What Happens in Paris. Nancy Robards Thompson
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palmetto bug and screamed when I inadvertently dislodged a lizard carcass as I threw open the shutters. I couldn’t even kick it into the corner.
The windows looked out into an adjacent courtyard. A large live oak shaded a blue mosaic fountain surrounded by an overgrowth of purple foxgloves, red, white and pink impatiens, hibiscus and azaleas.
It took me back to the day Blake brought me here the first time, when he leased the studio for me. Art was where we connected. When all else failed in our relationship—when we went months without touching—I’d return to his support of the creative me.
It was hard not to slip into doubt. Since he was not who he pretended to be, did that mean everything else he upheld was a lie, too?
How he said I was talented; that he loved me and wanted a family.
I mean, what was love? It wasn’t quantifiable. You couldn’t measure it by any means other than faith and feeling.
When we met he was a good man with a promising future as an architect. He treated me well, if not passionately.
There’s more to life than passion. Passion was the flame that burned so furiously it burnt out and left you wanting.
I always believed a good marriage was born of the slow, steady rhythm of a man and woman, developed after passion flared and faltered.
Now I don’t know what to believe.
We got married and four months later Ben was born.
I loved Blake. I wouldn’t have married him if I thought he hadn’t loved me.
I stood at my studio window staring at the courtyard, waiting for the pretty view to permeate me and work its magic the way it did that first day, but all I felt was empty. And hot.
Good God, it was sweltering in here.
I reached over and turned on the air-conditioning unit that stuck out of the top of the last set of windows like a boxy appendage. It chugged to life, shaking and rattling as if it would burn itself out before it cooled down the place.
Hmmph. Passion.
It took three trips from my car to the studio to schlepp in all of the supplies I’d picked up at Sam Flax—new paints and brushes, a large bottle of gesso and twenty more stretched canvases of varying sizes—I’d forgotten about the extras in the studio.
Finally, I shut the door on the outside world, determined to rediscover the joy of my studio and the painting process.
I started painting again after our son, Ben, began junior high school. I set up an easel on the screened-in back porch, but I couldn’t leave my paintings out there since it was too damp. I used to talk about how great it would be to have a real space of my own; a spot where I could leave all my supplies and canvases—a real artist’s studio.
The spot at OCA was a reward for sticking it out in a marketing job I detested. Since Blake had broken away from Hartman and Eagle, the architectural firm he’d been with for fifteen years, to start his own business, we relied on my company-funded benefits.
The studio was a compromise. Blake got to be his own boss. I got four walls to call my own. But I didn’t have time for it, really. Working full-time, cooking and cleaning, raising a child and washing Blake’s dirty underwear didn’t leave much time or energy for creativity.
I’d bet over the five years I’d leased the studio, the cumulative amount of time I spent there barely averaged a once-a-month visit; that was more often than we had sex. Every once in a while Blake would get on my case about not using it and threaten to cancel the lease, which would force me to drag myself in there to create. So, coming here today, I decided that until I discovered my own style, I would paint flowers of all shapes and sizes, in the tradition of Georgia O’Keeffe; fragile Lady’s Slipper orchids; big fat roses; vibrant sunflowers.
I set a large canvas on the easel and positioned the maroon orchid on a paper towel.
This would be therapeutic. I could mix the paint to any shade I desired; place it anywhere on the canvas I wanted. I could wash it on in thin, translucent wisps or glob it on in thick, heavy layers.
I set out the new tubes of oil paint I’d purchased, and one by one squeezed a dab of each on my old crusty palette.
If I wanted to paint roses blue, I could. If I wanted to render sunflowers purple—no problem. I might even paint this pretty orchid black to match my mood.
It was my choice.
Paint complied. It would stay true to whatever image I created. It wouldn’t start out as one thing and transform itself into something totally foreign.
Unless I wanted it to.
I picked up the paintbrush, regarded the blank canvas and made a split-second decision not to paint the orchid. Nope. On my canvas, I would honor the traditional. I touched my brush to the glob of alizarin crimson.
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
My husband is gay.
Shit.
Who knew?
The brush fell from my hand, pinged and clattered on the rough concrete floor. I pressed my shaking fingers to my temples.
Who knew?
Everyone in the world but me?
The small room started spinning, and I edged backward until my butt hit the wall. My knees gave way and I slid down until I half crouched, half sat.
I had no idea what came over me, but suddenly I knew exactly what to do to that canvas.
By the time Rita knocked on my studio door at seven o’clock that evening, I’d painted three canvases. Two florals and what you might call a Picasso-inspired portrait of Blake, though I’ve never been much of a Picasso fan. Rita likes him, but I’ve always thought of him as a creepy misogynist.
Appropriate inspiration for Blake’s portrait.
I painted him with two heads (one male, one female), Medusa-like orchid blooms for hair and a spear driven through his chest. I’d used washes of blues and blacks with a spattering of bloodred applied with a palette knife for emphasis.
“This one’s a little scary.” My sister held up the canvas of Blake. “If he turns up dead, you’d better destroy this or they’ll have all the evidence they need to hang you for the crime.”
I shrugged, not in a jovial mood.
“What’s Fred doing tonight?” I wiped excess paint off my brush with a paper towel, then walked to the sink to wash the residual from the bristles.
Rita and Fred had such a good marriage, after twenty-five years they were even starting to look like each other. Sometimes—especially after the hell I’d just been through—I wondered if my sister hadn’t snagged the last decent man alive.
“He’s at the all-night driving range, getting his golf fix. Where did those come from?” She pointed at the vase of orchid blossoms.
“From Blake’s greenhouse.”
Her blue eyes flew open wide. “Oh. My. God. If you leave right now, you might be able to outrun him. Let me rephrase what I said earlier. He’s going to be the one hung for murder because he’s going to kill you when he sees what you’ve done.”
I smoothed the bristles back into shape and put the brushes in a jar to dry. “I know. I feel kind of bad about it. I didn’t realize how pretty they were. Do you think he’ll notice if I superglue them back on?”
Rita burst out laughing. “He’s going to flip.”
She walked over and picked up a painting of a huge sunflower I’d leaned against the wall. “This is nice. Sort of Van Gogh–esque.” She set it down and stepped back to view it, tilting her head from one side to the other.
“I wasn’t really going