(FICTION, JFJ, 2014, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED) The High Art of Clair Fiorini Oxford’s undergraduate format of tutorials and lectures suited Marc and he flourished and was at the top of his class. As was his nature, he quickly made friends from all over the world, helped by his fluency in many languages. One friend was a Dutch art student, a painter. His parents were artists who had met, standing in front of a Rembrandt, in the Louvre, in Paris, and fallen in love that same evening in a café’ near the Eiffel Tower, married three months later, and started collecting paintings and other art, but mostly paintings. They had enthusiastically named their only son Harmenszoon, Rembrandt’s middle name. When Harmenszoon and Marc met, Marc introduced himself. Harmenszoon reciprocated, adding, “My friends call me Harm, for short, I think we’ll be friends, so call me Harm.” Marc had laughed and said, “Ok, Harm, I’ll call you Harm. You call me Marc. It’s short for Marc.” Harm laughed. One morning, Harm told Marc he and other, student painters would be in the city center, painting scenes out-of-doors, in the afternoon, when the light best illuminated the famous buildings of Oxford, and made various, intense shadows. “In case you didn’t know, painting outside is called plein air,” he said to Marc. Marc said, “Interesting. Until being around you painters, I never had reason to know the painters’ meaning of plein air; now I do.” ----- Marc stood behind Harm in the Botanic Gardens, on High Street, and watched him paint. Harm was already good before he matriculated Oxford, so he knew how to start a painting and suddenly bring it into focus, after all his cutting in had been done. After Harm finished, he stood from his stool and they looked at it and talked about it. Harm said, “Let’s go for a walk and see some of the others: There are some very good painters at Oxford, this year, and several of them are out here, today, painting in this garden.” As they walked the garden’s perfect lawn, they’d come up behind a student painter and quietly stand and watch the painting take shape. Sometimes the artist would acknowledge them- they all knew Harm –and, sometimes he or she would not because they were too engrossed. Marc noticed a fine painting taking shape and he pointed and they walked over. After a moment, Harm leaned over and whispered to Marc, “That’s very, very good: notice how she chose to compose; notice how she got that shadow right, how she saw, and painted- is painting - the different intensities of it as the light defused, left to right, high to low.” Marc could see, in the painting, what Harm was talking about. Then, he noticed the artist’s hand, holding the brush: her perfect fingers; her exquisite wrist; the high-art of her forearm; a chill went over him. Harm whispered something more about her painting. Marc did not hear him. She had her hair in a pony tail to keep it away from her face when she painted. Marc noticed the beauty and shape of the nape of her neck. A breeze shifted and blew over her and onto him and he smelled the oil paint, and then her, she smelled fresh and clean, like the Scottish highlands after a rain shower- he had hiked them the previous week. ----- Later, at a pub, Harm said, “Her name is Claire Fiorini. She’s American; ‘from New York. I heard her father is some sort of captain of the media industry. I am good friends with one of her friends. She went home with Claire last summer. She said her family lives in New Jersey, in a 75-room, stone mansion; she said it sits on eighty five acres- it looks like something out of a movie. She said it has Italian marble fire places and staircases, and that her father commutes into New York City, every day, by his own, very big helicopter, with its own pilots, they land on top of a very tall building, owned by her family’s corporation. He’s home for dinner, by seven, which is served to them, European style, around a long table, where they eat and talk for a long time, almost every night, more like Europeans, than Americans, but then her father’s and mother’s families are Italian- societal, high up people, in Italy.” Marc asked, “Do you ever talk with Claire?” Harm took a bite of fish from his basket of fish and chips, and a sip of his ale, and while he chewed, he nodded his head, until he swallowed. “Yes, I see her almost every day. We’re usually painting. But, I’ve talked with her. You know what I like about Claire?” “What’s that?” “She’s a very nice, genuine girl. There are a lot of kids here from wealthy families. Her family might be one of the wealthiest; I don’t know, but the way our friend described the way they live, they would have to be very, very, very wealthy, and making more, all the time. Anyway, with Claire, she is obviously cultured, but without our friend going home with her and seeing where and how they live, I would never have known.” “When do you plein air, again?” “Tomorrow.” “In the Botanic Garden?” “Yes.” ----- Marc again stood behind Harm, in the Botanical Gardens, and watched him paint. Finally, Marc said, “That’s very, very good, Harm, you’ll soon be a Dutch master.” Harm chuckled. “Maybe I already am a Dutch Master.” Marc smiled, “Yes, I believe you are.” After a few moments, Marc said, “I’ll be back.” Harm did not turn, nor stop painting, as he smiled. ----- Marc found her in a different place. He stood behind her and watched her fingers and hands and wrists and forearms bring flowers and life to her canvas. Again, the wind shifted and wafted over her and he smelled the paint, and her, and still, she smelled lovely, like the grass, high up, in Scotland, after a soft shower. After some moments passed, he said, in Italian, “It is beautiful, and true.” Without turning, she said, in Italian, “Thank you.” As she began final touches, he said, in Italian, “I’m Marc.” Without turning, she said, in Italian, “I’m Claire.” He said, in Italian, “I know.” Still, without turning, she said, in Italian, “You speak Italian, like an Italian, are you from Italy?” “America. New York.” Then, in Italian, “Would you go with me to Blackwell’s Bookstore Café for a bite to eat? You must be famished, after such a painting. I’ll help you carry your things.” She turned around and looked at him. In Italian, she said, “I barely know you.” He looked directly in her eyes and in Italian, he said, “We know each other enough to learn more about each other over a sandwich at Blackwell’s.” She smiled, slightly, and said, in Italian, “I suppose you are right.” ----- Marc bought them tea and sandwiches. He told her about his father and mother; that Heinz had had to deal with Hitler during the war, that he had been murdered, and his work stolen. She said, “I understand a little about how your father was forced to dance on the edge of a razor: my grandfather was an industrialist: Mussolini breathed down his neck for the whole war; by the way, through Mussolini, he met Hitler, too: he said being with them was like being with two wolves.” He told her about his schooling in Germany, and about his summers in other countries, mastering languages and cultures. She told him about her growing up in America, and Italy, and about her family, in both countries. ----- The table was small and round. Their dishes were taken away after they finished their sandwiches. She rested on her forearms on the tabletop as she talked. As she talked, Marc took her hand and held it: she smiled. As they gathering their things to leave, she said, “Would you like to have the painting?” He said, “Don’t you have to turn it in for a grade?” “Not that one.” He said, “Yes, I would love to have it.” ----- He carried the painting and walked her to where she lived. They said goodbye, and as she put her hand on the door handle, he said, “Claire.” She stopped and turned around. After a few seconds, he started to say something but he could not get it out. She smiled, and said, “I know.” He said, “Do you?” She said, “Yes. I do. Do you?” He smiled, “Yes, I do.” She smiled. He said, “I’ll take care of this painting.” She said, “You do that.”
Posted on: Fri, 26 Dec 2014 18:48:53 +0000
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