"Um, a little bit here...like this...uh, yes that's better and done!" I finished my live commentary as I finally pulled my paintbrush away from the canvas. I had used warm colours this time. You know, Red, Yellow, Orange and the likes. I took five steps back as I did each time I finished a painting and looked at the final product.
I saw so many small mistakes which are mostly exclusive to the eye of the creator but if I saw it as a spectator, I saw beauty. It wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but it was one of my best efforts till date. She seemed to be glowing.
Notre Dame de Paris. It was almost as if she was rising out of the radiant pink and orange sky as the sun does every morning. As usual, I easily forgot that it was just a painting and got lost in the thoughts of the beautiful structure which is standing for centuries, majestic and its stature, witnessing human follies and grandeur alike. I was a fan of anything historic. The tales of What Once Was entertained others but they bewitched me and drew me towards them until I became one with what I beheld.
Notre Dame for me however, was all this and more. I loved her and admired everything about her but also felt a connection that went beyond an artist and a subject. I couldn't describe it in words no matter how hard I tried. I was sure of one thing though, that this fascination or obsession if you may, transcended mere enchantment.
*
"Gosh, didn't you sleep last night?" My Mom asked when I joined her in the dining room for breakfast.
"Not a wink," I smiled as I sat at the table.
She rolled her eyes. This was a common topic of conversation for us but the sender and the receiver of the question kept switching between the two of us. Mom and I both painted and frequently pulled all-nighters to finish what we started before we lost sight of it. Mom is the Head of the Art Department at the local University. Most of her paintings are displayed (and promptly sold) in the city's most reputed Art Gallery but some of them, more personal, adorn the walls of our home. Like the one in the dining room.
In the painting, a little girl, wearing a pink dress and silver crown is eating spaghetti and meatballs. Well, she is splattering it more than eating, evident by her stained dress and orangy blonde hair. You know what the best part about that painting is? The scene Mom painted both happened and didn't. Mom and I usually paint from our memories, twisting and turning them which does not distort our reality but adds a personal touch which is exclusive only to the painter. The girl in the painting is most definitely a distorted version of myself. I hate pink though, and I don't remember ever wearing a crown in my life. I love spaghetti and meatballs, Mom got that part right. But I am not a messy eater, Dad was. So she added something of him to the image of me. Just like she added her favourite colour to my attire.
I do this with my paintings all the time. Mostly I painted monuments and such, but sometimes, something would catch my eye as I jogged in the park and I would come home to paint it, adding some life of my own to what I saw just moments before.
"Are you done for tomorrow?" Mom now asked, eating her barely buttered toast.
"Yes, just finished the last one moments ago."
"Can I look at it before I go to work?" She always asked permission before seeing my paintings. She knew that I would show them to her anyway but she respected me enough to ask and I loved her for that.
The best thing about showing my work to Mom was that she saw it first as a critic, then as my mother.
"I can see some flaws in your technique and the blending could've been better here, and here," she pointed at two spots. I nodded and she continued, "You've come a long way, honey. I'm proud of you."
I accepted her critique without any sense of failure. I had long ago decided that the resolution to do better was much more productive than feeling a sense of failure about what you hadn't accomplished yet. If I wanted to get into that Art Programme, shrinking back from constructive criticism wasn't going to do me any good.
The Art Programme I was interviewing for was of six months. It took place twice a year, in seven cities across the world. One of those cities was the one I lived in. It was a great opportunity for me.
I spent the rest of the day getting ready for tomorrow. The candidates for the interview were selected on the basis of the sketches and/or paintings they had submitted online. The shortlisted candidates then were told to bring five works, other than what they submitted online to the interview. I chose three paintings of Notre Dame, one of my childhood memory of a dandelion swaying in the summer breeze and one of the sky changing colour as I jogged in the park.
Mom had advised me to stay away from any stressors so I had switched off my phone last night and had stayed away from the TV. When I had prepared everything for tomorrow, from the paintings to the documents to the outfit, I curled up in my bed with a book. I was sixteen chapters in when my eyes started drooping and I gave into a deep slumber.
