Hello my sweet dears who are kind enough to follow this blog. I'm ready to write another build-a-story, but this time I'm going to post the request for story elements here.
So I'll take the first three thrown at me in comments on this post. Then I will edit this post to put the story in when it is done.
I take it as a very good sign for my mental state that I able to write so much, I may be getting back to my books soon... which is good... and bad. Good because I need to finish them, my few select readers really want to read them, and I miss my characters, but bad because I don't usually write build-a-story stories when I'm working on a book.
Anyhoo, next story is up to you!
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Okay here it is! I was so excited I wrote the whole thing already. I'll have to get started on character out lines for a new book now, bwahahaha!
Build-a-story 10, 11/23 through 11/25/11
Blog Follower submitted elements:
A unique wedding ring
An enchanted building
A bird of paradise flower
The Husband and His Bride
The first time he saw it he thought it was some trick of the light or a butterfly flitting among the bird of paradise flowers. What he saw was no butterfly, but Nathan Roe wouldn’t know that for weeks. He would never have suspected what he saw the night he had to go back for his notes was nothing of this world. No, guys like Nathan Roe didn’t even read about magic; much less allow themselves to believe in it.
That is where a lot of people go wrong these days.
Thus it was that the second time he caught the plants watching him he thought it was the first time he had ever seen a plant move so quickly, with the exception of a Venus fly trap, everyone knows they move quickly. Petunias though, petunias aren’t supposed to move hardly at all and yet he could have sworn he saw one shudder as he turned away.
Odd, so very odd, he thought, as there was no wind here in University Greenhouse 7; no wind, hardly any insects, certainly no rodents, just soil, plants, fertilizer, equipment and the occasional person. Perhaps the bloom had been caught and suddenly became unstuck as it moved to follow the fading summer light. Yes that had to be it, he decided, without allowing himself to see that nothing was close enough to the bloom for it to have been stuck upon.
Sometimes people are just too reasonable. Perhaps if Nathan Roe had been a bit less reasonable he would not have become entangled in such a sad situation as he found himself in. Perhaps if he had been an art major, or less analytical of mind, certain unpleasantness could have been avoided. However, he being who he is, anyone can see how his own nature was the real root of his soon to be problem.
He left University Greenhouse 7 that evening and walked towards the main campus, intent on a light supper and a few hours with his notes. There was hardly anyone about, as it was summer session and those who did remain at school for the summer usually found other things to do with their Friday evenings. Nathan Roe was just not that kind of guy though, and so he was alone on the path, all except a pretty young blonde who was coming the opposite direction with some urgency in her step.
“Oh I am so glad I caught you,” she said, doing just that to Nathan Roe’s arm. He looked up in surprise, not having noticed her presence among so many pressing horticultural thoughts.
“Can I help you?” he asked automatically as he tried to place the somewhat familiar face. Classes had just resumed for the summer, and Nathan Roe, graduate student and favorite of the department, had three classes of names and faces to match up before he graded finals. She must be one of my students, he decided.
In truth she was, she had been in class with him just today, and she revealed the matter that was so pressing as to bring her to this remote section of campus on such a beautiful summer evening. “I think I left my notebook in 7 today,” she said. “I simply can’t do my assignment without it, can I bother you to let me back in for a moment?”
“Certainly I can, eh…” he paused in his reply as his hand searched his pocket for the keys.
“Ann, Ann Wilson,” she supplied with a relieved look on her face. Ann Wilson was under the impression that such an important person would have plans for his evening, and that she was possibly delaying him from meeting a girlfriend, though of course she was entirely wrong on that count. Nathan Roe didn’t have girlfriends, he hardly had friends, and all of the friends he did have had other titles attached to their names, like Dean, and Professor, and such. He had a few acquaintances with whom he got along well, but unlike Nathan Roe, they had things they did with people on Friday evening.
Being exactly the kind of person he was Nathan Roe didn’t offer up much conversation as they walked the short distance back to University Greenhouse 7, and this left poor Ann Wilson feeling a bit censured for being so forgetful. Contrary to her own self-incriminations, her mind had been quite worthily engaged at the moment she forgot her notebook. It wasn’t focused on the notebook, but it had been engaged in other things, like wondering why the sunflower seemed to be tilted a little bit in towards the class instead of fully facing the sun, and why the bird of paradise flowers were twisted so on their stalk when it would be more natural for them to face another way. You see, Ann Wilson, though a sophomore, was a bit more observant than the much lauded graduate student who taught the class she attended on Friday afternoons. She just wasn’t the most observant when it came to the location of her things.
“I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you,” she said timidly as they approached the bit of sidewalk that led off the main walk and to the door of University Greenhouse 7.
“No bother,” he said, and though his voice was genuine it was also a little surprised to have been apologized to. After all, leaving a notebook was something that happened often to busy University students, and certainly nothing that needed to be apologized for. After all he had done the same thing about two weeks before. “It happens all the time,” he added, noticing the tenseness around the eyes behind those heavy rimmed glasses.
She smiled, and for the first time Nathan Roe really looked at Ann Wilson. He wasn’t sure if it was the beauty of her smile or the startling hue of her green eyes, but something about her caused an unfamiliar excitement to squeeze his chest. He forgot himself for a moment, standing motionless and smiling back at her when he should have been inserting the key in the lock. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, thumping like he was facing a final he wasn’t prepared for.
Ann Wilson was more cognizant of the passing of the seconds, but unlike Nathan Roe she had just enough fantasy in her soul to enjoy them instead of being confused by them. She enjoyed the lingering gaze of his eyes, which were as dark a brown as rich loam. She liked the hesitancy in his smile, guessing correctly that it wasn’t often shared, and therefore she found it all the more worthy of earning.
Thus favorably employed Ann Wilson let the moments tick by, not breaking the gaze and letting her own heart count out the value of the moment. It was a fifty heartbeat moment. In the more evenly measured human seconds Nathan Roe could not tear his eyes from her face for a full thirty seconds.
When Nathan Roe did finally manage to think well enough to realize he was staring, and smiling, he blushed deeply and turned his attention to sliding the key into the lock. He opened the door silently and they proceeded across the threshold and through the hanging plastic barrier that protected the carefully controlled climate of University Greenhouse 7. As the plastic fell behind them all trace of the color drained from Nathan Roe’s face.
The flurry of motion could not be ignored or excused this time. The branches of the trees snapped upward, when they had been nearly touching the flowers below. The flowers quickly arranged themselves, like children caught playing after the bell. The needles on the cactus quivered as it twisted back into place. The ivy rustled as it climbed back up the wall with alarming speed.
Ann Wilson, as the more imaginative of the two, recovered the use of her joints before Nathan Roe did and turned to him with a gaping mouth. “Did you…” she began slowly.
“… see that?” Nathan finished for her with a bit of a quaver in his voice. He took a step backwards, shock and, indeed, fright growing on his face. “We have to get out of here,” he said taking another step backwards.
“No,” shouted the pine, and the ivy responded to the implied order with lightening speed. It launched off the wall, twisting and twining itself around the two startled humans, lashing them together until they could do not but squirm in an effort to remain upright. “They have seen too much,” the pine said, his needles at attention and moving threateningly as he turned his dark lined face towards the intruding humans.
“Time to make fertilizer out of both of them,” the cactus said, who was known to the entire greenhouse to have a very prickly personality.
“No!” both humans protested in their pronounced distress.
“No,” echoed the birch as she turned gracefully away from the west window. The soft rustling of her leaves drew every eye in the room. “How can we inflict such violence? It is not our way.”
“Besides,” tweeted a bird of paradise flower, “the small one with fair colors is kind.”
“Yes,” the sunflower agreed with his rasping voice. “She turned my pot and pruned that dead leaf that had been itching me all week.”
“I say we prune them both,” the Rosebush said, bitter after years of having her prize flowers hacked away by insensitive lovers.
“No,” whispered the tulips, more forgiving of the frequent cuttings. “The humans have cultivated us, we cannot repay them this way.”
“Sssstill, they have ssseen too much,” the ivy hissed its leave rattling menacingly around the terrified humans.
