Finding Jim (32 page)

“Okay, you have three minutes.”

Scratching. Paper rustling. Some groans. For a few seconds my pencil hovers over the paper because I am not sure. Time is wasting and finally I think what the hell and start to draw. I get a bit of an endorphin rush. When time is up, I flip back to my original drawing and compare it to the blind one and have a good chuckle. I am learning to be brave, to be less perfect. Feel the fear and do it anyway.

The next pose is seven minutes, and I use the time to add as much detail as I can. My figure looks like a woman, and I lean back so that my drawing is in full view.

“All right, now you have another seven minutes to do the same drawing but with your opposite hand.” Groans. Several minutes in, most people are laughing. I catch myself with my tongue half out of my mouth, concentrating. The instructor asks us to display both drawings on the wall side by side. I rub my earring between my thumb and forefinger as I silently compare and critique. My right-hand drawing is anatomically correct and my eye recognizes it as a naked woman reclining. I am satisfied. My left-hand drawing does not look anatomically correct. The bum and thighs on which her weight sits are much too large. But the more I look, the more I like the left-hand drawing. It feels less sterile, more alive. The figure is distorted and by no means perfect, but I relate to it more as a human being. I stare at the drawings on the wall after the class has returned to their seats. Why is the more perfect one less appealing, less alive? Perfect is good, isn't it?

A lively discussion ensues in response to Rembrandt's statement on drawing, which is that physical likeness is recognized and appreciated by the masses because it perpetuates the illusion that we are all separate, perfect, independent beings. But one of the most important roles of art is that it reveals truth: we are all connected; we are not perfect; we are not the most important in the universe. This can be a disturbing truth. An artist distorts in order to find this truth. But first the artist must know the truth. You have to know and understand something in order to let it go.

I fill two pages of my artist journal with notes.

Voices rise and fall with the opinions of the group, and I raise my hand several times. After I reread my notes, I bow my head and slump my shoulders. You have to know and understand something in order to let it go. I knew Jim. I understood him. But can I face the truth so that I can let him be dead?

In my perfect memory, Jim was perfect and we were perfect together. Being perfect makes me lovable. If I remember the argument where Jim called me a bitch and asked, “Do we need to split for awhile?” If I include the image of Jim yanking me to my feet when he lost his temper after I'd bugged him just a bit too much. If I uncover the conversation of me crying and leaning on Jim for support when I felt insecure. If I reveal these imperfections, people will be appalled at the real me.

Jim courses through my veins, but I can only paint part of him. And so I can only let part of him be dead. And I can only paint part of me so only part of me can be alive.

People judge my recovery by how much I move on, let go of my old life, of Jim. New job, new place to live, new puppy, new relationship. I crave external praise and reinforcement so that I know I will be okay. How can I move on and take Jim with me? I will try to repaint Jim in my mind and in my heart as “dead Jim,” not “alive Jim.” But how the hell do I do that?

When the cathedral bells clang the next morning, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. My irrational, deeply ingrained belief is that if I paint my imperfections, people will not love me. And what if I paint something incredible? Then what? It's almost as scary. I skip yoga and dress for a day off. No painting class today.

At the American University, one block from my apartment, an expert offers a seminar on wines from Bordeaux and the Rhône. Cathleen, Jennifer and I sit in the classroom along with 75 other students, mostly younger. The hum of chatter eases when the middle-aged Frenchman at the front of the room turns his ample nose to his audience to introduce himself. He moves with the calm enthusiasm of someone fully engaged in his job. His even tone and odd, innocent humour remind me of l'Inspecteur Jacques Clouseau in
The
Pink Panther
.

He holds the foot of a glass and swirls the wine before inserting his whole nose into the glass and then gulps a mouthful and swishes it around, almost like mouthwash. You must hold it in your mouth for at least 10 seconds. The first flavour is called
l'attaque
. After four or five seconds,
l'évolution
develops. The third flavour hits after eight seconds and is labelled
la finale.
Then you swallow. The fourth and final flavour comes after you swallow and is called
la persistance
. Seventy-five novices mimic his actions: lift, smell, swirl, taste and burst into a babble of commentary.

After the fourth tasting, the lecturer raises his voice considerably to get the audience's attention. Cathleen, Jennifer and I stumble off to dinner at a Moroccan restaurant.

