Part VIII - Vulnérabilité

Paris Stories (continued) -- Part VIII

They spent the late morning together, drinking delicious coffee at one of their favorite cafés.

Auburn hues, and bold aromas drifted down avenues—fragrance wafting in the city air. Life’s rhythm slowed down in such moments; they would think back later and realize the magic of love sets aside time like an invisible hand.

By midday the streets of the arrondissement bustled with weekend activity.

Separate Paris lives bumped into one another, in close proximity but with uniqueness; like red-blood cells coursing through the body’s arteries. 

City dwellers’ living kinship, the concord of the masses: coexisting diversity, common values, the momentum of time, and a collaborative friendliness pervaded most of the neighborhoods along the Seine, at least those frequented by artists.

“I’m peaceful right now, Char.” “It’s hard to put to words, but exploration has exploded my creative boundaries.” They were long on both intimacy and communication, a powerful duo.

“Tell me how, Gabriel,” smiling, waiting expectantly for his answer.

“Its heart is energy,” he told her, “from my center, creativity hisses like a volcano; the earth’s about to crack open.” He continued, “there’s definitely a pressure building,” “It’s a mysterious force.”

Gabriel continued, “when I feel most accomplished, besides when I’m with you; is when the creative explosion erupts but I can still grab hold of it, use it!”

She loved his explanations, because she was pretty sure the wheels in his beautiful mind always spun.

“I didn't know the power of my thoughts; what to do with them?”

“I knew I was different but by secondary school, my classmates let me know for sure!” (winking)

“I miss Middle School,” deadpanned Charlotte.

She added, “Like I miss having Poison Ivy.”

He barked, “being different in secondary school… like being sent to the gulag—you’re labeled… doomed!” "Condamné."

“The hidden fruit finally came to the forefront, didn’t it?” Charlotte said.

“Thank God,” he replied.

Charlotte said, ironically, “I’m not trying to conform anymore, myself.”

“I want to be different, but I’m not sure making a living is something I should ignore,” Charlotte confided, “but if I devote all my time & energy to a law practice, there won’t be anything left for myself, for my art?”

Charlotte concluded, “Working in the law won’t give me the buzz that expressing myself does, artistically.”

Gabriel said, “Stimulus doesn’t pay the bills, Charlotte;” showing, maybe a firmer understanding of economics than she gave him credit for?

“But legal expression isn’t the same,” she concluded, “As a lawyer you have to say what your client wants you to say, or what they need you to say.” “And you have to fight for causes you don’t believe in!”

“The worst is when you know your client is lying to you.” He could tell she was agitated.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Char,”

[Did Gabriel mean that he had a better grip on the art business than she did?]

He believed Charlotte’s work as an amateur laid the groundwork for a long career as a professional artist. 

“You’ve got the self-control,” continuing, “You’ll know when it’s time to quit Lawyering; the art will meet the artist, when the writer is ready.”

“Keep exploring, Char, and drink from the waters of creativity,” Gabriel seemed confident. “You’re on the right path, I'm sure of it.”

“I just read Ayn Rand, she said that art is… 'a selective re-creation of reality, according to the artist’s metaphysical value judgments'.” “Isn’t that cool?” she said. This might be where Gabriel's English language skills broke down?

“The purpose of art is to exhibit and concretely make known, the artist’s fundamental view of existence,” “which I think is so evident in your drawings, Gabriel.” He was flattered, but also flummoxed.

Charlotte: “So, the metaphysics of your designs are made within the principles of mathematics, geometry, and uniformity. The black-and-white is obvious when you look at your art; but at the same time, the art is independent of the world’s measurements and reflects your own knowledge, beliefs, feelings, and desires of how the world should be.” Gabriel was completely focused; transfixed by this brilliant woman.

Image 2018 ©Charles Crumb via Facebook

“Maybe I know more than the casual observer, but to me drawing's a means of survival,” “a way to make sense of the world, your life, how you think things should be. That which is internal still makes its way onto the canvas!” After saying so much, she was physically spent—out of breath.

Gabriel just stared at her. He didn’t know what to say. 

Most Frenchmen weren't as sapiosexual as he was at the moment.

But this vulnerability exposed him to great danger.

He felt like his skin was transparent, and she was gazing right inside: into his beating heart. 

"My art is my own language, Char; it's unconventional, but on its face it looks systematic, I know. It's learned from an apprentissage of my own mind; and a long period of experimenting, or doodling as you call it in English."

Gabriel proudly finished his speech:  "I don't know if it's capital-A art; but it's neither a sob story, nor a confidential whisper. You're correct, Charlotte, my art is a translation of my personal life into visual terms. As weird as that looks."

Image 2018 ©Charles Crumb via Facebook

(Fair use of copyrighted work shown herein above is not an infringement of copyright law, 17 USC  Sec.107)

##

The video I'm posting to celebrate Part VIII is one of the sweetest love songs I've ever heard, slow dance: #TupeloHoney

https://youtu.be/3DbTIKHYwog

_______________________________________________________________________________

Fiction ©Mark H. Pillsbury

Legal disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. 