“We won’t tell!” Nathan Roe managed to squeak out through his pale lips. “No one would believe us anyway.” In truth, that no one would believe them was the thought foremost on Nathan Roe’s mind, he wasn’t sure he even believed it, even while he was living it. If he had possessed the use of his hand he would have pinched himself, or even slapped himself to get out of what he strongly suspected was a terrible dream. Instead his hands were behind Ann Wilson’s back where he had put them in an instinctive effort to protect her as the ivy attacked. Had the situation been less dire he might have been able to enjoy holding her in this way.
“Yes, we will keep your secret,” Ann Wilson agreed. “We mean you no harm.” This also was a thought very much meant, on Ann Wilson’s part. Confronted with a place of such wonder Ann Wilson’s heart felt joy mingled with the fear. Her long love of flora had often made her wish she could understand the needs of plants better, and here, here was an opportunity to learn what no Graduate Student or Professor could ever teach her. This excitement coupled with the warm presence of Nathan Roe’s tall strong body pressed to her and his long arms wrapped around her made this experience significantly less traumatic for her than him.
“They can’t be trusssted,” hissed the vine, and it squeezed its captives all the tighter, snaking tendrils up around the human’s necks. At this point Ann Wilson began to share some of Nathan Roe’s trepidation.
“That’s right,” the pine said. “They could come back and spray us all, like they do to the dandelions outside.” The pine tapped the window to remind them all of the horrors they had seen.
“But if we didn’t spray the dandelions they would kill the lawn,” Nathan Roe said out loud, though he had not meant to.
“It is not for humans to interfere in the war between the grass and the dandelions,” the oak said turning her lovely head of leaves toward the humans. “How will the grass become stronger if it is not left to its struggle?”
“You humans,” the cactus bristled. “You are destroying species after species in your quest to make us serve you better.”
“You would be better served,” the bird of paradise flower squawked, “to leave nature as it is.”
“Oh I agree,” Ann Wilson said quickly. “It is appalling the way we humans have shifted the balance of nature. You may not know this, but many of us are trying to change that.”
The birch’s leaves shivered with pleasure and she and the oak exchanged pleased looks. The pine’s eyes were squinted in distrust, but the cactus was raising one cautiously hopeful bottle-brush brow. Some of the flowers rallied to support her. “You see, we told you she was nice! Set them free, set them free!”
“Them free?” The rosebush said her branches stiffening. “Set her free perhaps, but that tall one is not to be trusted. We must protect ourselves.”
“No!” Ann Wilson begged, rather to Nathan Roe’s surprise. “The birch is right, this is not your way. You are plants, you believe in growth and reaching for the light. So does he, he is a teacher. If you spare him, and teach the teacher he can in turn influence the minds of others to respect nature. This is a great opportunity for you!”
The pine and the cactus exchanged long glances, communicating in silence the way plants had done since the dawn of time. In truth, though both had been built to survive harsh conditions and came across quite briskly, they each nursed a soft spot for a particular human, the one whom had enchanted University Greenhouse 7 long ago. While they still held such a regard for a human they could never despise all humans, and therefore Ann Wilson’s pleas did not fall on hardwood hearts, but indeed on souls that longed for light.
“She has spoken wisdom,” the oak said after a stretch of silence in which the humans hardly dared to breathe.
“Such wisdom is familiar,” the cactus said. All the enchanted plants nodded their heads, each thinking with fondness and respect the enchantress from a time long past. Many of them were too young to have known her, but her magic and tale lived on as part of their roots.
“Such wisdom is welcome,” the pine said, and not even the rosebush disagreed.
The following spring, when University Greenhouse 7 was in full bloom a large group of humans crowded in amongst the flora in residence, special guests for a special day. The last to enter was Ann Wilson, dressed in white and carrying a bouquet of roses willingly given by a dear friend.
The guests in attendance thought a breeze must have followed her in, for as soon as she entered the air was filled with petals, showered from the trees. She walked on her father’s arm, making her way slowly up the aisle to where Nathan Roe stood between the oak and the pine. Their favorite Professors filled the official capacity of witnesses, but the bride and groom knew that the most important witnesses were those silently watching, rooted to the spot with anticipation.
Ann Wilson and Nathan Roe had prepared their own vows, and after the Justice of the Peace had welcomed the assembled he allowed them to speak the words upon their hearts.
“Ann Wilson,” Nathan Roe began, his voice thick with emotion. “Since the day we met you have helped me to grow in ways I would never have imagined. You have blessed me with your intrinsic wisdom and I shall never be able to repay you. From this day forward I swear to practice the art of husbandry. To give you all the nourishment and support you need as you grow and change and fill the world with your unique gifts.” A tear rolled down his cheek, and Ann Wilson reached up to wipe it away with a tender smile.
“Nathan Roe,” she said. “I have watched you grow and change, and have loved you through every moment of it. You are sure and constant in your growth and your deep roots are a source of strength to me when the winds blow and the seasons change. Today I swear to always be near you, to cling to you and aid you as you relentlessly reach for the light.”
“The bride and groom will now exchange rings,” the Justice of the Peace said. Each of them turned away and reached into the branches of their favorite tree to remove the rings they had placed there to be blessed by the magic of this place. A jeweler had worked many long hours creating the rings, laying leaf after leaf onto the gold. He had created a set of rings as unique as the couple who had commissioned them, never understanding as he did the special meaning behind the golden leaves of ivy.
“With this vine I bind myself to you,” each said as they exchanged the metal representations of how their souls and lives had become entwined, never to be separated. Nathan Wilson-Roe pulled Ann Wilson-Roe into his arms for a lingering kiss and as the humans assembled clapped and cheered they didn’t even notice the quivering of the leaves.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Ideal
Build a story 11/10/11
I asked my friends to pick a house for me to set the story in. They chose Ideal Palace in France. I’ll let you enjoy a google image tour instead of linking you, it is a real treat for the eyes. It has a fascinating history which I tried to incorporate here. Enjoy!
Ideal
As I walked the familiar path towards my regular afternoon destination I heard a friendly honk and raised my hand in greeting before the car could even pass me by. It passed me in a moment and I could see the back of Monsieur LaRoche’s hand waving at the center of the car as the vehicle went on ahead of me down the lane. I knew most of the cars that passed this way, knew the drivers, knew where they turned off, and could usually guess where they had come from too. This was my road.
Of course I owned it no more than any other citizen of France. I didn’t even live on this road, well… not really. I lived here, but I didn’t sleep here, or get my mail here, or have any relatives with any claim to any of the houses here.
My mother, father, and I lived above my father’s bakery, in the town. Every morning we rose well before dawn to heat the ovens, form the loaves, bake the bread, open the shop, greet the patrons. It was a predictable kind of life, not the kind you ever got rich in, but the kind that kept your belly full.
When I said I lived on this road, I meant that this is where I did the thing that made my life worth waking up to every day. This was the path to my special place, my dream land. This was the road to Ideal Palace.
It’s a very well-known landmark, and anyone who lives around here can tell you how to get here. Some of them have even played tourist in their own town and come for a tour of the Ideal Palace. That was how I first came here, with my primary school class.
I’ll never forget how amazed I was with the nearly overwhelming feast of art that twisted and twined its way around Ideal Palace. There wasn’t a lonely spot or a centimeter that lacked meaning. There wasn’t a corner that was neglected or a curve that didn’t have a story to tell.
Some people who come to Ideal Palace think it is garish, too busy, or overboard, but I love every inch of it. I love the way the themes overlap and the eye has no place to settle. I love that you could look every day for a year and still not really see it all.
I passed the gates of my home-away-from-home and waved to Jacqueline who was just greeting some visitors. The visitors would pay for a tour, and they wouldn’t be disappointed. Jacqueline would be sure they got an eye full of, and an ear full about, Ideal Palace. They would leave with their minds stuffed with information… and they still wouldn’t fully understand.
I dropped a loaf of bread off in the office, then walked around the Palace until I came to the place where I had started sketching yesterday. I resumed my place, under the tree, and took out the pad of paper and pencils I brought every day it wasn’t raining. I carefully studied my work in progress, then sat staring at my subject for several minutes before I put the pencil to the paper. Slowly, carefully, I formed the curves and lines, shading and smudging to convey the layers of dimension, the depth of imagination that my hero, Ferdinand Chavel, had possessed.
