shopping trip, I walked over the hill and knocked on her door with that in mind.
“Hold on …,” I heard.
“It’s Gus,” I called through the glass panes, watching her emerge from the kitchen, a dishtowel in her hand. She wore a dress, as she always seemed to do, this one pale blue, and glasses, great round ones with black rims. They were large enough that they might have looked ridiculous, but instead, by contrast they made the delicacy of her features even finer. She had lipstick on, a bright coral, something I found vaguely disconcerting since she had been alone.
Once I knew she’d seen that it was me, I tried to open the door, but it was locked.
“Hang on,” she said, turning one knob and then another. “How nice of you to come by.” To my surprise, she leaned to kiss my cheek. I wondered if any of the coral had stayed on me.
“It’s been three days since I did any dishes.” She folded the towel. “It’s tricky living by oneself, isn’t it? You think there’s nothing to clean, no one to do it for, and the next thing you know, there are fruit flies everywhere.”
“Oddly enough, I’ve never lived alone.” I was wondering whether I too would keep my doors locked in broad daylight, if I did.
“Well, I never had either, until I left Paul, but now I do, blissfully so, except for missing Nora. And the odd touch of loneliness, now and then. Which will get some relief when she visits.” Shesmiled, delight at the thought immediately evident. “Are you here for a reason? Have I been too loud?” she joked.
“Yes, that’s it,” I said, looking around. “Too many wild parties.” In the time since our dinner there, she had made the house seem much more like a home. There were books in the bookshelves, throw rugs on the floor. “No, I just came by to say hello, to see how you’re settling in.”
“Shall we sit out back?” She shook out, then refolded the towel as she spoke. “A bit early for drinks, but I could brew some coffee …”
I noticed a narrow streak of paint, yellow paint, on her arm.
“Actually,” I said, “I would love … if you feel comfortable … I would love to see your paintings.”
“Ah.” Her sudden nervousness was visible, as was her quick resolve. “Well, in that case, why don’t we head upstairs?”
T he work reminded me of Beatrix Potter right away. Not Potter’s bunnies and mice, but her botanicals. They were watercolors, gouaches, and some ink drawings, works only a scientist could do. Or anyway, the mind that could paint plants and minuscule parts of plants at this level of scrutiny and detail was a mind that would also be drawn to scientific studies. Though Alison was no miniaturist. That was inherent in the impact the paintings had. They were enormous, the petal of a flower spanning two feet. Nature writ large. But they weren’t wholly clinical. There was something oddly affectionate to them, which was perhaps what brought Potter to mind. The focus loving rather than cold, despite the obvious scientific bent. The mood warm, rather than grand.
“They’re wonderful,” I said, meaning it—and relieved. “And to think that you called my work precise!”
“Well, I make tiny things huge. You paint such tiny details. Different kinds of precision, I suppose.” She walked around theroom, touching the canvases. Still nervous. On a long, narrow table half a dozen microscopes sat, lined up beside another row, jars with flowers and leaves in every one. “I’m just an amateur, I know. But I do so love doing it.”
“If you sell me a painting, you won’t be an amateur.”
She laughed. “No, I think then I become a dilettante. And you become an enabler. But you know what I mean. I’m not a trained artist.”
“Maybe not, but you’re obviously a trained something. Observer. Which is more than half the battle. And I barely am either—only a few college courses ahead of you, I’m sure. We’re all faking it half the time, don’t you think?”
“Hold on …,” I heard.
“It’s Gus,” I called through the glass panes, watching her emerge from the kitchen, a dishtowel in her hand. She wore a dress, as she always seemed to do, this one pale blue, and glasses, great round ones with black rims. They were large enough that they might have looked ridiculous, but instead, by contrast they made the delicacy of her features even finer. She had lipstick on, a bright coral, something I found vaguely disconcerting since she had been alone.
Once I knew she’d seen that it was me, I tried to open the door, but it was locked.
“Hang on,” she said, turning one knob and then another. “How nice of you to come by.” To my surprise, she leaned to kiss my cheek. I wondered if any of the coral had stayed on me.
“It’s been three days since I did any dishes.” She folded the towel. “It’s tricky living by oneself, isn’t it? You think there’s nothing to clean, no one to do it for, and the next thing you know, there are fruit flies everywhere.”
“Oddly enough, I’ve never lived alone.” I was wondering whether I too would keep my doors locked in broad daylight, if I did.
“Well, I never had either, until I left Paul, but now I do, blissfully so, except for missing Nora. And the odd touch of loneliness, now and then. Which will get some relief when she visits.” Shesmiled, delight at the thought immediately evident. “Are you here for a reason? Have I been too loud?” she joked.
“Yes, that’s it,” I said, looking around. “Too many wild parties.” In the time since our dinner there, she had made the house seem much more like a home. There were books in the bookshelves, throw rugs on the floor. “No, I just came by to say hello, to see how you’re settling in.”
“Shall we sit out back?” She shook out, then refolded the towel as she spoke. “A bit early for drinks, but I could brew some coffee …”
I noticed a narrow streak of paint, yellow paint, on her arm.
“Actually,” I said, “I would love … if you feel comfortable … I would love to see your paintings.”
“Ah.” Her sudden nervousness was visible, as was her quick resolve. “Well, in that case, why don’t we head upstairs?”
T he work reminded me of Beatrix Potter right away. Not Potter’s bunnies and mice, but her botanicals. They were watercolors, gouaches, and some ink drawings, works only a scientist could do. Or anyway, the mind that could paint plants and minuscule parts of plants at this level of scrutiny and detail was a mind that would also be drawn to scientific studies. Though Alison was no miniaturist. That was inherent in the impact the paintings had. They were enormous, the petal of a flower spanning two feet. Nature writ large. But they weren’t wholly clinical. There was something oddly affectionate to them, which was perhaps what brought Potter to mind. The focus loving rather than cold, despite the obvious scientific bent. The mood warm, rather than grand.
“They’re wonderful,” I said, meaning it—and relieved. “And to think that you called my work precise!”
“Well, I make tiny things huge. You paint such tiny details. Different kinds of precision, I suppose.” She walked around theroom, touching the canvases. Still nervous. On a long, narrow table half a dozen microscopes sat, lined up beside another row, jars with flowers and leaves in every one. “I’m just an amateur, I know. But I do so love doing it.”
“If you sell me a painting, you won’t be an amateur.”
She laughed. “No, I think then I become a dilettante. And you become an enabler. But you know what I mean. I’m not a trained artist.”
“Maybe not, but you’re obviously a trained something. Observer. Which is more than half the battle. And I barely am either—only a few college courses ahead of you, I’m sure. We’re all faking it half the time, don’t you think?”
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