Red Yellow Blue

Red Yellow Blue

I’d barely noticed his presence the first time. He looked at a painting on the back wall for some time and left like a summer breeze, the door lingering before closing with its air-cushioned thump.

I hadn’t arrived at a comfortable accommodation with the shopkeeping business. Not a merchant by any standards, unlike May, the baker next door, or Roger, the shoe salesman across the road.

The man slipped in the next day and resumed his position in front of the same canvas. I’d been working on my current painting for months. Completion always led to dissatisfaction – a habitual uncertainty about whether it was done or I was done.

Advancing on a customer always felt mercenary.

‘I can move it, if you like, into better light.’ I’d had a skylight installed when I set up the gallery.

He kept his attention on the painting. ‘When you think of the primary colours, how would you say them out loud?’

‘Red, Yellow, Blue,’ I said.

‘Exactly. ‘It’s not said in any other way. It’s the way we always say it. Or, at least, that has been my experience. It’s how we think of them – the colours – in that order.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ This guy was a major nerd. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Not at all, unless we are talking about physics. Then they are red, green and blue.

‘Okay. If I switch occupations, I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘Ha! Good for you. This painting has a red smudge just there. It draws the eye but then speaks of an absence.’ He spoke with a mild yet specific modulation, a precise variance as if taking pains to register his voice with his thoughts.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m thinking Turner. Joseph, not William.’

‘Guilty as charged. Joseph once outrageously splodged a smudge of red in the middle of his canvas to draw attention away from other paintings at the Royal Academy.’

‘Turner must have been a confronting fellow.’

‘A real grump by all accounts,' I said. 'You know painting then?’

‘I’m a student of painting, of art, otherwise talentless. I drew when I was young, and having grown into a man, the requisite skill had failed to follow me up.’

‘That’s a shame,’ I said, trawling for an anecdote. ‘Though there might be hope for you. Picasso said he’d spent his whole adult life trying to paint like a child again – something like that.’

‘Yes, and have you seen his youthful drawings?’

‘They are outstanding, aren’t they?’

He turned to me and smiled. ‘I’m assuming you are Bella Vinton?’

‘I am she.’

‘Good. I’m Stephen. I want to buy this one.’

‘Oh… Well, yes… Yes, of course.’ Within minutes, several months’ rent had been paid.

‘I’m on foot. Can you deliver?’

I followed Stephen’s directions to a single-story colonial at the end of a gradually rising gravel lane. The house, perfectly maintained in muted greys, sported a dull green corrugated roof and wraparound verandas. It stood enfolded within a copse of gum trees. The land sloped gently down to a creek interrupted by a weir, a tributary from the river upstream.

The drought had broken a month before, the clouds finally gave up their brooding, and it rained for a whole week, enough to fill the dams. I was struck by a sense of isolation and peace when.

Stephen had paintings, etchings and lithographs covering the walls. He hung mine in a large room at the rear of the house.

‘It looks best here,’ he said. ‘I want it to duplicate its position at the shop.’

The only item of furniture in the room was a piano stool. Open French doors led onto the back veranda, and I could see the town in the distance.

‘Later, I’ll sit here and look at it.’

I wanted to excuse my humble efforts in Stephen’s art collection. ‘I’m curious as to what people see when viewing my paintings.’

‘Absence,’ he said. ‘Wait, hold that thought.’

He left me for a few minutes, returning with glasses of wine.

‘Shiraz, I hope you like it.’

‘Go on, tell me about this absence.’ I sipped the wine. Its rich peppery flavour delighted me. I’d become instantly tipsy and morbidly craved a compliment.

‘I think it’s a picture about extinguishing light. It’s a clever and mysterious composition, the little red smudge cleverly directing our gaze to its centre. Something’s missing. You’ve left something out, or more to the point, a space left for a missing element. A sense of loss; the red smudge is alone—what shall we make of it? I like that.’

‘Oh,’ is all I could say. I felt both foolish and astonished at the same time. Stephen precisely targeted the raw emotions I experienced while painting it—the struggle, then the disappointment.

‘Don’t tell me what it is,' he said.

‘Pardon?’

‘The bit you left out.’

‘I don’t know how to respond to yellow.’ We walked around his collection and stopped at a striking painting that, at first glance, appeared to depict an aerial view of a maze garden, but, on closer inspection, my eyes recalculated a mass of tiny, meticulously painted flowers. It was a superbly crafted picture. Every shape, contour, and shadow had been created from different shades of yellow, entirely from blossoms, with the maze as the central motif.

‘It’s challenging, isn’t it?’ I said, sipping the delicious wine.

‘Yes, and I might have worked out why. This picture is a labyrinth. We are afraid of being lost, of never finding our way out.’

‘But not from the maze,’ I replied.

‘Yes. There is no exit. It heightens my unease with the colour yellow.’

‘But you have the painting?’

‘Oh, I absolutely had to have it. There was no question in my mind the second I laid eyes on it. Do you think me odd?’

‘Yes, I think the word odd sums it up nicely.’ The wine ambrosial reflecting my loose tongue.

He laughed. A transformation. He looked like a different person.

‘I’ve never bought a picture that did not contain a mystery,’ he said.

‘It’s odd, my dreams are sometimes yellow.’

‘Ahh, you see, yellow transcends to our dreams—or nightmares.’ He moved away from the painting as though he indeed feared it. ‘The artist and I…we were a couple. He was young, just starting out. Very intense, my very own sun, burning bright. We can delude ourselves like that. Of course, he is now well known. He left me for a young man closer to his own age.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘As am I. Sometimes we have to let go. I had no power in the relationship. Another glass of wine?’

