Hearts On Fire Episode 07
Wizzy sat on the edge of her lounger to watch Charlie and Julia chatting beneath the sunshade.
She hoped Charlie wouldn’t be horrible to their lovely tutor.
She caught the occasional word, mostly Charlie’s, of course, because Julia spoke so softly.
But things weren’t going too badly. Julia didn’t seem at all upset.
Considering Charlie insisted there was nothing Julia could teach her, that was astonishing.
What on earth were they talking about so agreeably?
Eventually, Charlie rose, Julia smiled and her friend returned to her.
“Your turn, Wizzy,” Charlie said as she plopped into a director’s chair.
Wizzy searched Charlie’s face for clues but found nothing helpful.
“What’s she like?” she asked.
“Her heart seems in the right place,” Charlie replied. “A complete wet hen, of course. Limited talent, but I can live with that.”
Wizzy rose, too astonished to reply, and crossed the terracotta paving for her interview.
“Hello,” she greeted Julia. “I see you and Charlie got on all right.”
“I think so.” Julia’s reply didn’t enlighten her at all. “But let’s talk about you, shall we?”
Wizzy settled herself in the cushioned chair.
“There’s not much to say. I paint for a hobby. I’m not good like Charlie, and if she and Connie didn’t paint, I’m not sure I would.”
“But you enjoy it?” Julia asked.
“Oh, yes. It’s the perfect escape from . . .” Wizzy stopped herself before she revealed too much of her home life. “From the stress of modern life.
“I hope Charlie wasn’t unkind,” she added. “She can be a little spiky.”
“Life would be dull if everyone were the same,” Julia replied.
“She’s not had it easy, you know,” Wizzy continued regardless. “Her fiancé jilted her just after we left college and took most of the family fortune she’d just come into.
“It affected her badly. Nobody talked about mental health like they do now. It was all hushed up.
“But she was depressed, I suppose, for several years, and hasn’t been the same since,” Wizzy explained. “Painting was her saviour.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Julia murmured with soft eyes. “But –”
“She has only one customer now,” Wizzy went on, lost in explanations. “An old school friend commissions a portrait of friends’ pets as a gift from time to time. She only does that out of friendship.
“She paints other animals?” Julia asked. “Not just horses?”
“Mostly horses, but she’s done dogs as well. A parrot once.”
Wizzy laughed at the memory of Clarence, who was notorious for his choice phrases.
“Interesting.” Julia made a note on her laptop. “Thank you. Now, I’ve had a look at the sample paintings you sent me –”
“Oh, those old things.” Wizzy waved a hand. “I was embarrassed to send them. I never sent anything to Connie.”
“I like them,” Julia said.
Wizzy blinked and looked for signs Julia was joking.
“You do?”
“Yes.” Julia turned her screen to display a still life of a bowl of fruit, complete with over-ripe bananas, car keys and a mug stained with coffee dribbles.
“It’s realistic,” she explained. “It represents modern life. With a little refinement, this is the sort of painting I might buy.”
Wizzy stared open-mouthed as Julia moved on to another painting – the wildlife pond at the side of the house with an empty plant pot floating in it.
“This is wonderful. Who adds litter to their paintings?” Julia enthused. “Most artists would remove the pot, yet it counterpoints the natural setting and makes another statement about modern life.”
“Is that good?” Wizzy asked.
“Yes. You have a flair for composition and statement.”
“I do? But the proportions are all over the place and the lighting’s wrong.”
“What do you wish you had done differently?” Julia asked.
Wizzy was bemused. Nobody had asked her these questions before.
She cast her mind back to the calm day after a storm one September.
“I remember this day clearly.”
She and Donald had an enormous garden, mostly laid out with precision and perfectly manicured – Donald wouldn’t have it any other way.
But one small corner, tucked away behind dense holly hedges, was Wizzy’s.
There, she gardened for wildlife. It was her happy place.
The pot in the pond had caught her attention, and the low autumn sun on the otherwise still surface created an ethereal quality, more like quicksilver than water.
She described the scene, and the trouble she’d had capturing it, to the tutor.
She talked for what must have been 10 minutes without stopping, describing both the scene and her feelings, and how recreating the light on the water remained frustratingly beyond her.
“But listen to me rabbiting on,” Wizzy said eventually. “You don’t want to listen to this nonsense.”
Julia smiled.
“I do. I feel like I’m there with you. For many, painting is vital to self-expression. It can be frustrating when things don’t go right.”
Wizzy nodded.
Frustrated – that’s exactly how she’d felt.
“What you wanted to achieve is a matter of technique. It’s more difficult to teach the eye for what works and what doesn’t,” Julia continued. “I’d say that’s your greatest talent.”
“Oh.” Wizzy didn’t know how to respond.
Nobody had used the word “talent” in relation to her art before.
Connie referred to her “little sketches”, or “dabbling”.
“Would you like to concentrate on light this week?” Julia asked. “It’s your decision, but I’m sure I can help. Perhaps we can enlist Charlie, too.”
Julia smiled and tilted her head quizzically.
“I don’t know what to say,” Wizzy replied. “Connie never asked . . . I mean, I mostly come to keep Charlie company.”
“If you prefer to be left in peace, that’s fine,” Julia returned. “But I’m here to help. This is your retreat, Wisteria.”
“Call me Wizzy,” she answered. “Only my husband calls me Wisteria.”
She fell silent while she considered.
“Yes,” she decided. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
But Julia wasn’t finished.
“When we’re doing a workshop, it’s my practice to be interactive, so I’ll ask people for their opinions. Are you OK if I include you?”
Wizzy stared at her.
“Who would be interested in what I have to say?”
Julia smiled again,
“Art is a matter of interpretation, so no idea is wrong. I suspect you’ll have some very useful input on composition.”
“Oh.” Wizzy was not normally stuck for words. “Thank you.”
A warm sensation spread through Wizzy’s body like a welcome vin chaud on a winter’s night.
But would it cause a headache in the morning?
To be continued…