I was absorbed in my work until a voice sounded out from just behind me. “You must be Gabrielle,” the young male voice said.
I jumped a little, and then worried over the damage to my drawing before worrying about who was addressing me. The smudge removed, I turned to look up at the person who had interrupted me. It was indeed a young man, perhaps a little older than me. He was handsome enough, if one went for guys with looks, but I didn’t like the way he was leaning against the tree, like he owned it, like he owned everything around him.
“I’m Neil,” he said extending a hand for me to shake.
It was then I noticed his accent, American. No wonder he acted like he owned the place. I debated on not shaking his hand, then decided against being rude and shook it as quickly as possible. Unfortunately he took it as an invitation to join me and sat down on the grass next to me and looked unabashedly at my drawing.
I quickly closed the pad and started gathering my things. If he was going to stay, I was going to leave. I hated to loose hours of good light and cut into my daily visit to paradise, but it wasn’t like I would get any work done with this strange American bothering me.
“You are really good. They told me you were, but I didn’t really believe them. Is it true you haven’t gone to art school or anything?” He asked me, though in truth it was a little hard to make out with his thick accent. It was like nails on a chalkboard to hear French spoken that way.
“I have not been to art school,” I answered in my secondary school English, which I was sure was better than his French, at least less painful to listen to. I saw him looking at the pad of paper I clutched to my chest and I clutched it all the tighter. Who was this nosey stranger and what did he want?
“Jacqueline said you come every day, that’s an admirable dedication to your art,” he said, again in French.
I’m sure I looked like I had seen him sprout two heads, as absurd as his statement was. MY art? Were we not standing on the grounds of Ideal Palace? How on earth could he talk about MY art? It was… it was sacrilege.
“Excuse me,” I said in English and then hurried away, leaving him there by the tree. I’m sure he looked confused, but in truth I don’t know for sure because I didn’t spare a glance for the bold, blonde American.
I came upon Jacqueline and her tour group. I waited for the break where she lets them approach to see the detail on the Hindu shrine and then I walked up close to her. “Pardon me, Madame,” I said to the woman who was like another mother to me, “but who is that rude American, and why does he know my name?”
“Oh that’s Neil Jacobson. He is taking his summer holiday to study Ideal Palace. He studies art in San Francisco. I told him he should watch for you to come.”
“But why?” I asked her, stunned that she would invite him to interrupt my daily pilgrimage.
She blinked in surprise at the emotion in my voice and I ducked my head, ashamed to have spoken so forcefully. “Because, Gabrielle,” she said, “if anyone knows and understands the art of Ideal Palace, it is you.” She slanted her head to the side and her expression was confused. “Did I do wrong? I didn’t think you would mind, you are always so helpful when the children’s classes come and when we have large groups…
“No, no,” I hastened to assure her, though I didn’t mean it. “You did no wrong, I was just unprepared. I wasn’t sure what he wanted… it is difficult to make out what he is saying.”
She grinned at that, “He does insist on speaking French, though my English is excellent,” she said, and without exaggeration, her English really was superb. “He says he has studied French for years and hopes to improve this summer.”
The group was ready to move on now so she directed their attention to the next section and left me to wonder what to do. I certainly couldn’t return to my work, not with that American over there to bother people. There weren’t enough visitors that Jacqueline would need any help. I stood there by the Hindu shine for a few minutes debating, and then my mind was made up for me. Neil Jacobson appeared, walking around the side of the Palace, so I turned and headed for the road.
I was halfway home before I regretted the decision. It was a fine afternoon, and I had just left the only real way to enjoy it. What was I going to do now? If I returned home early there would be questions. I didn’t want to explain to my parents why I had left early. They wouldn’t understand. They were always talking about sending me to Paris to study art, as if there was enough money in the till to cover such a wild dream. It wasn’t even my dream, it was theirs, and I wasn’t going to give them an excuse for bringing it up again.
I turned then, and pointed my feet towards the cemetery. If I couldn’t sketch the palace I would spend some time by the artist’s mausoleum. I had finished drawing it years ago, but I thought that being near his resting place might calm me. If anyone could have understood me, it was the late Monsieur Cheval.
The groundskeeper had been neglecting the mausoleum again. Grass was sprouting in the cracks. Why he found it so hard to keep the destructive plants away from the work of art I will never know, it did not take long. I got into my bag and found my scissors and then proceeded to trim the fringe of tall grass. I cut it extra short, perhaps if it took a while to grow back up again the groundskeeper would find the time to apply some herbicide.
My work done I looked at my watch and found I had passed the time quite well. If I left in ten minutes and walked slowly I would be home exactly on time. I cleaned my scissors on my jeans and then sat with my back against the twisting and curving stone I knew so well. I closed my eyes and in my heart begged Monsieur Cheval to make the rude American go away.
“Oh, hello Gabrielle,” that young male voice said.
My eyes flew open. What on earth was he doing here? Had he followed me? I stumbled to my feet and quickly crossed to my bag. I shoved the scissors inside the bag and started walking away quickly.
“Wait!” he called, “No, don’t run away again, please,” he said running after me. At least he was speaking English now. I stopped, though I did not turn to face him. Instead he circled me, placing himself between me and the cemetery exit. “Whatever I have done to offend you, I am terribly sorry,” he said.
His face looked so earnest that I felt a little sorry for him. It wasn’t really his fault, I supposed, that he had been born who he was. It wasn’t really his fault that I was who I was either. I just didn’t really want anything else in my life. Americans were supposed to be tourists, not… not people you had to really communicate with and let get to know you. I could feel my cheeks starting to burn.
“It is nothing,” I told him. “I must go home now, they are expecting me.” I went to step around him but his face was so distressed I felt like I had to add, “I will see you another time, Neil.”
“Okay,” he said a little too brightly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Gabrielle.”
I didn’t look back until I had left the cemetery and when I did he was kneeling by the tomb, examining it closely. He was writing notes and taking photos. I shook my head, how could he hope to understand art if he didn’t try to draw it?
I was a little relieved when I woke the next morning to a drizzling gray sky. I never went to Ideal Palace when it rained, so no one would think it odd that I did not go, no one but the American perhaps. I wondered if it could rain all week. Perhaps if it rained two weeks together Neil Jacobson would go home to sunny San Francisco and leave me alone.
The next day it shone bright and clear, and I lingered at my chores, setting off for Ideal Palace much later than usual. Madame LaRoche even stopped to see if I was all right. I made up a story about being extra busy today, which I hoped would satisfy her curiosity and not pique it, and told her I really preferred to walk, but thanks for the offer of a ride.
I snuck along the side of the grounds, trying to blend in with the trees and bushes until I got to the right place to resume my sketching. I had not seen a soul when I settled in at the base of the tree. I dove into my work, praying I would be un-interrupted.
It was nearly an hour before I heard footsteps and knew my solitude was over. I resolutely ignored Neil as he came over and sat next to me by the tree. It irritated me to have him looking back and forth between my drawing and the Palace, comparing, and no doubt seeing every tiny error I had made. The gall of him, coming to my home with his college art degree to critique me, Americans were so irritating.
Before long the light had shifted enough that it was time to halt my work. I closed the pad of paper and reached for my bag. It was not where my fingers grasped and I looked up to find that Neil had it slung over his shoulder, like he expected to walk with me somewhere.
“May I have my bag please?” I asked him in an overly patient voice.
“I thought I would carry it for you,” he said stepping in the direction of the office. “It’s is the gentlemanly thing to do.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, so he wouldn’t see me roll them, and then walked briskly ahead of him towards the office. I pushed the door open with a little more force than was strictly needed and then held my hand out for the return of my bag.
“Ah, Gabrielle!” Jacqueline’s husband Francis said with a smile. “I was about to send out the search party.”
“I am sorry, Monsieur Gascon,” I told him. “I came late and did not wish the miss the light.”
“It is nothing,” Jacqueline said accepting the bread from me, “as long as you are safe. Neil, you could have told us you found her.”
“I am sorry, Madame,” he said. “I was so excited to watch her work. She is almost finished with another page.”