The maître d' shows us to an inner courtyard lit by candles, surrounded by lush greenery. Elbows on the starched white tablecloth, we gaze at the stars and giggle when the waiter comments on our beauty. My thoughts race to interlock with theirs as we talk about creativity, writing and the relationship of art to all things. Four hours pass easily as the wine makes us friendly. Jennifer talks of a potential boyfriend who will visit; Cathleen talks of her husband, who is in Spain; and I listen and ask questions. My body is warm with wine, and even though I think I know what is coming and I try to steer the conversation, the drunk part of me thinks Bring it on, I can take it.

Cathleen veers off in a surprise direction.

She leans forward and rolls the beads of her necklace between her fingers, looks both ways as if she is going to cross a street and lowers her voice. “You guys might think this is crazy, but I feel something in my apartment, a presence, and some stuff has happened.”

“What do you mean?” Jennifer and I both lean forward.

“There is this covering on my skylight and it moves at night, on its own. There's no wind or anything. And I just feel as if I am not alone there.” She sits up and picks up her fork.

“Are you scared?” My skin prickles and I rub my forearms.

“At first, yes. But it doesn't feel like a scary energy.” She raises her eyebrows and nods her head. She is so beautiful, so openhearted, I want to believe everything she says. Jennifer adds her own ghost story. It feels risky talking about ghosts. I have my own ghosts. There is a pause as we drink and eat and ponder. Here it goes, I think to myself.

“I don't know if I believe in ghosts, but I believe in something spiritual.” I look down before continuing. “I was married to a wonderful man. His name was Jim. He was killed in an avalanche four years ago.” I shove these sentences out and wait as they fall with a thud on Cathleen and Jennifer. Wide eyes. Horror. Hand covers mouth in shock. I don't like to be the bearer of bad news. I shift in my seat.

“I'm so sorry. That is awful.” Cathleen has tears in her eyes. Jennifer's mouth quivers.

“Thank you.” I'm learning to say thank you and move on. “So, I understand when you talk of seeing ghosts, because I feel Jim, his energy. I believe when you connect with someone you share some of his or her energy. A channel opens and there's a flow, an exchange that is vital for life.” I take a breath and sneak a peek at their warm, open faces. Encouraged, I keep talking. “The more you connect with people and nature, the more your spirit lives on. Jim was a very connected guy. He was a good guy.” I finish my speech, clear my throat and wait.

“So, how are you doing now? Have you met anyone else?” Cathleen looks at me with hopeful eyes. I feel my body start to float, but I expose more anyway.

“I was seeing this other fellow, Scott, for two years. He's a mountain guide like Jim was. He asked me to marry him last summer.” I pause here because their faces light up. “But then at Christmas he got cold feet and we went our separate ways.” Their faces fall again.

A minute passes as all of these feelings bounce around between us and find a place. I bend over my stewed lamb and couscous. It's uncomfortable at first to peel back onion layers. But as you get used to being connected to someone more deeply, a tenderness develops in the relationship. Cathleen, Jennifer and I venture to the next level.

The next morning, I walk to the weekly
marché
where stalls fill the cobbled square. The smells hint at where I am before I've arrived: the meaty smokiness of the sausage stall where oblong casings hang from above like a fringe framing the smiling white-aproned vendor, who balances a fresh sample between his thumb and a sharp knife. The earthy, humid, sweet lingering of the fruit and vegetable stand where the plump, ruddy-faced farmer's wife convinces me to buy the best field strawberries ever. The pungent, salty assault of fish at the slippery seafood section, where a man dressed in waterproof overalls sprays the floor with a hose regularly. The sweaty-sock smell of fresh cheeses. Within half an hour, little plastic bags hang from my arms like Christmas-tree ornaments.

Back at my apartment, I survey my loot and consult the cookbook I've just bought,
The Best of Mediterranean Cooking
. On the counter, I line up the main characters: egg, eggplant and onion. Cathleen and Jennifer will arrive for dinner at 7 p.m. I hum as I cook, and when the dish is ready, I play guitar and sing until my guests arrive.

