Read Online Nothing is Black by Deirdre Madden - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Deirdre Madden
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arts were inferior to literature. In reply, she would accuse him of despising his own gifts. Images could never have the precision of language, that had been his main argument. That was what she disliked about words, she thought they lacked subtlety. She refused to believe that by writing about apples you could ever say much about things that weren’t apples, but when you looked at a Cézanne painting of a bowl of fruit, it expressed knowledge of other things – mortality, tenderness, beauty – in a way that was only possible without words. Markus claimed this was pure emotionalism.
‘You only think that because you’re afraid of your emotions,’ she’d replied.
‘Better that than be a slave to them,’ he said.
‘You must respond to art with your nerves and your heart,’ she insisted. ‘When you look at a painting, you should feel something. If not, then there’s something amiss.’
She wondered what he would think of the work she was doing now, so different to what she had been doing when she knew him. She thought he would like it. People used to say to Claire that she had ‘mellowed’ since college. It used to annoy her, for she didn’t believe that it was meant as a compliment, and suspected it was just a sly accusation of softness and loss of energy. She had certainly changed, though, that she would never have denied. Alice had been largely responsible for that, just through Claire having known her.
It hadn’t been an easy friendship. Lots of other students had found it impossible to get along with Alice, she’d been so frank and direct. Claire had admired her even when she hadn’t always agreed with her, or even liked her. Alice might have been hard on other people, but she was harder still on herself. Her aesthetics and morality, her political and religious views were all carefully thought through and were not open to compromise . The idea of saying something just to please someone else, or to spare their feelings would have struck her as bizarre. Holding an opinion simply because it was in vogue was unthinkable. It was only by knowing someone of such relentless integrity that Claire had come to learn how rare a thing it was, and how often social pressure influenced not only what people said, but even what they thought. She realized that she, too, often went with the prevailing opinions through lazy-mindedness, or worse, want of courage. And courage was something Alice had never lacked. She was, without doubt, the bravest person Claire had ever known, and she’d had a relish for life that Claire, when she first knew her, had rather resented. No, be honest, she’d been jealous of her, for her wit and energy. And her talent, yes, that above all. Alice had been a confident, gifted painter. Looking at her work in the studio Claire had known Alice was a better painter than she would ever be. She’d felt jealous, and realizing that made her feel small-minded. It was a long time before she could admire her work freely and honestly. She’d bought from her the painting which now hung in her sitting room. Alice said she could have it if she wanted it, but Claire had insisted on paying. She’d taken it everywhere withher, and it was a touchstone from which she could draw strength, and realize the need for compassion.
Alice’s background was similar to Claire’s, having grown up on a farm in Roscommon, but Claire could never understand how she could have come so far so fast. She seemed to have freed herself from her society at a remarkably early age. Like Claire, she had gone to the local convent school; unlike Claire, her rebellion against the religion she had instilled into her was not just a poorly thought-out reaction against authority, but a considered and deeply held position from which she would not be budged. While Claire thought there could be some value in religious ritual, Alice had dismissed it. ‘All or nothing. You’re just afraid.’ She considered that death was the end, and meant
‘You only think that because you’re afraid of your emotions,’ she’d replied.
‘Better that than be a slave to them,’ he said.
‘You must respond to art with your nerves and your heart,’ she insisted. ‘When you look at a painting, you should feel something. If not, then there’s something amiss.’
She wondered what he would think of the work she was doing now, so different to what she had been doing when she knew him. She thought he would like it. People used to say to Claire that she had ‘mellowed’ since college. It used to annoy her, for she didn’t believe that it was meant as a compliment, and suspected it was just a sly accusation of softness and loss of energy. She had certainly changed, though, that she would never have denied. Alice had been largely responsible for that, just through Claire having known her.
It hadn’t been an easy friendship. Lots of other students had found it impossible to get along with Alice, she’d been so frank and direct. Claire had admired her even when she hadn’t always agreed with her, or even liked her. Alice might have been hard on other people, but she was harder still on herself. Her aesthetics and morality, her political and religious views were all carefully thought through and were not open to compromise . The idea of saying something just to please someone else, or to spare their feelings would have struck her as bizarre. Holding an opinion simply because it was in vogue was unthinkable. It was only by knowing someone of such relentless integrity that Claire had come to learn how rare a thing it was, and how often social pressure influenced not only what people said, but even what they thought. She realized that she, too, often went with the prevailing opinions through lazy-mindedness, or worse, want of courage. And courage was something Alice had never lacked. She was, without doubt, the bravest person Claire had ever known, and she’d had a relish for life that Claire, when she first knew her, had rather resented. No, be honest, she’d been jealous of her, for her wit and energy. And her talent, yes, that above all. Alice had been a confident, gifted painter. Looking at her work in the studio Claire had known Alice was a better painter than she would ever be. She’d felt jealous, and realizing that made her feel small-minded. It was a long time before she could admire her work freely and honestly. She’d bought from her the painting which now hung in her sitting room. Alice said she could have it if she wanted it, but Claire had insisted on paying. She’d taken it everywhere withher, and it was a touchstone from which she could draw strength, and realize the need for compassion.
Alice’s background was similar to Claire’s, having grown up on a farm in Roscommon, but Claire could never understand how she could have come so far so fast. She seemed to have freed herself from her society at a remarkably early age. Like Claire, she had gone to the local convent school; unlike Claire, her rebellion against the religion she had instilled into her was not just a poorly thought-out reaction against authority, but a considered and deeply held position from which she would not be budged. While Claire thought there could be some value in religious ritual, Alice had dismissed it. ‘All or nothing. You’re just afraid.’ She considered that death was the end, and meant
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