Searching for Sofia, page 10
As if sensing his reverie, Margaret turned the conversation back to that very time. ‘Clive and Roger, Roger Fry—did you meet him, Sunday?—they were very impressed with Jack’s paintings, weren’t they, Jack?’
‘Margaret, that was a long time ago.’
‘Yes, but they saw that you had something... I saw that you had something!’ Margaret turned to Sunday. ‘It was Roger who arranged for Jack to go to Paris. To have lessons at the Académie Julian.’
‘Like I said, it was a lifetime ago, Margaret. None of that matters anymore. It doesn’t bear mentioning....’ Sitting in the Reeds’ dining room, Jack had no interest in resurrecting discussions of that time, once so full of joy and now lost in heartbreak and ashes.
‘Come on, Jack. Let’s go out into the garden,’ Sunday said, rising from her seat.
There was nothing for it but to follow. Jack stood and glanced back, expecting Margaret and John to join them.
‘Don’t worry about them,’ Sunday said, leading him away. Despite Jack’s wish to escape thoughts of his past, the cosiness of Sunday’s kitchen, warmed by sunlight and with the lingering fragrance of recent baking, transported his thoughts to the finca, whose large windows had faced the orchard, where his feet had been cooled by terracotta tiles on hot summer days and the perfume of orange blossom and jasmine had filled the air. Heide’s kitchen was clearly the much-loved domain of Sunday in the same way that the finca’s kitchen had been loved by Sofia.
Once outdoors, Sunday led Jack to the side of the house, where they passed vegetables growing in neat rows, their beds edged with aromatic herbs as well as a grove of fruit trees. It further reminded him of the finca.
A man, who was vigorously striking his mattock into a patch of overgrown weeds, stood up at the sound of their voices, and stretched his back before giving them a wave. The three dogs lying in the sun beside him raised their heads lazily, their ears pricked, before standing and bounding towards them.
‘Oh, come here you, silly poohs,’ Sunday crooned as they jumped at her, threatening to knock her over. She scratched each behind the ears, which caused their tails to wag frantically. ‘Boys, settle down and say hello to Jack... Jack, this is Karel, Tommy and Hank—three of the laziest lumps you are ever likely to meet.’
He reached out to pat them, enjoying the soft warmth of their fur in his fingers, comforted by the manner with which their trusting brown eyes returned his gaze.
‘Have you got a moment, Sunday?’ the man called.
‘Sure, Neil. Jack, meet our garden guru—Neil Douglas. He’s amazing. Knows more about self-sufficient gardens than anyone in Australia, and here he is doing wonders to get Heide sorted. The place has been transformed since he’s been with us.’
Although bashfully waving away her compliments, Neil smiled at her words. ‘Now, now, Sunday. I’ll be getting a big head if you keep on like that. I just wanted to check if you still want me to plant those hydrangeas. If we don’t get them in now, we’ll have to wait until next year.’
‘Of course, Neil. You decide what is best. You’re the boss out here—we’ll go along with whatever you suggest. Let John know if you need money.’
‘That I will, m’lady,’ he replied with twinkling eyes, and Sunday laughed. Jack could see that they worked well together.
It was as perfect a spring day as any, with the chirping of insects and the whistle of birds filling air that was replete with the scent of honey. A mother duck crossed the lawn, trailed by a dozen offspring. The concert of life amid the vibrancy of the colours was intoxicating, and Jack imagined that this place was what the Garden of Eden might be like.
Looking around, he felt guilty for comparing Heide’s gardens with those of Montsalvat, but the contrast was extreme. While Justus definitely aspired to the same dream of self-sufficiency, the gardens at Montsalvat had evolved ad hoc, based upon ever-changing visions for the site, and a shoestring budget that meant all sorts of recycled materials had been used for fencing, trellises and garden edging.
Furthermore, the grounds of Montsalvat, with their accumulated heaps of gravel, stone and assorted supplies as well as the numerous semi-completed projects, gave the impression of a perpetual building site rather than the stately grandeur they’d all aspired to achieve. Usually whenever the mess grew beyond the pale, Lil or Sue complained, and a weekend of tidying would ensue. However, despite their best efforts, the outcome was invariably the creation of a dozen heaps of what looked like junk, and Montsalvat’s overall effect was one of charming, rustic chaos.