This of course led to requests to see my still unfinished work, and as they were such close friends I felt I had to show the Gascons the latest page.
“What is this, I never noticed this,” Francis was saying, as he usually did when looking at my work. I had long ago started to wonder if he really missed so many details of the place he worked every day, or if he just did it to make me feel observant. My money was on the latter, I knew him to be a devoted curator.
“Well, I had better be going,” I told them. “I’ll be late getting back.”
“Oh we were hoping you would come to dinner,” Jacqueline said. “Neil is coming, and a few people from the historical society. You know how much it helps to have you there when there are potential patrons at the table. I meant to call you yesterday when it rained, but then a bus came and I completely forgot.”
“But,” I said looking down at my dirty jeans and tired blouse, “I am not dressed for a dinner party, Madame, I would only embarrass you. There simply isn’t time…”
“I can drive you home,” Neil said, oh-so-helpfully. “Then you can help me find my way to the Gascon’s house after you change.”
“Oh no,” I said, “My father would never approve…”
“Non-sense,” Jacqueline said waving her hand. “You are not a child any longer, you can ride a few miles with a friend. Oh please come Gabrielle,” she begged, and who can say no to Jacqueline when she begged. How else could we have gotten the donation for the replacement carpet last year? I sighed and relented.
“Pull over here,” I told him, a block from my home.
“Here?” he said, obviously scanning the shop signs for the bakery.
“Yes right here,” I told him. “I would rather not have to explain you to my parents. They read too much into everything anyway.”
He didn’t seem too happy about it but didn’t argue. “Okay, I will just run to the room I rented and I’ll meet you back here in an hour?” he asked looking at his watch.
I nodded and got out of the car, hoping none of the shopkeepers that were so chummy with my father were looking out their windows right now. I quickly crossed the side street and stepped into the bakery. The bell alerted my parents to my presence, but my mother had not risen from the back table by the time I had walked through.
“No time to talk,” I told her as I headed for the stairs. “I’ve been invited to the Gascon’s for dinner tonight with some people from the historical society.”
This was not a regular occurrence, but happened often enough that my parents did not question me about it. Jacqueline always arranged a ride for me with one of the little old ladies from the society, and I always made sure that my late night did not affect my work performance the next morning. Sometimes my parents even went out in my absence, though why they didn’t do this when I was home I will never know, I certainly could sit alone with control of the television for an evening.
I hurried through my preparations, wearing the same black dress I always wore, just selecting a different wrap and painting my nails to match it. I threw my hair up in a twist and jammed in a bunch of pins to secure it. A few wisps escaped, but I rather liked the effect so I didn’t bother to use my mother’s hairspray to try to keep them in place.
I shoved my identification and lipstick in my mother’s old clutch purse and then made my way down the stairs. I called a hasty goodbye to my parents, and yanked the door open, so they wouldn’t bother coming to see me off. I walked quickly down the block and stepped around the corner of the side street to watch for Neil’s car.
He was five minutes late, and smelled strongly of aftershave and cologne when he came around the car to let me in. I wished he hadn’t bothered with the gesture, someone was sure to notice. I ducked quickly in the car and then scanned the windows of the nearby shops as he took his time walking back around to his door. I didn’t see anyone… but that didn’t mean much.
He really didn’t know the way to the Gascon’s and I wondered how he would have fared if I hadn’t been there to direct him at every turn. He parked the car along with the others on the street, and then hurried around to open my door. I decided not to let him do it this time, and then pretended not to see the perturbed look on his face when all that was left for him to do was close the door of the rental car.
He offered me an arm, but I again pretended not to notice. I didn’t know why he was treating this like some kind of date, because it certainly wasn’t. As far as I was concerned if he wanted a French summer love story to take home with him he needed to start looking somewhere else immediately.
Jacqueline looked stunning as she greeted us at the door. By now she had figured out my alternating wrap trick and complimented me on how this one brought out my eyes. I didn’t know how a red wrap was supposed to make my plain old brown eyes look better, but I smiled and accepted the compliment anyway.
Neil, of course, had to be introduced to everyone, and for some reason Francis thought the job was best given to me. I tried to keep a respectable distance between the American art student and myself, but I still was subjected to numerous appraising looks from old ladies who should have known me better. How could anyone think I would be an item with someone in just a few days? I had never even had a boyfriend.
I sipped carefully at the glass of wine Jacqueline had pressed in my hand, knowing I would need my wits sharp if we were going to get the donation we needed to repair the roof. Neil hadn’t seemed to get the message though, and he drank freely of each glass supplied to him. Thankfully he seemed to be acclimated to alcohol, as I had heard all American students were, and his behavior did not become embarrassing, though there was no helping his accent.
By the time it was time to leave, however, I was a little worried about how well he was going to drive, so I begged a ride from the first of the old ladies to leave. Several people raised an eyebrow at that, but I really didn’t care. The rest of the evening had gone well and it wasn’t like I was making a scene.
The grounds were empty when I got to the palace the next day, so I headed straight for the office and found the three of them pouring over the architectural diagrams Francis kept in the back office. They were so engrossed I hoped to leave the bread and escape unseen but at the last moment Jacqueline looked up and called me over. She asked about a specific section on the top level, but even as I answered I knew that she had known the answer already. I wished she would stop trying to make me look good in front of Neil. Wasn’t anyone on my side anymore?
I finally got away and headed for my spot, but Neil followed me a few minutes later and perched at my shoulder to watch me work. I decided to ignore him again, as much as possible, in interest of getting my work done while the light was right. Thankfully he was quiet, and it was just his proximity that distracted me. I hoped he would get bored and go away soon, this was getting old fast.
I finished the page and flipped to the next, carefully taking visual measurements and blocking out the shape of the column and each of the decorative bands. Neil’s eyes traveled back and forth with mine, and I pressed my lips closed against the displeasure I felt at the intrusion. I was quite relieved when my watch said it was time to go and I gathered up my things quietly.
“Are you leaving already?” he asked in surprise. “You don’t need the light to be right for blocking, do you?”
“My parents will worry if I am late,” I said simply.
“Do you want a ride?” he offered.
“I prefer to walk, thank you,” I told him.
“Oh,” he said. “Then I’ll walk with you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said. “People will talk.”
“So let them talk,” he said with a shrug.
“No, Neil,” I said firmly. “You are going home at the end of the summer, this IS my home, and you are the intruder. I don’t want people thinking things about me that are not true.”
He looked at me sadly, “So that’s what I am to you, an intruder?”
“Well…” I said, regretting my choice of words. I hadn’t meant to sound so mean. “Perhaps intruder isn’t the right word, but this is my life, Neil, not some summer holiday halfway around the world with no consequences. I have to live here after you go, and I don’t want the people I have daily contact with mislead about… about… what we are to each other.”
“Well… what are we to each other then?” he asked.
“I don’t know… acquaintances, fellow art… students?” I had been about to say art lovers, but managed to change my choice of words at the last moment.
“Not friends?” he said looking a little hurt.
I sighed, “No Neil,” I said. “I know nothing about you, and you certainly don’t know me.”
“I’d like to know you,” he said.
I shook my head, “Why waste your time? You came to study Cheval’s Masterpiece, not me.” I said and I walked away. I didn’t look back at the gate, just kept my eyes and my feet pointed home, hoping all the way that he had gotten the message. Maybe he would let me draw in peace now.
The next day I reached my tree only to find the spot already occupied. He looked up as I approached and then looked down at the ground. He scooted over just far enough for me to sit in my spot and then continued to hold up his pencil at arm’s length. He squinted at it and moved the tip of his thumb, bringing the pencil back several times to compare it to the paper and then make minute marks. I tried to peer over his shoulder at the page, but he made a big show out of not allowing me to see his work, and I gave up immediately. It wasn’t like I really cared how he was coming with his drawing.
A week passed like that, sitting and drawing the same object, from the same perspective, but not speaking a word. I may not have liked his little game, but I had become accustomed to it. I wondered how long he was going to make it, how long he could stand the silence. Then, as we sat and sketched, a young art student from Paris came and interrupted our silent war.