*
Mom woke me up the following morning and we drove to the University together. The journey was mostly silent and when we finally parted at the reception, she whispered that she loved me and went her way.
You may think that she didn't wish me Good Luck. Well, that's just it. We never did wish each other luck. Our theory was that if you have prepared adequately, you wouldn't need luck and anybody wishing you 'Good Luck' wouldn't magically make you acquire good luck.
My name was called too soon and I went in.
After the pleasantries, they asked me to present my paintings. The first painting was the one I had painted yesterday.
"I finished this one recently, very recently," I said to the panel.
"Notre Dame de Paris," one of the three interviewers said.
"Très bien, mademoiselle," the only female interviewer said, her accent impeccable.
"Merci, madame," I replied, without missing a beat.
"What was your inspiration for using warm colours? The fire?" She now asked.
I must have appeared thoroughly confused because she explained further.
"The Notre Dame fire. It broke out yesterday, still hasn't been controlled."
"I- I- didn't know," I finally stammered. I was thrown. I needed to relax but didn't know how. Mom was right, I needed to stay away from stressors, but it wasn't helping much now was it, Mom?
I hadn't imagined something like this could happen and for all I knew a piece of history was being permanently ripped from this earth.
I remember asking for water and trying to calm myself down. I remember futilely trying to explain my paintings to the interviewers but nothing made sense to me anymore like my explanations made little sense to them. I could see that, clear as day, on their faces. It was a debacle.
As I finally made my exit, I apologized for not being better prepared and thanked them for this opportunity and for their time.
"You are obviously preoccupied by something," the only interviewer who hadn't said a word throughout the interview said, "I hope you understand that although we really appreciate your work, your explanations were not what we were looking for."
Wow, he was really good at sugarcoating.
"But I do hope, we all do in fact," he continued, nodding to the other two, "that you come back for the interview for the next term. You have great potential. And we do hope that you come better prepared."
*
Mom was furious when she came home. I heard it in the slam of the front door. I heard her climb the stairs and as she opened my door, she began, "What in the world-," but abruptly stopped as she watched my face.
"I know, Mom. I messed up."
She sat beside me and we watched live updates from France on my laptop. We sat like that for a long time watching the pompiers finally overcoming the fire.
"Come on, let's have something to eat, shall we?" Mom finally said and got off my bed, heading to the door.
"Mom," I said quietly.
She looked back at me.
"Can I ask for my birthday present in advance?"
*
As the plane touched down at Paris, I was filled with anticipation. I felt something rising up in my being which was bigger than myself. Something almost tangible.
I had planned on going to Paris as soon as I was finished with the Art Programme but in the light of recent events, the plan had changed.
My parents had brought me to Paris when I was a mere toddler and obviously, I don't remember anything. And no, I didn't get to count the fabricated memories that have made their home in my mind after years of retellings of my various antics during that trip.
No matter how made up they may be though, I can't wait to add some of my very own memories to the lot. Admittedly, the circumstances could've been better but all of our wishes are rarely granted and we have no choice but to live with this bitter fact.
Mom decided to get some rest while I decided that getting rest was a waste of time.
"Be careful," Mom said as I put on my coat,"and have fun making memories."
I wanted to see Notre Dame rightaway but as I stepped out of the hotel I decided I needed some time. I went to see the Eiffel Tower instead. I had always thought it to be overrated but I was wrong. I saw it and that was enough to connect me to this wonderful city. My hands suddenly ached for paint and canvas, any drawable surface really. I then decided to go see the Louvre museum because there's definitely no time like the present but as the taxi passed alongside The Seine I changed my mind.
"Pardon, Monsieur," I apologized to the taxi driver and asked to be taken to Notre Dame instead. There was no point procrastinating.
