up to get just that millimetre closer, interspersing licks with gentle nibbles of my nose. I laugh and try to keep my mouth closed against his gigantic tongue. Soon we roll on the floor.
It’s almost dinnertime by the time we get back to my parents’ house, and I’ve got two more hours of driving to get home to Whistler.
“You look tired. Why don’t you stay here overnight?” Dad looks worried. Why do I rush home to Whistler? Because I want to be there if Jim comes home. Well, there’s no rush.
“Okay, yeah, that’s a good idea.” I unpack just enough for the night. Dad looks relieved. I sleep solidly for nine hours with Habby curled up on the bed against my legs. It’s comforting to have a warm body in bed with me.
In the morning,
Dad puts his arm around me and asks, “So, are you moving back to Vancouver?”
“I’m not sure how I would do that. I’m not ready to sell the house.”
“You could rent out the house in Whistler so that you could rent or buy something in town.” My throat tightens at the thought of a stranger living in my home. That would really be giving up on Jim. But part of me gets excited about a space of my own in Vancouver. I envision a spacious, bright place, close to the beach, where I can paint, write, meditate and do yoga. I say nothing.
“I think it’s time to take a break from your house, just to see how it feels. I think it’s an important step.” Dad looks at me earnestly. The lump in my throat aches. I nod. Scary. I could use logistics to dampen the idea, such as the money and time it would take to move. But I know moving is my next big challenge because the idea keeps surging up from a deep place within me, my sacred root, my inner Jim. Tears fill my eyes, and Dad squeezes my shoulder. I drive home to Whistler.
At five o’clock the next morning a sliver of a moon hangs in the blue sky over Whistler Mountain. I’ve lain awake in bed for hours with jet lag and the anxiety of being home. The walls, furniture and linen reverberate with memories of Jim. I fear my heart might stop beating from the intense pain.
Without my daily painting and cooking regimes, I search for purposeful activity. When faced with adversity, the heroines in Little Women fell upon their mantra “hope, and keep busy.” I get my hope from Habby and from my inner voice, my inner Jim. In my journal, I list things I enjoy doing with the goal of reaching 20 items. My pen keeps going to 29: playing guitar, walking with Habby, reading, writing, drawing and painting, yoga, cooking, laughing, dancing, biking, rollerblading, visiting friends, exploring the wilderness, hugging Habby, loving, listening to music, sitting in the sun, learning, climbing, ski touring, making love, being out of breath in a beautiful place, eating chocolate, drinking red wine, travelling, watching a video. These activities make up my safety map.
My routine becomes my tradition: wake up, meditate, write in journal, do yoga, walk Habby, breakfast, work at organizing my sixth Kilimanjaro trip.
My friends call to touch base, and it strikes me how much I learn from them. From Terri I learn compassion and understanding. From Susan I learn resilience and hard work. From Marla I learn that honesty and consistency allow clear communication and strong relationships. From Andrea I learn that self-confidence allows you to reach your potential. From Rose I learn not to take life and myself too seriously. From Jenny I learn the power of intellect to become self-aware. From Heather I learn how self-love allows you to love, understand and encourage others. From Karen I learn that to have a friend you must reach out and be a friend.
Learning is one of my survival tactics, as is having purposeful activity, not just busyness.
FORTY-TWO
JOE
Relax and romance will flourish.
—MY CHINESE FORTUNE COOKIE
The teaching term begins after the Kilimanjaro trip, and I settle into a routine and try to ignore my loneliness. A friend sets me up on a blind date. I sit in my car for 15 minutes before I gather the courage to go into the restaurant. The man never met Jim and is not from the mountaineering community. My body waits like a loaded gun for the moment when I tell him about Jim, my true love. Each word describing my dead husband builds a wall between my heart and the unknown man sitting opposite me. After our evening together, he does not call or e-mail, and I do not expect him to.
I cry at home, alone. I regard myself from a distance and wonder Who is this crippled mess of fear and pity? Enough of mountain guides. I am going to find myself a businessman. I laugh at the absurdity of my quest. But I am tired of being stuck and am ready to commit to change. I date a few more men and decide that if I have not met the right person within a year, I will have a baby on my own. I am 38 years old.
Six months later, I join a group of friends and strangers for a backcountry ski week at a cabin near Nelson, in the interior of British Columbia. We meet at a restaurant before flying in by helicopter. My friend introduces me to Joe, who grasps my hand firmly and nods his head once. He seems a bit stern and short. Joe confides to me later that he thought I might be gay.
Twelve of us settle into the cabin and take turns cooking meals. I set the alarm for six o’clock to make breakfast the next morning for the group, but there is no need. At 5:30 the tap runs and dishes clink. Who the heck would be up at this hour? I stomp downstairs, growling, and there is Joe, sitting at the table. “Would you like some coffee?” He raises his mug and smiles.