“I didn’t know there was a group that met here,” she said, swinging her long, impossibly straight hair over her shoulder. Neil had let his work tilt forward as he gawked at her and she looked at it with that studied, Art Student eye.
“Interesting composition,” she said turning to narrow down which column we were both drawing. I took the opportunity to take a rare peek at Neil’s drawing, and he took the opportunity to close his slack jaw. He looked to see if I had noticed the lapse, and I pretended to have been ignoring them all along.
“Well,” he said putting his work aside and getting up to approach her. “You can’t really go wrong when you are selecting a section of such a great work. Ideal Palace is one of the best examples of Naïve Art in Architecture in the world.”
I sniffed at the word “naïve,” never having approved of that particular term, and Neil seemed to take it as a challenge. He started spouting all kinds of things he must have memorized from some art textbook. It just showed what an art lemming he was, all about balance and proportion and never about what was in the artist’s heart.
I decided I couldn’t listen to him anymore and started to pack my things away. “Oh, are you leaving?” The Parisian Student asked in false innocence. “I hope I have not disturbed you.”
“It is not you I find disturbing,” I assured her with a sickly sweet smile and then I marched away. I was halfway across the lawn by the time he caught up with me.
“What is your problem?” he asked me, all of his suave pretenses and stumbling French gone.
“YOU! You are my problem,” I said angrily and I tried to march around him.
“Why?” He practically shouted moving to block me. “What have I done wrong?”
“It isn’t what you have DONE,” I said back. “It is who you are! You, you, smooth, cocky American with your Art degree and narrow minded terms, you make me sick. I wish you would just go away and leave Ideal Palace to the people who truly love it.”
“I do love Ideal Palace, and how is having a little knowledge of art terminology a bad thing? At least I have words to describe what I see, at least I speak the language of Art.”
“Describe it? You are so caught up in your pre-designed labels for art you don’t even see through them!” I said angrily.
“What? Because I called it Naïve Art? It IS Naïve Art! Everyone knows that! The simplicity…” he began, getting out his hand to tick of points he had memorized from some book.
“Simple?!” I shouted. “How can any sane person call THAT simple?!” I asked waving my hand at the enormity of the most complex work of art in all of France and therefore the world.
I stomped off around him, and he hurried after me, “Gabrielle, if you would just listen. You don’t understand, there is so much you don’t know!”
“Who says I want to know?!” I asked wheeling around to face him. “Have I ever ONCE asked you to burden me with your… your photocopied knowledge?”
“But… Gabrielle, Art builds upon the discoveries of others. You don’t have to learn it all on your own, you can learn from others,” he said in a voice just as soft as mine had been harsh.
“Well what if I don’t WANT to?” I asked pointedly.
“I can’t believe that the girl who spent her life studying someone else’s work can possibly NOT believe in learning from other artists.”
I wanted to retort, wanted to throw it all back in his face, he made me so ANGRY! The part that made me the angriest was… was that he was right, and I didn’t want him to be right. Being proven wrong like this hurt me, stung me deep in my soul, and the tears came bursting from my eyes before I could get far enough away from him to hide them. Then they were followed by tears of shame that he had seen the tears of pain, that I had not been strong enough to hide them.
I managed to stay away for a week, in spite of the many calls I refused, in spite of the confusion of my parents, in spite of my longing for the lead and the paper and the peace that came with them. After a week though I knew I had to return. I knew I was only hurting myself by staying away.
I snuck onto the grounds again, and was relieved to find the base of the tree empty, my solitude returned. Perhaps he had gone away, perhaps my life could return to normal now. I put the pencil to the paper, and with a sigh released the pent up creativity that had been bursting to get out of me.
The light was almost gone when he rounded the Palace, leading a bus load of Americans in garish visors and ill-fitting shorts. I pretended not to see him, and he me, but an old lady in the group was having none of that. “Who is that girl?” she asked pointing at me.
I let the curtain of my hair hide my blushing face and wondered how he would answer.
“That…” he said, “Is Cheval’s most dedicated student, and she values her solitude. If I can direct your attention to the columns at the top…” he began spouting more of that book knowledge, but I didn’t hate him for it so much today. Maybe his books knew something I didn’t… or at least knew how to put it in a way that others would understand it. I couldn’t say the same for myself, I didn’t think I could ever make anyone really understand Cheval.
The summer was nearly over, and Neil was sitting at my side under a different tree, watching me draw with no pretense of drawing on his own. “Why do you only draw the Palace?” he asked me.
“Because it is beautiful,” I said, stopping my pursuit of details to look at and adore the whole sight. I loved this Palace.
He reached over into the flower bed at his side and picked a red flower. He held it up to me, “This is beautiful. Why don’t you draw this?”
“I am a bigger fan of the Palace,” I said with a little laugh.
He grinned and reached up to tuck the flower behind my ear. He looked at me, apparently enjoying the way the red blossom looked next to my eyes. “Do you ever draw your own stuff, things you make up?” he asked.
“No,” I said simply, not breaking his gaze as he studied my eyes.
“Why not?” he asked me, his eyes full of the question.
“Because nothing in me compares with this,” I said with a laugh as I waved my hand to indicate all of Ideal Palace.
“That’s not true, look at what you can do,” he said gesturing at my pad of paper.
“I am just a sketcher,” I said dropping my eyes now.
“No,” he said placing a finger under my chin to raise my eyes again. “You are good, and your skill is yours. Cheval did not give you that skill, I bet he couldn’t have done with a simple pencil and a finger what you do every day, the dimension, the perspective, the depth all comes from you. You are an artist Gabrielle.”
“So what if I am?” I said closing my pad and slipping it into my bag. The light wasn’t gone yet, but I was done.
“So?” he repeated after me in an exasperated tone. “Gabrielle, Cheval, a baker’s apprentice turned postman, took a simple rock and turned it into a palace. What if he had just thrown it aside? What if he had just said, ‘So I can see something beautiful in the shape of a rock, what does that matter?’ What if he had never built Ideal Palace? What would the world be without it? What would YOUR world be without it?” Neil reached for my hand, stroking the dark stain on the finger I used to smudge my drawings, “What is the world going to be missing if you don’t take that pencil, your eye, your talent and learn to use them?”
I let him hold my hand and turned my eyes to the Palace. It had been my Ideal for so long. Not the hodge-podge collection of representations of Ideologies that others saw when they looked at it. No, Ideal Palace represented MY ideal, the belief down deep inside of me that even a no-one had art inside. I believed that the baker’s apprentice, the postman, the school girl, the man on the street had something unique inside that no-one else had.
I had something that no-one else had, and I needed to let it out of me. Even if it meant memorizing some book so I could learn from other artists who came before me, like Cheval; even if it meant swallowing my pride, going to Art School, exposing my art to criticism, and myself to shame; even if it meant admitting to Neil that perhaps he was right about something; I had to do this. I had to do this so that when the day came for me to create my masterpiece, it would be a real contribution. I had to share my Ideal with the world. Just like Cheval did and still does, every day.
I asked my friends to pick a house for me to set the story in. They chose Ideal Palace in France. I’ll let you enjoy a google image tour instead of linking you, it is a real treat for the eyes. It has a fascinating history which I tried to incorporate here. Enjoy!
Ideal
As I walked the familiar path towards my regular afternoon destination I heard a friendly honk and raised my hand in greeting before the car could even pass me by. It passed me in a moment and I could see the back of Monsieur LaRoche’s hand waving at the center of the car as the vehicle went on ahead of me down the lane. I knew most of the cars that passed this way, knew the drivers, knew where they turned off, and could usually guess where they had come from too. This was my road.
Of course I owned it no more than any other citizen of France. I didn’t even live on this road, well… not really. I lived here, but I didn’t sleep here, or get my mail here, or have any relatives with any claim to any of the houses here.
My mother, father, and I lived above my father’s bakery, in the town. Every morning we rose well before dawn to heat the ovens, form the loaves, bake the bread, open the shop, greet the patrons. It was a predictable kind of life, not the kind you ever got rich in, but the kind that kept your belly full.
When I said I lived on this road, I meant that this is where I did the thing that made my life worth waking up to every day. This was the path to my special place, my dream land. This was the road to Ideal Palace.