She's still standing. The first thought that came to my mind was of Her still standing, burnt, broken and battered but still regal in her stature. Still overlooking each moment of the present as it passed and became a part of history. The area was crowded despite it being weeks since the fire. I looked at her for what seemed like an eternity, marking every line and curve with my observation. I'm going to come back. I'll be coming back to her with Mom as well but that's not what I was thinking about. The future is uncertain but I'll make sure that I came back to see her again.
I started walking. Anywhere I looked, all I saw was beauty. The type of beauty out of which pure magic is born. I looked around not only at my surroundings but also at the people. I saw them see things along with everyone else and I felt things along with them.
I soon found the nearest empty seat and sat down, opening my sketchpad open in my lap.
"Très jolie," a voice said from beside me and I jumped back to reality. I looked to my right and saw the owner of the voice, shining in the dimming light.
She had called my half-done sketch pretty but if anything was pretty, it was her. Her face was glowing in the crowd of faces that were everywhere. She had hazel eyes and dark hair. This beautiful girl was looking at me like I was someone interesting enough to capture her attention.
"Merci beaucoup," I finally said, looking down at my pencil lines. "It still needs some work and-,"
"Oh," she cut me off with a short laugh, scooting closer to me, "I wasn't talking about the painting," she now looked down at the sketch, "but it's beautiful too."
My cheeks flamed, she had called me beautiful.
"You don't look so bad yourself," I found myself saying.
She laughed again. I liked her laugh.
"I've heard better but I'll take it," she said with a smile I couldn't help but count as genuine.
She was a medical student here. I told her that I was a mere tourist.
"Oh, but you're more," she said as if she knew something about me I didn't. "A tourist just sees things, marvels at their beauty, clicks pictures and moves on. You are an artist, an observer" she said it with special emphasis, "You look at marvellous things and then create something extraordinary out of what you saw and observed. You are different."
"You are very poetic for a doctor," I replied with a thankful smile.
"Poetry grows on you as you grow up. Practicality is mandatory for the mind but for the heart, poetry is the reason to keep beating."
We talked until my phone rang. Mom.
"Let me guess, you have to go?"
I nodded.
She took my sketchpad and pencil and scribbled her name and number on the last page.
"Can we meet again?" She asked, handing the sketchpad and pencil back to me.
I didn't know what to say much less how to say it. I had come on his trip for an entirely different purpose and denying her was a task I had to do but didn't want to.
She must have deciphered something from my silence as she said, "Keep it with you," gesturing to my sketchpad which held her number in it. "If you cannot meet me on this trip, meet me when you revisit her," she looked back in the direction of Notre Dame. "Something tells me you'll be back," she said in lieu of goodbye as she got up, bent down to kiss my cheek and walked away.
*
I stepped out of my hotel and waited for a taxi.
"Notre Dame, s'il vous plaît," I said to the driver.
I had come back after all. Just like she had said.
I was now a counsellor in the same programme I'd applied for. After finishing the Programme, they had offered me the job which I'd very graciously accepted. The Art Programme was held in seven cities across the world and counsellors were allowed to work in the city of their choice. Of couse I chose Paris.
Before coming here, two of my paintings were displayed in the Art Gallery of the city alongside five of my Mom's and five of other artists. Both of my paintings were the ones I had painted in Paris and had eventually presented in my second interview for the Art Programme.
I now wished to add something more to my style. I knew there was a lot to learn and a lot more missing. I hoped to find it here.
I reached my destination and looked at her once again. The restoration had begun and soon she'll be back to her former glory. I smiled at her and walked towards the bench I had occupied a year ago.
It was now occupied by a couple very much in love. I smiled again and sat on the adjoining bench. I scrolled through my Contacts List and found the number. I called her.
"Allo?"
"The something that told you that I'll be back was right."
"C'est vous," she said, her voice growing warm.
"Yes, it's me. And I'll be staying here for a while. I was meaning to ask if the offer for the date still stands," I said with confidence. Nervousness however grew in me with each passing second of silence.
She smiled. I know this because I heard it in her voice as she said, "It does."
