Hearts On Fire Episode 16
“This is wonderful!” Julia surveyed that afternoon’s efforts displayed on the easels that arced across the terrazza.
Every guest had come to the feedback session.
“As you know, there is no obligation to show and discuss your work,” she added, “but I’m pleased you’ve all chosen to do so.”
The wooded Umbrian mountains formed a stunning backdrop to the display of paintings – some finished, some not.
The sun had begun its slow descent towards the deep green, almost black, skyline, and the fierce daytime heat had eased to a comfortable warmth.
Night crickets began to celebrate the end of the day from the olive groves.
Julia inhaled deeply and wondered if life could get any better.
Earlier that afternoon she had slipped away from the belvedere at the King’s Peak, feeling utterly serene.
She’d stayed with Mark at the vantage point, relaxing with a book, occasionally raising her eyes to watch his lean form as he concentrated on his canvas.
He seemed confident now, and peaceful, with no sign of the panic that had almost driven him home on arrival at the retreat.
Sometimes he would ask her about mixing colours, perspective or layering washes.
It had all been terribly professional, and she left well before Jacopo returned to pick up Mark.
But the closer each step had brought her to Villa Davide, the more her old insecurities threatened this contentment.
By the time she reached the olive groves, her ex-husband’s voice was in her head, reminding her not to expect much from the first feedback session, as she was hardly a famous painter, was she?
She wasn’t famous, but she earned a living as an artist, which was no mean feat.
A smile plumped up her cheeks as she gazed once again over a full house of canvases.
She was well shot of the negativity that she had tolerated for 10 years.
That part of her life was behind her.
Over the next hour she would give feedback to each artist and invite constructive comments from the others.
She moved to the left extreme of the arc.
“Shall we begin here and work through?”
A murmur of assent answered her.
“Margot?” She addressed the American, who never shied from speaking. “Would you like to start?”
“Sure I will.”
Before Margot could get into full swing about her picture, divided into three stripes – a tree trunk in the middle, with a less detailed, paler background to either side – Julia stopped her.
“Just a quick two minutes on why you chose this particular scene, if it’s finished, and any problems you encountered.”
She stopped Margot talking after five, having gained a vivid image of her garden back in Arizona.
There followed a brief discussion, then Julia worked along the line of guests in the same fashion.
Wizzy presented a plaque on a bench at the piazzale, where they’d spent the morning gathering inspiration.
“I adored the light playing on it,” she explained. “The sun reflecting on that corner. I’ll have problems capturing that glorious ethereal sheen.
“It’s the perfect opportunity to work on what we discussed, Julia – light effects.”
Her composition, as expected, was exquisite.
The plaque formed the focal point, perfectly positioned just below horizontal and to the left.
She’d filled the rest of the canvas with a stylistic representation of the pleached limes that shaded the square, curls and swirls of leaves replacing the real-life regimented lines, yet still drawing the eye to the key feature.
Wizzy beamed with pride and blushed slightly on receiving praise and admiration from the others.
When Julia arrived at Mark’s pen and ink outline of the piazzale, with pastel infill, her pulse skittered.
She prayed he would not mention the hours they had spent alone in each other’s company that afternoon.
She smiled encouragement exactly, she hoped, as she had to the other guests.
“As you know, Julia . . .” he began.
The smile froze and her heart stopped. He wasn’t about to drop her in the mire, was he?
“I wanted to work on adding more colour to my paintings, as in the past I’ve mostly captured misty mornings over the salt marshes near my home.”
Margot reacted first.
“Didn’t you miss your introductory chat with Julia yesterday, Mark?” she piped up.
“I did, but my balcony is next to Julia’s. We’ve been able to discuss my painting since.”
Julia breathed again. His explanation was literally true, though the implication was misleading, because they’d had that chat about colour at the belvedere.
He transferred his attention back to her, his eyes twinkling.
She sincerely hoped he wouldn’t continue in this vein for his whole two minutes, otherwise she would end up blushing.