It’s a very well-known landmark, and anyone who lives around here can tell you how to get here. Some of them have even played tourist in their own town and come for a tour of the Ideal Palace. That was how I first came here, with my primary school class.
I’ll never forget how amazed I was with the nearly overwhelming feast of art that twisted and twined its way around Ideal Palace. There wasn’t a lonely spot or a centimeter that lacked meaning. There wasn’t a corner that was neglected or a curve that didn’t have a story to tell.
Some people who come to Ideal Palace think it is garish, too busy, or overboard, but I love every inch of it. I love the way the themes overlap and the eye has no place to settle. I love that you could look every day for a year and still not really see it all.
I passed the gates of my home-away-from-home and waved to Jacqueline who was just greeting some visitors. The visitors would pay for a tour, and they wouldn’t be disappointed. Jacqueline would be sure they got an eye full of, and an ear full about, Ideal Palace. They would leave with their minds stuffed with information… and they still wouldn’t fully understand.
I dropped a loaf of bread off in the office, then walked around the Palace until I came to the place where I had started sketching yesterday. I resumed my place, under the tree, and took out the pad of paper and pencils I brought every day it wasn’t raining. I carefully studied my work in progress, then sat staring at my subject for several minutes before I put the pencil to the paper. Slowly, carefully, I formed the curves and lines, shading and smudging to convey the layers of dimension, the depth of imagination that my hero, Ferdinand Chavel, had possessed.
I was absorbed in my work until a voice sounded out from just behind me. “You must be Gabrielle,” the young male voice said.
I jumped a little, and then worried over the damage to my drawing before worrying about who was addressing me. The smudge removed, I turned to look up at the person who had interrupted me. It was indeed a young man, perhaps a little older than me. He was handsome enough, if one went for guys with looks, but I didn’t like the way he was leaning against the tree, like he owned it, like he owned everything around him.
“I’m Neil,” he said extending a hand for me to shake.
It was then I noticed his accent, American. No wonder he acted like he owned the place. I debated on not shaking his hand, then decided against being rude and shook it as quickly as possible. Unfortunately he took it as an invitation to join me and sat down on the grass next to me and looked unabashedly at my drawing.
I quickly closed the pad and started gathering my things. If he was going to stay, I was going to leave. I hated to loose hours of good light and cut into my daily visit to paradise, but it wasn’t like I would get any work done with this strange American bothering me.
“You are really good. They told me you were, but I didn’t really believe them. Is it true you haven’t gone to art school or anything?” He asked me, though in truth it was a little hard to make out with his thick accent. It was like nails on a chalkboard to hear French spoken that way.
“I have not been to art school,” I answered in my secondary school English, which I was sure was better than his French, at least less painful to listen to. I saw him looking at the pad of paper I clutched to my chest and I clutched it all the tighter. Who was this nosey stranger and what did he want?
“Jacqueline said you come every day, that’s an admirable dedication to your art,” he said, again in French.
I’m sure I looked like I had seen him sprout two heads, as absurd as his statement was. MY art? Were we not standing on the grounds of Ideal Palace? How on earth could he talk about MY art? It was… it was sacrilege.
“Excuse me,” I said in English and then hurried away, leaving him there by the tree. I’m sure he looked confused, but in truth I don’t know for sure because I didn’t spare a glance for the bold, blonde American.
I came upon Jacqueline and her tour group. I waited for the break where she lets them approach to see the detail on the Hindu shrine and then I walked up close to her. “Pardon me, Madame,” I said to the woman who was like another mother to me, “but who is that rude American, and why does he know my name?”
“Oh that’s Neil Jacobson. He is taking his summer holiday to study Ideal Palace. He studies art in San Francisco. I told him he should watch for you to come.”
“But why?” I asked her, stunned that she would invite him to interrupt my daily pilgrimage.
She blinked in surprise at the emotion in my voice and I ducked my head, ashamed to have spoken so forcefully. “Because, Gabrielle,” she said, “if anyone knows and understands the art of Ideal Palace, it is you.” She slanted her head to the side and her expression was confused. “Did I do wrong? I didn’t think you would mind, you are always so helpful when the children’s classes come and when we have large groups…
“No, no,” I hastened to assure her, though I didn’t mean it. “You did no wrong, I was just unprepared. I wasn’t sure what he wanted… it is difficult to make out what he is saying.”
She grinned at that, “He does insist on speaking French, though my English is excellent,” she said, and without exaggeration, her English really was superb. “He says he has studied French for years and hopes to improve this summer.”
The group was ready to move on now so she directed their attention to the next section and left me to wonder what to do. I certainly couldn’t return to my work, not with that American over there to bother people. There weren’t enough visitors that Jacqueline would need any help. I stood there by the Hindu shine for a few minutes debating, and then my mind was made up for me. Neil Jacobson appeared, walking around the side of the Palace, so I turned and headed for the road.
I was halfway home before I regretted the decision. It was a fine afternoon, and I had just left the only real way to enjoy it. What was I going to do now? If I returned home early there would be questions. I didn’t want to explain to my parents why I had left early. They wouldn’t understand. They were always talking about sending me to Paris to study art, as if there was enough money in the till to cover such a wild dream. It wasn’t even my dream, it was theirs, and I wasn’t going to give them an excuse for bringing it up again.
I turned then, and pointed my feet towards the cemetery. If I couldn’t sketch the palace I would spend some time by the artist’s mausoleum. I had finished drawing it years ago, but I thought that being near his resting place might calm me. If anyone could have understood me, it was the late Monsieur Cheval.
The groundskeeper had been neglecting the mausoleum again. Grass was sprouting in the cracks. Why he found it so hard to keep the destructive plants away from the work of art I will never know, it did not take long. I got into my bag and found my scissors and then proceeded to trim the fringe of tall grass. I cut it extra short, perhaps if it took a while to grow back up again the groundskeeper would find the time to apply some herbicide.
My work done I looked at my watch and found I had passed the time quite well. If I left in ten minutes and walked slowly I would be home exactly on time. I cleaned my scissors on my jeans and then sat with my back against the twisting and curving stone I knew so well. I closed my eyes and in my heart begged Monsieur Cheval to make the rude American go away.
“Oh, hello Gabrielle,” that young male voice said.
My eyes flew open. What on earth was he doing here? Had he followed me? I stumbled to my feet and quickly crossed to my bag. I shoved the scissors inside the bag and started walking away quickly.
“Wait!” he called, “No, don’t run away again, please,” he said running after me. At least he was speaking English now. I stopped, though I did not turn to face him. Instead he circled me, placing himself between me and the cemetery exit. “Whatever I have done to offend you, I am terribly sorry,” he said.
His face looked so earnest that I felt a little sorry for him. It wasn’t really his fault, I supposed, that he had been born who he was. It wasn’t really his fault that I was who I was either. I just didn’t really want anything else in my life. Americans were supposed to be tourists, not… not people you had to really communicate with and let get to know you. I could feel my cheeks starting to burn.
“It is nothing,” I told him. “I must go home now, they are expecting me.” I went to step around him but his face was so distressed I felt like I had to add, “I will see you another time, Neil.”
“Okay,” he said a little too brightly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Gabrielle.”
I didn’t look back until I had left the cemetery and when I did he was kneeling by the tomb, examining it closely. He was writing notes and taking photos. I shook my head, how could he hope to understand art if he didn’t try to draw it?
I was a little relieved when I woke the next morning to a drizzling gray sky. I never went to Ideal Palace when it rained, so no one would think it odd that I did not go, no one but the American perhaps. I wondered if it could rain all week. Perhaps if it rained two weeks together Neil Jacobson would go home to sunny San Francisco and leave me alone.
The next day it shone bright and clear, and I lingered at my chores, setting off for Ideal Palace much later than usual. Madame LaRoche even stopped to see if I was all right. I made up a story about being extra busy today, which I hoped would satisfy her curiosity and not pique it, and told her I really preferred to walk, but thanks for the offer of a ride.
I snuck along the side of the grounds, trying to blend in with the trees and bushes until I got to the right place to resume my sketching. I had not seen a soul when I settled in at the base of the tree. I dove into my work, praying I would be un-interrupted.
