Last Lovers. William Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      ‘I hope you do not mind if I talk to my pigeons. I have a name for each of them and they are my only friends, my only family. Being an old, blind woman is sometimes quite lonely.’

      ‘I’ve talked to pigeons myself, also, madame, sometimes they are the only creatures with whom I can talk.’

      I don’t tell her how mostly I’m cursing them when they make that sudden flurry of stiff feathers from behind me when I’m trying to concentrate on a painting. A person could have a heart attack when a flock of pigeons soars off in a bunch like that.

      ‘But I don’t know them the way you do, madame. When I talk to them it’s as if I’m talking to myself and seem to learn nothing. I’ve never been as close to pigeons as you are.’

      ‘Well, you see, monsieur, I have been coming here every day from about ten in the morning until the midday bells ring for thirty years, since the end of the second great war. The pigeons in the flock change but the flock itself remains. Even the young new ones, or a pigeon who joins this flock from another, know me. You see, pigeons are some of the kindest, most trusting, least hostile creatures on this earth. I am convinced they communicate with each other, can talk in a special way, but hard as I have listened, I have never learned their language. However, humans could learn much from them as to how we should live.’

      Being out in the streets, I run into all kinds of loons, but this may be my prize catch, a blind old lady in a red suit who wants to talk to pigeons because maybe they can tell her how humans should live.

      I’m beginning to feel I might be getting involved with another nut. I’ve developed a sort of sixth sense for sorting out the real crazies. But this woman seems different. Except for all the pigeon business and her blindness she seems more normal, more clear, intelligent, than anybody I’ve talked with in a long time.

      But also, I’m beginning to feel itchy about getting on with my painting. I’ve decided to paint this woman in at the base of the statue. I definitely could use a strong color there in the foreground and red would go great against the green of the trees in the park next to the church. I’ve already decided to treat Monsieur Diderot loosely, with suggestions of the bronze, a few pigeons, and the thrust of his leaning toward the church across the street.

      ‘Well, I’d best get back to work, madame. The light is changing fast and I want to finish my underpainting today.’

      ‘What are you painting? Is it the church?’

      I still can’t get used to her being blind. When she comes out with something like this I almost feel as if she’s kidding, but then I’ve had this happen often before, with people who can see. I’ll be sitting directly in front of something that interests me, making what I consider a fairly good representation of what I’m seeing, and they’ll stand there, looking all around, puzzled, and finally ask me what I’m painting. It can drive me up a wall, it also isn’t very good for my confidence.

      I thought they were kidding at first, but no, it just isn’t what they’re good at, the way I can’t seem to learn French. But, of course, with this woman, she’s really blind. She only knows I’m beside the statue of Diderot. I could be painting the café or even the Hôtel Madison.

      ‘Yes, madame. It is the church, but much more. I have the statue of Diderot on the left side of my painting, then I’m looking up boulevard Saint-Germain with Le Drugstore, and across the street, Les Deux Magots, then the opening to rue Bonaparte. In the middle is the tower of the church, with the nave going across the painting to the fountain. In the foreground, I have the little garden where children play, and in front of that, le boulevard with the bus stop.’

      She stops working on her pigeons and listens to me. She closes her blind eyes the way a person with sight would close theirs to picture something.

      ‘You describe it all very well, I can see it in my mind. I do wish I could see your painting. I have lived in this quarter all my life. I feel you are probably a very good painter because I think you are a good man. Thank you for cleaning my coat and then keeping me company. I hope you are happy with your painting when it is finished.’

      As she speaks, the bells of Saint-Germain-des-Prés start their beautiful, hollow, hallowed gonging, ringing. The first few notes, then the crescendo as they pick up speed, are so comforting. The bells are one of the things I’ve learned to love in Paris. Not far away, I hear the deeper bells of Saint-Sulpice start their welcoming answer to noon, invitation to the important French déjeuner.

      The old blind lady has been gathering her tools together and fastening them. She puts away her small sacks of feed, then pulls out a larger sack and strews some grains on the ground in front of her. She turns to me.

      ‘This way, they do not notice I am leaving and it is not so hard for them. Tell me, are there any small birds there with the pigeons?’

      I look and there are sparrows darting in front of the pigeons, getting their share and more.

      ‘Yes, there are sparrows.’

      ‘Are any of the pigeons fighting them for the food?’

      I look. Sure enough, they aren’t, they’re pushing each other to get to the grain but there is no pecking or fighting among themselves or against the small sparrows.

      ‘No. There’s no fighting. They allow the small birds to take what they want.’

      ‘You see, monsieur, the pigeons have much to teach us.’

      With that, she picks up her cane, stands, and reaches out her hand toward me. We shake hands.

      ‘Will you be here tomorrow to work on your painting?’

      ‘Yes, if it isn’t raining or too cold.’

      She lifts her head, turning it left and right like a pointer trying to get a scent.

      ‘No, tomorrow will be like today. I hope to see you then.’

      I watch as she turns and walks away quickly, using her cane only occasionally, She said she’d ‘see’ me. It must be strange to be blind and still use the terms of seeing.

      I go back to my painting. I block in where I’m going to paint her. I must consult her to see if it’s all right. There’s no way she could ever know, but it seems the right thing to do. It’s the kind of lesson I’m learning, slowly but surely. Something that might seem perfectly right and logical to one person can be a terrible violation to another; we’re all different. I wish I’d learned this earlier. I’ll ask tomorrow before I start painting her in seriously.

      I work away at the underpainting for several hours. Usually I go more quickly, but in the few oil paintings I’ve tried so far, I’ve discovered that faults of drawing or composition which might be acceptable, even invisible, early on become glaring as the painting comes to conclusion. I’m trying to eliminate all such awkwardness.

      Still, I can already feel I’m going to have the same trouble I’ve had with the others. Even if I manage the drawing right, not only accurate, but well designed; even if the selection of forms and colors for the underpainting seems vital, appropriate, there’s no excitement in the painting. I don’t seem able to incorporate, build into my paintings, the strong emotional feelings I have about my subject, about Paris, about life itself. There’s something missing, a wall of fear, of timidity, between me and what I want to say. Also, there’s an arrogance. I don’t seem willing to let СКАЧАТЬ