Conversely, here at Heide, a sense of orderliness prevailed. The yard was a picture, with neatly sectioned beds connected by pathways that reflected an old-world charm.
‘When we purchased the property five years ago, it was in shambles. A disused dairy. And the house was barely habitable. My father warned against our buying it, but when he realised our minds were made up, he lent us the deposit. John and I nearly broke our backs trying to get the garden sorted, until Neil came along. And now we are reaping the rewards. We have our own cow, who gives us milk, cream and butter; and I can just walk out and pick lettuce, cucumbers, radishes... anything I might want for dinner. And then, of course, there are eggs–both chicken and duck eggs–far more than we can ever use. It’s wonderful!’
‘It is very beautiful here, Sunday. You have done an amazing job.’
‘We love it, Jack. It is nice to be out of the city, away from the crowds. It’s peaceful... and the river—it’s a bonus. Let’s go down there.’
Taking his arm, she steered him to the left.
* * *
‘So, Jack. John tells me that you lived in Paris for a while?’
‘Yes, only for three months or so... Like Margaret said, it was her family connections that made it all happen. Clive and Roger Fry.’
‘Oh, how wonderful Roger Fry is! Read is always referring to him.’
‘Read?’
Jack’s expression must have revealed his confusion. Sunday explained, ‘R-E-A-D. No relation. Herbert Read’s Art Now—it’s our bible, so to speak. Read makes quite a few references to Fry. It says a lot about your ability, that Roger liked your paintings.’
‘He liked some of my paintings. Not all of them.’
‘Yes, but he did organise your lessons at the Académie Julian. That stands for something. I would love to see your work. Will you bring me some?’
‘Perhaps I have something buried away. I haven’t painted for quite a while.’ Jack couldn’t think of a single painting that he had to show Sunday—he was just replying out of politeness.
‘Did you enjoy Paris?’
‘Yes, it was wonderful.’ He had loved Paris—that was where it all began for him. He’d savoured every minute of his time there—the art lessons, the Eiffel Tower and the museums like the Louvre, walking along the Seine. It had been a magical place, where he’d met Andrés and Sofia, where he’d fallen in love.
‘La ville de l'amour!’ Sunday said with a twinkle in her eye. ‘The city of love,’ she translated, and he nodded wistfully, reminded of his own love—the love that now lay in tatters.
‘Jack, I am sorry! That was thoughtless of me. I did not mean to make you sad. You’ve been through a lot, I know. Was it Paris where you met your wife?’
Jack froze at her words, and then nodded.
They were quiet for a moment before Sunday spoke again, her voice soft. ‘Tell me about her, Jack. Was she very beautiful?’
The question was one that few people would have dared to ask Jack. However, with Sunday’s wide blue eyes firmly if quizzically fixed upon him, awaiting his response, it seemed right.
He turned his mind to Sofia as he’d first met her. That day at the Café Espanola, when she’d served olives and cheese to him and Andrés, her eyes lively as she’d bantered cheekily, taking umbrage at Andrés’ description of her as his little sister.
‘Yes, Sunday, Sofia is very beautiful. She has a glow to her. An energy. We had a wonderful time in Paris. She is very clever. She knows a lot about art. About painting. She curated her family’s gallery in Malaga.’
As though a plug had been released, Jack talked. First about his time in Paris, and then of his and Sofia’s life in Malaga. He described the olive and orange plantations perched on the steep slope where the land fell away to the shore; about the view from the finca, out over the Mediterranean Sea. The colourful fishing boats. The days he’d spent painting with Andrés before he died.
‘How terrible for Sofia. I can imagine how she felt. My brother, King, died unexpectedly when he was only twenty-five. Pneumonia! I was utterly devastated.’
Jack appreciated Sunday’s understanding. He liked that her words were direct and unemotional, as though she knew that dripping sentimentality would pull him undone. Surprisingly, he actually felt comfortable speaking with her about his life with Sofia—the good and the bad—rather than burying their time together in the graveyard of unspeakable thoughts, as he’d been in the habit of doing in recent months.