Why We Must Struggle

If we have not struggled
as hard as we can
at our strongest,
how will we sense
the shape of our losses
or know what sustains
us longer or name
what change costs us,
saying how strange
it is that one sector
of the self can step in
for another in trouble,
how loss activates
a latent double, how
we can feed
as upon nectar
upon need?

Excerpt from Say Uncle, copyright ©1991by Kay Ryan

(Dedicated to my thinking friends in the HPHS Class of 1983)

Part II: Tribute to the lost firefighters of 9/11, continued... second installment:

[Author's note: the first installment of my fictional 9/11 series was written 18-months ago, but listening to Brene Brown, and a trip to New York prompted more writing about the family O'Keafe. Although the tragic events of September 11th are painfully true, everything written below is fiction]

[any connection to deceased is coincidental and not meant as a truthful reference]

Escape

Out on the lake, in this pristine state park, Michael cleared his head. Fishing pulled his dad out of his comfort zone, onto a battlefield without sure footing. Whether the quiet nature of the sport, or the serene isolation of this oasis, Michael’s excursion into the suburbs today reminded him of Tim McGraw’s song: Live like he was dyin’ “All of a sudden goin’ fishin’ wasn’t such an imposition.” Michael could see things as they are (or were) meant to be seen on this clear September morning. (see previous post, September 10, 2011; a bad day fishing...) http://rostranovum.blogspot.com/2011/09/my-9-11-tribute-in-fiction.html

Unfortunately today he confronted the rawness and ugliness his father showed him over the years. A constant, intimidating flow of his upbringing’s lifeblood, gave course to fear and spread the worst contagion a parent bestows upon his children, that which is called shame. Today Mike felt strong enough to “feel,” down to the core, being open to joy and pain; most importantly owning all the shame poured over him through the years.

Shame wasn't exactly overt in his home, but it represented a strong O’Keafe family value. It wreaks more damage than a viral outbreak, because shame says to an immature child that you are not loved or lovable unless you meet often sensible, yet arbitrary expectations of the parent. Shame makes a kid feel small. Its potent sting paralyzes creativity and its anguishing power overcomes even the strongest-willed child.

Shame stunts in a child the ability to learn self-compassion because it is graceless, watchful, and critical; outweighing any compliment with a deluge of correction. Michael realized that Jim O’Keafe’s standards were held up, idolized, and projected upon his children; and to those who could not reach them; well, they were de-valued and unfit. As Michael engaged in this session alone with his thoughts on the lake, the engine off and no wind to drift the boat; his mind wandered off while watching the end of his line for tugs:

“Why didn't I study art in college?" he thought, "At least, then dropping-out would've been for the honor of art and not because I skipped too many classes, failed too many tests?” The pursuit of art slipped away from Michael once enrolled in the Fireman Academy, even though his dream of painting with oil and watercolor lived vividly in his subconscious. During unhurried, deliberate days filled with slow creativity, not rushed by pursuit of disaster; Michael expressed himself carefully, with great fulfillment. Did he become a fireman for the same reason his brother did, because their father willed them into the inferno?

Grieving his dreams became more important than catching fish today.

Existing in warm California, not New York; his fantasy artist life reflected a contemplative environment reduced to the priority of communicating the struggle and strength of life on canvas or paper. He taught art at a Junior College to make a living, but spent most of his hours pensive, smocked, and painting. Despite his love for impressionists his painting conveyed a sharp realism. He visualized and illustrated “real things” with an eye for natural beauty.

“I love to include enough detail so that the inquisitive mind must take apart the pieces of the scene like a puzzle,” Michael told his brother Patrick sometimes when they would talk during one of his exhibits, “The natural world is so complex, even without humans in my paintings; sometimes it’s beyond the viewer’s skill to unravel it?” Michael continued passionately, “I relish that difficulty, that tension; it is a big part of my fascination with art’s mystery.”

Jung said, “Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment and especially on their children than the unlived life of the parent;” as I sit here today, I believe my family denied me the freedom to describe, analyze, and interpret art, or life, for that matter. I did what I was told, mostly; even to the point of enrolling in the Fireman Academy; however, art, or the pursuit of art, saved me.

Michael believes his art is a creek or stream off of a mighty tributary called vulnerability. Art’s headwaters are from an energetic source which generates creative channels of light and life, but vulnerability is the courage to engage in all of life, whether good or bad, fortunate or dreadful. Today, on this lake, he is dealing with his upbringing, relationships with father and brother, and even the unfulfilled dreams of a thirty-something fireman from New York City. He sits serenely, the water laps against the boat.

Suddenly, Michael snapped out of his dream when a silver American Airlines jumbo-jet roared overhead flying low along the Hudson River, very close to Harriman Park. So close to the ground he saw the red glow of the turbo-jet engines; this airliner seemed to be racing too fast for a typical coast-to-coast journey of a jumbo-jet coming out of JFK. It pointed southward toward the city, rather than rising ascendant to a normal cruising altitude. His gut wrenched while his mind puzzled; Michael immediately thought of his brother Patrick J. O’Keafe, strangely absent from this fishing trip and now at the center of Michael’s consciousness watching the silver bullet speed toward Manhattan. (to be continued...)

©Mark H. Pillsbury