“No, thanks, I don’t drink coffee.” Thoughtful guy. Nice. I smile back. But he gets up too early.
For the next few days, we ski fluffy powder under blue skies. Joe drags his out-of-shape body up the slopes and drives his telemark skis down, undeterred by several face plants. Strong. He’s got chutzpah. I like that.
At après-ski, Joe produces copious amounts of alcohol and shares it with the group, laughing easily. Generous. And funny.
On the third day, we ski a deliciously puffy steep slope. I partner up with my girlfriend for safety, and we giggle with each turn as our skis kick powder up into our faces. Joe arrives just behind us at the bottom. He beams and plows through the deep snow toward us.
“Wasn’t that great?”
“Wow.”
“We’re going to go up again. Want to come with us?” Joe looks eager but then sees his sister on a high line heading back to the hut. They wave to one another and Joe turns to us.
“I’d love to but it looks like my sis and her hubby are going back. They’ve been good to me, sticking with me. I’ll head back with them.” And he’s gone. Loyal. I watch him go for a minute and turn to see where he is a few times as we ascend the slope.
That evening, we have a party and dance until late. As I drink more, I gravitate to Joe’s spot on the dance floor and we bump against each other in rhythm to the music. We step outside in sock feet onto the snowy deck to cool off.
“Here, you can step on my feet if you want.” Joe offers. I giggle as I balance on his toes, hands braced on his chest. He catches me around the waist. We look at each other for a second and then laugh and start to tell jokes. After everyone has gone to bed, Joe and I sit on the couch and talk.
“So, where did you grow up?” I tuck one leg under me and turn to face him.
“Minneapolis. Well, just outside of Minneapolis, in a place called Anoka, on the Mississippi River.”
“What’s it like there?”
“They say it’s the closest thing to Canada in the States. Moderate politics, friendly people. The winters can be harsh. Some companies take their employees up in a chartered airplane just to get above the clouds to see the sun. There’s a whole system of covered walkways for people to get from store to store when it’s too cold to be outside. I grew up on the river, fishing, swimming and exploring.”
“What do you do?”
“I started out in law and practised for five years but then went into small business start-ups. What about you? Where are you from and what do you do?”
I wonder for a second what that means, small business start-ups. “I grew up in Vancouver, taught French and German for six years, got my backpacking guide certification and do some guiding, and I teach outdoor education now to high-school students.”
Joe perks up when I mention guiding. “What sort of guiding do you do?”
“I’ve done some ski-tour guiding and heli-ski guiding, and now I do an annual trip to Mount Kilimanjaro in Africa.”
“Wow. Ski guiding. Africa. You’re hard core.”
I chuckle and deny it but know he is impressed, so I don’t tell him that my ski guiding was only as an assistant and that I was just a tail guide for heli-skiing.
“What does that mean, ‘small business start-ups’?” I divert the attention back to him. He answers in a lingo I am not familiar with, but I nod my head to keep him talking. He made a lot of money in the dot-com boom, mill
ions, and then lost most of it when the market crashed.
“Are you married?” He doesn’t wear a ring but I ask anyway.
“Divorced. Five years ago now. We married young, when I was 24.”
He is two years older than me, lives in San Diego and has three kids. His ex-wife remarried and moved to Maryland with the kids. Joe stayed in San Diego. When I ask him if he misses his kids, his eyes tear up.
We play one another songs on the guitar. Joe picks the classical “Bourrée” by Bach. I choose a folk song by Ferron. We discover that we both love the book A Winter’s Tale. And the movie A Princess Bride is one of our favourites. That night, I lie awake picturing his handsome, strong-boned face, his bright, steel-blue eyes and his smile.
Over the next few days, we sneak off to the sauna together, hang back in the ski line to kiss and persuade our roommates to give us some privacy. At the end of a week of ski touring together, Joe drives west with me to Vancouver, to my parents’ house, instead of heading south to San Diego. My parents raise their eyebrows slightly when the bed in Joe’s room is not slept in the next morning.
Every other weekend, Joe flies up from San Diego and we snowshoe, ski, hike, rock climb and camp in Whistler. We go out for long dinners, drink lots of wine and spend hours in bed. Each time I pick him up from the airport, my heart does a little flip.
Exactly 60 days after we first met, we canoe on Alta Lake behind my house. Joe has packed a picnic of soft cheeses and wine. I steer in the stern, Habby sits in the middle and Joe powers in the bow. At one end, the lake meanders into a reedy marsh before forming the River of Golden Dreams. Grasses reach way above our heads, and the canoe turtles along through lily pads. Joe relaxes on the floor of the canoe, his legs draped over the seat and his paddle barely dipping into the water. “It’s a good thing you’ve got that mondo rescue knife on your life jacket. The River of Golden Dreams could be pretty dangerous.” He smirks and raises one eyebrow. He’s so cute.
Finding Jim Page 25