‘And so, of course... the civil war came upon you... you had left Spain by then?’
‘Yes, we came to Australia before it started, thankfully. Andrés repeatedly told Sofia that Spain was in for bloodshed, that troubled times were ahead, but she refused to accept this. He made me promise that once he was gone, I would take her away from Spain; bring her here to Australia.’
‘He was right. Franco’s ruthless uprising has been terrible. So many people dead! John and I have been following it. Last year we lent some of our paintings to the Sedon Gallery; the Spanish Aid Council held an exhibition there to raise funds in support of the victims of Franco’s purges. It is important to fight tyranny, don’t you agree?’
Jack was surprised by Sunday’s insight into the tumultuous events on the other side of the world. Even though it had often been mentioned in the newspapers, the Spanish Civil War was a topic that few Australians ever discussed in any knowledgeable sort of way. Again, he wished that Sofia was here to meet Sunday. The two women would surely have gotten along well.
‘However did you come to live at Montsalvat with Norway and his followers?’
Jack was confused for a moment, then realised that it was Justus who Sunday referred to. ‘Master’ and ‘Jorgy’ he’d heard, often. Lil had sometimes called Justus ‘Peachy,’ which always sounded odd. Only a few people referred to him as Norway. Moreover, it amazed him that Sunday even knew of Justus—but then again, why not? One thing he’d discovered: the art circles of the world were invariably connected. He considered the Bloomsburys with their links to Paris, as well as their influence here in Australia; Gertrude Stein and her American friends; Picasso, whose paintings and personality had an impact across the world. And then, of course, dozens of Australians, including the Jorgensen, the Colahans, and even himself, had made the crossing to Europe. It was hardly surprising that the Reeds would know of the Meldrumite artists living barely twenty miles away.
‘It was pure chance, really. We’d been in Australia for less than a year, and Sofia came upon the Meldrum Gallery when she was exploring Melbourne. Until then, we hadn’t met any other artists in Australia. Nobody like the Meldrumites... a whole group of artists who shared their passion.’
‘No doubt about it, Max Meldrum was a passionate teacher! I’ve spoken with him on a few occasions.’
Sunday’s comment did not reveal her opinion of Max, his methods nor the Meldrumites, but even so, Jack spoke in their defence.
‘They were friendly and full of big ideas. Justus has the most extraordinary mind. He’s passionate about everything. Not just painting, but building, sculpture, ideas, life. I’ve learned a lot from him over the last five years.’
‘And you have developed your painting using the tonalist techniques of Max Meldrum?’
Confronted by Sunday’s questioning, Jack sought for the words to express what he had learned over the last five years.
‘Well, yes, to an extent. But then again, no.’ In honesty, Jack didn’t think that his paintings had developed significantly at all in the last few years. ‘The thing is, Montsalvat is about so much more than painting. It is about creativity, a lifestyle immersed in design. The buildings are incredible. It’s as though every surface—the floors, the walls and even the ceilings—is a work of art. Justus wanted Montsalvat’s atmosphere to inspire artists, not just painters, but sculptors, stonemasons and glassworkers.’
Jack suspected that his answer did not appease Sunday. She, like Margaret and even Sofia in the end, believed creating paintings on canvas should be the priority of an artist. For him, though, Justus’ grander vision of Montsalvat had always been a worthy pursuit. By participating in the act of building, Jack had grown. By the very handling of mud and stone, by breathing in the eucalyptus-infused air—ever changed by woodsmoke, morning fogs and filtered sunlight—by digging his hands into the earth, feeling its weight on his shovel, observing the flickering retreat of worms and beetles through exposed soil, witnessing the scurrying of birds and lizards, he’d gained a far greater understanding of organic and inorganic form, of light and texture, than any artist would ever learn in the confines of a studio. And the communal living, the butting and blending of personalities, who at times dominated and hurt each other, but who were ultimately compassionate and caring, had deepened Jack’s understanding of human nature.