It was nearly an hour before I heard footsteps and knew my solitude was over. I resolutely ignored Neil as he came over and sat next to me by the tree. It irritated me to have him looking back and forth between my drawing and the Palace, comparing, and no doubt seeing every tiny error I had made. The gall of him, coming to my home with his college art degree to critique me, Americans were so irritating.
Before long the light had shifted enough that it was time to halt my work. I closed the pad of paper and reached for my bag. It was not where my fingers grasped and I looked up to find that Neil had it slung over his shoulder, like he expected to walk with me somewhere.
“May I have my bag please?” I asked him in an overly patient voice.
“I thought I would carry it for you,” he said stepping in the direction of the office. “It’s is the gentlemanly thing to do.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, so he wouldn’t see me roll them, and then walked briskly ahead of him towards the office. I pushed the door open with a little more force than was strictly needed and then held my hand out for the return of my bag.
“Ah, Gabrielle!” Jacqueline’s husband Francis said with a smile. “I was about to send out the search party.”
“I am sorry, Monsieur Gascon,” I told him. “I came late and did not wish the miss the light.”
“It is nothing,” Jacqueline said accepting the bread from me, “as long as you are safe. Neil, you could have told us you found her.”
“I am sorry, Madame,” he said. “I was so excited to watch her work. She is almost finished with another page.”
This of course led to requests to see my still unfinished work, and as they were such close friends I felt I had to show the Gascons the latest page.
“What is this, I never noticed this,” Francis was saying, as he usually did when looking at my work. I had long ago started to wonder if he really missed so many details of the place he worked every day, or if he just did it to make me feel observant. My money was on the latter, I knew him to be a devoted curator.
“Well, I had better be going,” I told them. “I’ll be late getting back.”
“Oh we were hoping you would come to dinner,” Jacqueline said. “Neil is coming, and a few people from the historical society. You know how much it helps to have you there when there are potential patrons at the table. I meant to call you yesterday when it rained, but then a bus came and I completely forgot.”
“But,” I said looking down at my dirty jeans and tired blouse, “I am not dressed for a dinner party, Madame, I would only embarrass you. There simply isn’t time…”
“I can drive you home,” Neil said, oh-so-helpfully. “Then you can help me find my way to the Gascon’s house after you change.”
“Oh no,” I said, “My father would never approve…”
“Non-sense,” Jacqueline said waving her hand. “You are not a child any longer, you can ride a few miles with a friend. Oh please come Gabrielle,” she begged, and who can say no to Jacqueline when she begged. How else could we have gotten the donation for the replacement carpet last year? I sighed and relented.
“Pull over here,” I told him, a block from my home.
“Here?” he said, obviously scanning the shop signs for the bakery.
“Yes right here,” I told him. “I would rather not have to explain you to my parents. They read too much into everything anyway.”
He didn’t seem too happy about it but didn’t argue. “Okay, I will just run to the room I rented and I’ll meet you back here in an hour?” he asked looking at his watch.
I nodded and got out of the car, hoping none of the shopkeepers that were so chummy with my father were looking out their windows right now. I quickly crossed the side street and stepped into the bakery. The bell alerted my parents to my presence, but my mother had not risen from the back table by the time I had walked through.
“No time to talk,” I told her as I headed for the stairs. “I’ve been invited to the Gascon’s for dinner tonight with some people from the historical society.”
This was not a regular occurrence, but happened often enough that my parents did not question me about it. Jacqueline always arranged a ride for me with one of the little old ladies from the society, and I always made sure that my late night did not affect my work performance the next morning. Sometimes my parents even went out in my absence, though why they didn’t do this when I was home I will never know, I certainly could sit alone with control of the television for an evening.
I hurried through my preparations, wearing the same black dress I always wore, just selecting a different wrap and painting my nails to match it. I threw my hair up in a twist and jammed in a bunch of pins to secure it. A few wisps escaped, but I rather liked the effect so I didn’t bother to use my mother’s hairspray to try to keep them in place.
I shoved my identification and lipstick in my mother’s old clutch purse and then made my way down the stairs. I called a hasty goodbye to my parents, and yanked the door open, so they wouldn’t bother coming to see me off. I walked quickly down the block and stepped around the corner of the side street to watch for Neil’s car.
He was five minutes late, and smelled strongly of aftershave and cologne when he came around the car to let me in. I wished he hadn’t bothered with the gesture, someone was sure to notice. I ducked quickly in the car and then scanned the windows of the nearby shops as he took his time walking back around to his door. I didn’t see anyone… but that didn’t mean much.
He really didn’t know the way to the Gascon’s and I wondered how he would have fared if I hadn’t been there to direct him at every turn. He parked the car along with the others on the street, and then hurried around to open my door. I decided not to let him do it this time, and then pretended not to see the perturbed look on his face when all that was left for him to do was close the door of the rental car.
He offered me an arm, but I again pretended not to notice. I didn’t know why he was treating this like some kind of date, because it certainly wasn’t. As far as I was concerned if he wanted a French summer love story to take home with him he needed to start looking somewhere else immediately.
Jacqueline looked stunning as she greeted us at the door. By now she had figured out my alternating wrap trick and complimented me on how this one brought out my eyes. I didn’t know how a red wrap was supposed to make my plain old brown eyes look better, but I smiled and accepted the compliment anyway.
Neil, of course, had to be introduced to everyone, and for some reason Francis thought the job was best given to me. I tried to keep a respectable distance between the American art student and myself, but I still was subjected to numerous appraising looks from old ladies who should have known me better. How could anyone think I would be an item with someone in just a few days? I had never even had a boyfriend.
I sipped carefully at the glass of wine Jacqueline had pressed in my hand, knowing I would need my wits sharp if we were going to get the donation we needed to repair the roof. Neil hadn’t seemed to get the message though, and he drank freely of each glass supplied to him. Thankfully he seemed to be acclimated to alcohol, as I had heard all American students were, and his behavior did not become embarrassing, though there was no helping his accent.
By the time it was time to leave, however, I was a little worried about how well he was going to drive, so I begged a ride from the first of the old ladies to leave. Several people raised an eyebrow at that, but I really didn’t care. The rest of the evening had gone well and it wasn’t like I was making a scene.
The grounds were empty when I got to the palace the next day, so I headed straight for the office and found the three of them pouring over the architectural diagrams Francis kept in the back office. They were so engrossed I hoped to leave the bread and escape unseen but at the last moment Jacqueline looked up and called me over. She asked about a specific section on the top level, but even as I answered I knew that she had known the answer already. I wished she would stop trying to make me look good in front of Neil. Wasn’t anyone on my side anymore?
I finally got away and headed for my spot, but Neil followed me a few minutes later and perched at my shoulder to watch me work. I decided to ignore him again, as much as possible, in interest of getting my work done while the light was right. Thankfully he was quiet, and it was just his proximity that distracted me. I hoped he would get bored and go away soon, this was getting old fast.
I finished the page and flipped to the next, carefully taking visual measurements and blocking out the shape of the column and each of the decorative bands. Neil’s eyes traveled back and forth with mine, and I pressed my lips closed against the displeasure I felt at the intrusion. I was quite relieved when my watch said it was time to go and I gathered up my things quietly.
“Are you leaving already?” he asked in surprise. “You don’t need the light to be right for blocking, do you?”
“My parents will worry if I am late,” I said simply.
“Do you want a ride?” he offered.
“I prefer to walk, thank you,” I told him.
“Oh,” he said. “Then I’ll walk with you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said. “People will talk.”
“So let them talk,” he said with a shrug.
“No, Neil,” I said firmly. “You are going home at the end of the summer, this IS my home, and you are the intruder. I don’t want people thinking things about me that are not true.”
He looked at me sadly, “So that’s what I am to you, an intruder?”
“Well…” I said, regretting my choice of words. I hadn’t meant to sound so mean. “Perhaps intruder isn’t the right word, but this is my life, Neil, not some summer holiday halfway around the world with no consequences. I have to live here after you go, and I don’t want the people I have daily contact with mislead about… about… what we are to each other.”
“Well… what are we to each other then?” he asked.
“I don’t know… acquaintances, fellow art… students?” I had been about to say art lovers, but managed to change my choice of words at the last moment.