Thankfully, he didn’t.
He continued exactly like the others, giving no hint that Julia had been looking at this painting – and
him – all afternoon.
Finally, she arrived at Charlie, who looked ill at ease, her frizzy hair even frizzier than usual, with streaks of grey paint marring the red.
“I have no idea why I’m here, other than that Wizzy insisted.”
She waved a hand at her canvas.
“Still, as you can see, I chose the statue of . . . what was she called again,?”
“Isabella Martaci.” Wizzy turned to the others. “She was a local heroine of the partisans during the war.”
“Yes, thank you.” Charlie nodded. “I haven’t got far.
“My style of realistic painting is a painstaking and prolonged process of many iterations.”
Her canvas bore a very accurate pencil drawing of the statue and some basic washes, with perhaps a square inch of exquisite detail on the face.
“It’s perfect,” Debbie gushed. “I wish I could capture scenes so faithfully.”
“Oh, believe me,” Charlie said with rare insight, “it can be a curse as well as a blessing.”
“Given that we only have another six days,” Julia began, “how might you finish this before you go?”
She crossed her fingers that Charlie wouldn’t tell her not to be so dense.
She didn’t. Instead, she stared at her canvas and seemed lost for words.
“Well, Wizzy and I are here for the entire month. But I suppose I might . . .”
Her voice died away as she stared hopelessly at the ghostly outline of the heroine of the resistance and her one perfect eye.
Then a remarkable thing happened. Charlie turned to her friend.
“How would you do it, Wizzy?” she asked.
“Me?” Wizzy pointed to her own chest before crossing to Charlie’s easel.
“I find statues boring, so I suppose I’d want to bring more life to it.”
Charlie looked blank, but Julia nodded.
“I wouldn’t paint her as she is, but as she must have felt,” Wizzy continued. “I imagine her being terribly fierce in real life, and terribly cross when the Germans captured her.
“I might create a caricature, perhaps, stressing those emotions.”
Charlie frowned.
“You mean I should draw a cartoon?”
“Yes, and no.”
“Like that infamous portrait of Churchill by Sutherland?” Debbie offered. “The one his wife destroyed because it made him look like a bulldog?”
“Oh, I rather liked that,” Wizzy replied. “It caught the man perfectly, even if it looked like he had safety pins holding his waistcoat together.”
“I remember.” Charlie nodded. “Dreadful thing.”
She stared at Wizzy.
“You think I should do the statue like that?”
“Why not?” her friend returned. “Isn’t half the fun creating something that exists only in your imagination?”
Charlie blinked.
“It hadn’t crossed my mind. I’ve never looked on painting as fun. How does one do that?”
Wizzy caught her hand and squeezed it.
“I’ll help you.”
Julia had kept her own counsel, watching the interaction play out, but now she jumped in, wanting to capitalise on this breakthrough before Charlie grew too emotional.
“That’s a splendid idea,” she said. “Perhaps you can chat about that later?
“Is there any advice you can offer Wizzy, Charlie? About the light playing on the plaque, for example?”
Charlie transferred her gaze to Wizzie’s painting.
“I have no idea what all the nonsense is in the periphery,” she said, waving a hand vaguely at the stylistic trees, “but yes, I can help with the plaque.”
“Excellent,” Julia replied, relieved that it had been that easy.
With this most dreaded part of the feedback session behind her, the rest of the hour flew by.
When it was time for supper and the easels had been packed away, Julia was exhausted but happy.
As she entered the house to pick up a cardigan to keep warm while they ate on the patio in the fading glow of evening, she caught Marianna’s eye.
The hostess stood at the window of her study, smiling.
Julia’s heart swelled, yet she noted an air of sadness in Marianna’s expression.
She continued to the stairs, noting the portrait of Bruno that caught the little dog’s charm, and wondered if she might persuade Marianna to become involved in the Charlie project, too.
To be continued…