Had his paintings evolved? Possibly not. But without doubt, Jack’s intellect and emotions had been expanded; stretched to extraordinary lengths even as his body had been strengthened as he’d hewn timber, mixed mud and lifted and carried rocks.
How might this affect the way he approached painting? Jack didn’t know. But he did know that the retreat, with its sculptures and stone carvings, its unique buildings and gardens, coarse as they were, was the art that he’d been creating over the past four years.
By comparison, a mere painting seemed to be a minor work. Instead, he and Sofia had been notes in a complex symphony, of which Justus had been the composer and conductor—the masterpiece of Montsalvat.
‘But you were about to leave—you’d been planning to take a house in Eltham?’
‘Yes... a few things happened. Justus can be very dominating at times. It’s only that he cares. But we decided that we wanted a place of our own. And then there was the accident.’ His last words came as a whisper.
To Sunday’s credit, she didn’t ask him to explain. In fact, she changed the subject.
‘See here, Jack. Look at this tree. It’s a river red—nearly five hundred years old! A songline tree for the Aborigines who walked these banks. Doesn’t it make you wonder what it has seen, over time? What it might say, if only it could speak?’
Sunday reached out and touched the gnarled bark. ‘To think the Wurundjeri people lived on these very banks for thousands of years. Fished. Collected yams. Stood on this very spot. You can see how they’ve cut away a huge slab of bark from this tree. Probably made a canoe from it. It’s remarkable, isn’t it, the way life goes on? I often look at it and wonder, do trees feel pain? Did this tree feel the blade cutting into its flesh, the ripping away of its bark? Bark’s a bit like skin, don’t you think? But here it is. Still living. Survived. It serves as a reminder to me of what I must do. Pain, sorrow, they come and go, but I must survive. Continue to put down roots and grow.’
Jack’s breathing all but ceased as he listened to Sunday. She reminded him of Justus at his best—the perceptive and skilful Master who had the ability to guide students with metaphor and parable.
‘So, Jack. Are you painting at all?’
Somehow, Jack felt sure that Sunday knew he wasn’t. ‘Painting doesn’t interest me these days.’
‘Of course, it does. If anything, you need painting more than ever!
Aha, Jack thought to himself. As he’d suspected. Sunday knew more about him than Margaret had let on.
‘No, Sunday. I have no desire to paint. What on earth would I paint? Gum trees? A river?’ He cast his arm around the landscape. ‘It’s so pointless.’
‘But you must use painting to heal yourself. Get your emotions out. Just like Clive said, “True art will move the emotions.” Perhaps with your own emotions so moved, you could be painting your best work!’
From deep in his memories, Picasso’s words returned, uttered all those years ago when he, Andrés and Sofia had visited the artist at his home. “One day you will know grief, Jack. Then, you will understand how to paint truth. Then you will be great!”
Well, Pablo, you were right on one point, wrong on the other. I do know grief, but I have no intentions of painting anything.
Sunday’s words broke through Jack’s reverie. ‘I want you to come and live here, with us.’
‘What?’
‘We could be good for each other. You have been through a lot, and so have I. Lost love. Lost faith. Lost confidence. Lost a child....’
At her words, Jack inhaled sharply as he looked at Sunday. She held his gaze; her own was clear, warm and filled with sorrow. For him? For herself? She didn’t expand on her loss or seek to know more about his.
‘It’s quiet here at Heide. Meditative. I like to think that we have created a place of healing through gardening, by growing our own food and eating well, by being surrounded with good books and music. You wouldn’t even have to work if you choose not to. And I would get you painting again! What I have learned, Jack, is that you cannot control many things in life, but you can control the things that feed your heart and soul. A broken heart can be mended. Sometimes healing doesn’t come from people, but rather from the arts. From music and literature. And, of course, from painting.’
They walked in silence for a few minutes before Sunday continued.
‘You wouldn’t be the first. We’ve had a few resident artists over the years. Sam Atyeo—you saw his works in the dining room? He stayed for almost a year before leaving for Paris. You could work in the garden; that would be helpful to us. In turn, we could sell your paintings. John and I, we have contacts. Money. It could be a very good arrangement.’