“Not friends?” he said looking a little hurt.
I sighed, “No Neil,” I said. “I know nothing about you, and you certainly don’t know me.”
“I’d like to know you,” he said.
I shook my head, “Why waste your time? You came to study Cheval’s Masterpiece, not me.” I said and I walked away. I didn’t look back at the gate, just kept my eyes and my feet pointed home, hoping all the way that he had gotten the message. Maybe he would let me draw in peace now.
The next day I reached my tree only to find the spot already occupied. He looked up as I approached and then looked down at the ground. He scooted over just far enough for me to sit in my spot and then continued to hold up his pencil at arm’s length. He squinted at it and moved the tip of his thumb, bringing the pencil back several times to compare it to the paper and then make minute marks. I tried to peer over his shoulder at the page, but he made a big show out of not allowing me to see his work, and I gave up immediately. It wasn’t like I really cared how he was coming with his drawing.
A week passed like that, sitting and drawing the same object, from the same perspective, but not speaking a word. I may not have liked his little game, but I had become accustomed to it. I wondered how long he was going to make it, how long he could stand the silence. Then, as we sat and sketched, a young art student from Paris came and interrupted our silent war.
“I didn’t know there was a group that met here,” she said, swinging her long, impossibly straight hair over her shoulder. Neil had let his work tilt forward as he gawked at her and she looked at it with that studied, Art Student eye.
“Interesting composition,” she said turning to narrow down which column we were both drawing. I took the opportunity to take a rare peek at Neil’s drawing, and he took the opportunity to close his slack jaw. He looked to see if I had noticed the lapse, and I pretended to have been ignoring them all along.
“Well,” he said putting his work aside and getting up to approach her. “You can’t really go wrong when you are selecting a section of such a great work. Ideal Palace is one of the best examples of Naïve Art in Architecture in the world.”
I sniffed at the word “naïve,” never having approved of that particular term, and Neil seemed to take it as a challenge. He started spouting all kinds of things he must have memorized from some art textbook. It just showed what an art lemming he was, all about balance and proportion and never about what was in the artist’s heart.
I decided I couldn’t listen to him anymore and started to pack my things away. “Oh, are you leaving?” The Parisian Student asked in false innocence. “I hope I have not disturbed you.”
“It is not you I find disturbing,” I assured her with a sickly sweet smile and then I marched away. I was halfway across the lawn by the time he caught up with me.
“What is your problem?” he asked me, all of his suave pretenses and stumbling French gone.
“YOU! You are my problem,” I said angrily and I tried to march around him.
“Why?” He practically shouted moving to block me. “What have I done wrong?”
“It isn’t what you have DONE,” I said back. “It is who you are! You, you, smooth, cocky American with your Art degree and narrow minded terms, you make me sick. I wish you would just go away and leave Ideal Palace to the people who truly love it.”
“I do love Ideal Palace, and how is having a little knowledge of art terminology a bad thing? At least I have words to describe what I see, at least I speak the language of Art.”
“Describe it? You are so caught up in your pre-designed labels for art you don’t even see through them!” I said angrily.
“What? Because I called it Naïve Art? It IS Naïve Art! Everyone knows that! The simplicity…” he began, getting out his hand to tick of points he had memorized from some book.
“Simple?!” I shouted. “How can any sane person call THAT simple?!” I asked waving my hand at the enormity of the most complex work of art in all of France and therefore the world.
I stomped off around him, and he hurried after me, “Gabrielle, if you would just listen. You don’t understand, there is so much you don’t know!”
“Who says I want to know?!” I asked wheeling around to face him. “Have I ever ONCE asked you to burden me with your… your photocopied knowledge?”
“But… Gabrielle, Art builds upon the discoveries of others. You don’t have to learn it all on your own, you can learn from others,” he said in a voice just as soft as mine had been harsh.
“Well what if I don’t WANT to?” I asked pointedly.
“I can’t believe that the girl who spent her life studying someone else’s work can possibly NOT believe in learning from other artists.”
I wanted to retort, wanted to throw it all back in his face, he made me so ANGRY! The part that made me the angriest was… was that he was right, and I didn’t want him to be right. Being proven wrong like this hurt me, stung me deep in my soul, and the tears came bursting from my eyes before I could get far enough away from him to hide them. Then they were followed by tears of shame that he had seen the tears of pain, that I had not been strong enough to hide them.
I managed to stay away for a week, in spite of the many calls I refused, in spite of the confusion of my parents, in spite of my longing for the lead and the paper and the peace that came with them. After a week though I knew I had to return. I knew I was only hurting myself by staying away.
I snuck onto the grounds again, and was relieved to find the base of the tree empty, my solitude returned. Perhaps he had gone away, perhaps my life could return to normal now. I put the pencil to the paper, and with a sigh released the pent up creativity that had been bursting to get out of me.
The light was almost gone when he rounded the Palace, leading a bus load of Americans in garish visors and ill-fitting shorts. I pretended not to see him, and he me, but an old lady in the group was having none of that. “Who is that girl?” she asked pointing at me.
I let the curtain of my hair hide my blushing face and wondered how he would answer.
“That…” he said, “Is Cheval’s most dedicated student, and she values her solitude. If I can direct your attention to the columns at the top…” he began spouting more of that book knowledge, but I didn’t hate him for it so much today. Maybe his books knew something I didn’t… or at least knew how to put it in a way that others would understand it. I couldn’t say the same for myself, I didn’t think I could ever make anyone really understand Cheval.
The summer was nearly over, and Neil was sitting at my side under a different tree, watching me draw with no pretense of drawing on his own. “Why do you only draw the Palace?” he asked me.
“Because it is beautiful,” I said, stopping my pursuit of details to look at and adore the whole sight. I loved this Palace.
He reached over into the flower bed at his side and picked a red flower. He held it up to me, “This is beautiful. Why don’t you draw this?”
“I am a bigger fan of the Palace,” I said with a little laugh.
He grinned and reached up to tuck the flower behind my ear. He looked at me, apparently enjoying the way the red blossom looked next to my eyes. “Do you ever draw your own stuff, things you make up?” he asked.
“No,” I said simply, not breaking his gaze as he studied my eyes.
“Why not?” he asked me, his eyes full of the question.
“Because nothing in me compares with this,” I said with a laugh as I waved my hand to indicate all of Ideal Palace.
“That’s not true, look at what you can do,” he said gesturing at my pad of paper.
“I am just a sketcher,” I said dropping my eyes now.
“No,” he said placing a finger under my chin to raise my eyes again. “You are good, and your skill is yours. Cheval did not give you that skill, I bet he couldn’t have done with a simple pencil and a finger what you do every day, the dimension, the perspective, the depth all comes from you. You are an artist Gabrielle.”
“So what if I am?” I said closing my pad and slipping it into my bag. The light wasn’t gone yet, but I was done.
“So?” he repeated after me in an exasperated tone. “Gabrielle, Cheval, a baker’s apprentice turned postman, took a simple rock and turned it into a palace. What if he had just thrown it aside? What if he had just said, ‘So I can see something beautiful in the shape of a rock, what does that matter?’ What if he had never built Ideal Palace? What would the world be without it? What would YOUR world be without it?” Neil reached for my hand, stroking the dark stain on the finger I used to smudge my drawings, “What is the world going to be missing if you don’t take that pencil, your eye, your talent and learn to use them?”
I let him hold my hand and turned my eyes to the Palace. It had been my Ideal for so long. Not the hodge-podge collection of representations of Ideologies that others saw when they looked at it. No, Ideal Palace represented MY ideal, the belief down deep inside of me that even a no-one had art inside. I believed that the baker’s apprentice, the postman, the school girl, the man on the street had something unique inside that no-one else had.
I had something that no-one else had, and I needed to let it out of me. Even if it meant memorizing some book so I could learn from other artists who came before me, like Cheval; even if it meant swallowing my pride, going to Art School, exposing my art to criticism, and myself to shame; even if it meant admitting to Neil that perhaps he was right about something; I had to do this. I had to do this so that when the day came for me to create my masterpiece, it would be a real contribution. I had to share my Ideal with the world. Just like Cheval did and still does, every day.
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