On Sunday I force myself to meditate, do yoga and write before I pull on my stretchy capri climbing pants and a tank top. In my knapsack, I stuff a windbreaker, a water bottle, snacks, money and sunscreen. The local climbing group is waiting outside their clubhouse on the other side of town. Inside my head I practise my French greetings. I'm quite fluent in French, but I am nervous. I coach myself. Good for me – I found some people I can go climbing with. I'm stepping out. That's brave.

“
Bonjour. Comment ça va? Je m'appelle Sue
.” I set my pack down to shake hands. The two fellows are in their late 20s. Gérard is a clean-cut, motorcycle-riding accountant who started out training sled dogs and Michel is a gentle, brown-eyed architect who smiles shyly when he grips my hand. Christine shakes my hand vigorously, “
Bonjour, bonjour
.” Her green eyes sparkle and her spiky blonde hair does a jig. Her leg muscles bulge under her skintight climbing shorts. As we drive to the climbing crag, they burst into laughter every few minutes. Pretty easy audience. I relax into my seat and do my best to follow the quick dialogue. When they speak to me directly, they speak more slowly.

We arrive at the treed river that borders the smooth, steep gorge known as Chateauvert. Climbers dot the rock face like coat hooks. My palms sweat; I run my tongue along my lips. At the base of the climb, we sit on boulders in the dust to yank on our snug climbing shoes. Climbers call in French to the right and to the left of us. I stand up to buckle my harness, my “natural laxative.” My bowels rumble from the impending fear. The rest of the group laughs at some joke.

I breathe deeply when Gérard hands me the sharp end of the rope and asks if I want to lead. I ask to borrow a helmet. More laughter. Apparently helmets are not à la mode. I hand the sharp end back and tie the other end to my harness. I'll belay. Gérard squeezes my
mousqueton
(carabiner) to make sure it is locked and I file the new word. As he labours up the face and reaches the hardest move, the crux (named after
le crucifix
), I call encouragement.

“
Je suis vaché
,” he cries, which I learn means exhausted. I use the term frequently that day. The rope goes taut, and it is my turn. I rub my hands together to dry the sweat, double-check my tie-in and place my hands on the warm rock. Breathe. The trillions of grains of sand and water that have formed the rock push strength into my limbs. “
Je grimpe
!” I call out as I leave the ground.

At the crux, my arms burn and fear takes over. What if I fall?

“
Vas-y
,” Gérard cheers with a grin. His spirit feels so light that I finish the climb. Up and down we go all morning. I even lead a pitch sans helmet, and sweat puddles in my cleavage. At lunch we wade into the river and float in an eddy, spouting water
comme des
baleines
. After a siesta under the willow trees, we walk to the nearby château for ice cream.
Vachée
from a morning of climbing, I take a long break in the shade and paint. At 9 p.m. we pack up our climbing gear and head home.

Good for me.

Tomorrow we begin to paint in class.

“Van Gogh copied the masters' paintings for 12 years before he adopted his own style. Today, you will copy a master.” The art teacher motions to a cupboard full of poster art prints. I choose to copy Paul Cézanne's rendition of Mont Sainte-Victoire, done right out the back door. My perfectly detailed, perfectly mountain-like pencil drawing peeks at me from my sketchbook. It takes another hour to transfer the sketch to my larger canvas. Oil colours ring my palette, waiting. I jerk the flat palette knife from one primary colour to the next, mixing. All of nature is made up of red, blue and yellow in different combinations. Sunset, sunrise, autumn leaves, Mediterranean Sea. Everything. Several times my brush ventures to the canvas, but it never makes contact. I huff, wheeze, cock my head from side to side, back up to get a different perspective.

Like a jittery hen scratching in the dirt, I swipe at the canvas. Too dark. Try again. Still too dark. In one hand I hold a rag that threatens to smudge my strokes, in the other my brush floats in the air, pecking every so often. Most people have painted at least half of their canvas. I breathe faster and slap my brush down on the palette, push my hands across my apron and flop back against the chair.

Cézanne's painting stands regally beside my pitiful attempt. His Mont Sainte-Victoire is faithful to nature in its colour relationships and full of his own expression – balanced, peaceful and harmonious. Mine looks like crap – broken, divided, incomplete. Is that who I am? Broken? Fearful? Full of pain? I grit my teeth and think of ways to hide my mountain, to destroy it. I want to cover it up or throw paint at it. What am I angry at? The mountain? For killing Jim?