He led me to the kitchen.

‘Is that what you wanted? Power, I mean.’

‘Some, yes, I did. When it comes to love, don’t we all?’

‘It’s often not fair; that much I’m certain of,’ I answered. ‘Though I wouldn’t have characterised it like that. One can also shine in another’s light. When they leave, it can be dark for too long.’

‘Yes, that’s quite clear to me.’ His gaze fell on me. ‘It’s alright, you know. Anger helps.’

‘I don’t… Um…my partner, not something I talk about,’ I said.

‘That’s fine, Bella,’ he poured the wine and gestured to the yellow painting. ‘I didn’t go to the opening, just slipped in the day after, viewed the show and bought that one. Paid cash, no names, no pack drill. It’s entitled “Yellow Fever.”’

‘Was he cruel?’ The wine had loosened my tongue. He looked down at the polished floorboards and slowly raised his eyes, sizing me up.

Vincent Van Gogh said, “How wonderful yellow is. It stands for the sun.” I’m not sure I agree, though I can hear him say it. It would be in Dutch, so I wouldn’t understand.’

He laughed. Stephen invited intimacy. It had been a long time since I’d been intimate with a man, and he was attractive. He handed me the wine and leaned against the kitchen counter—a handsome pose. What a shame, I thought, but of course didn’t say.

‘The sun can burn us when we get too close,’ I said.

‘Precisely.’

He’d maintain a quiet presence, which would dissipate with a laugh. One could judge him for his apparent wealth, his air of privilege. This house and its art, his good looks and his careless dressing all made him seem removed from a lesser world.

Later, he stood beside my van to see me off.

‘Bella, I can tell we are going to be friends.’

Stephen came by the shop a few times, and I made sure there was a bottle of the same local Shiraz he gave me at his house. A month had passed without seeing him again. Off on one of my jaunts, he said.

May made a sandwich and coffee for my lunch by the river. ‘There’s a pastry in there for you, dear.’

‘May, you really shouldn’t do that.’ I insisted on paying her, but she wouldn’t hear of anything for the treats she always snuck in. I had a painting in mind as a gift for her.

‘What a gorgeous day, Bella. It’s as if the rain has created a new world for us. Look at that beautiful blue sky. The colours are returning the way they were meant to be.’

‘My second Summer here. When I arrived, the town and fields were stricken by drought. I can see why people settle in this valley.’

‘Have you noticed the smiles on the farmer’s faces?’

‘Don’t get many farmers in my shop, May.’

May and I shared a bottle of wine every Friday in the gallery after closing.

‘Now, Bella, what’s the goss on you and that posh Stephen Fellowes? Do I see a bit of a romance developing?’

‘Oh, May, he’s…he’s not my type.’

‘He’s a well-set-up fellow, that one. A catch, I reckon.’

When Stephen came into the shop, again, I didn’t notice until movement caught my peripheral vision. I had been obsessively tinkering with the painting I’d been working on.

‘You’re pretty bloody quiet. Are you aware of that?’ I asked.

‘I have been told. When I enter an artist’s domain, I try not to disturb.’

‘Which is odd because you’re strangely disturbing,’ We exchanged a smile. I got off my stool and stretched audibly. ‘I don’t have any wine to give you. Drank it all last night.’

‘That’s the canvas you were working on when I first came here.’

‘How do you know? You haven’t seen it.’

‘It is, though, isn’t it?’

‘I can’t decide if it’s finished.’

We stood side-by-side under the skylight. I felt uncomfortable looking at the canvas with him. I could only think of it as utter shit, a shambles.

I broke the silence. ‘Well?’

‘Have you ever seen a field of blue cornflowers?’

‘No.’

‘You first wonder if you're seeing things, an illusion of the senses. In the old days, young men in love would wear them. If they faded too quickly, it was a sign their affections were not returned.’

‘Sounds sad.’

‘Gorgeous blues. You’ve left out something again.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. You’re asking the wrong person.’

‘Good to know. All I need, the town’s cryptic art critic.’

He laughed. ‘It’s all right not knowing.’

‘Is it, though?’

‘You must settle with it, Bella.’

‘I’m getting there, I think.’

‘That’s the prince of blues. You know, all other blues are simply imitations of ultramarine.’

‘No, I didn’t know, but of course, this is something you would.’

‘Yes, I’m a pedant regarding the colour blue. Some would go so far as to say I’m a know-it-all about many things.’

‘I’ll give you that.’

‘So, the word Oltramarino, coined to express that which is beyond the sea, is apt considering lapis lazuli from which this blue is derived. There are lapis mines in Afghanistan’s northwest. I’ve been there. A strange place. The nearby villages are not marked on maps.’

‘You actually went to Afghanistan to see the mines?’

‘Yes. I will say that the road is very rough in places, and traversing it in a battered old Russian jeep is no fun.'

‘Amazingly, you lived to tell the tale,’ I said.

‘It really is. One day, my driver warned me I was about to sit on an unexploded bomb.’

‘Ouch!’

‘Precisely. Gives new meaning to the old dictionary description of a fart – “a small explosion between the legs.”’ An extra-wide smile flared on his face.

‘I wonder how modern dictionaries describe it?’

‘No idea, although it could be – an annoying or foolish person.’ Another grin.

‘You’re very pleased with yourself sometimes, aren’t you?’

‘My cross to bear, Bella. Take Michelangelo, a notoriously impatient man who waited months for his shipment of lapis. The Sistine Chapel would not be the same without it.’

‘You’re a dark horse, Stephen. What else have you been up to?’

‘Do you have about thirty years up your sleeve?’

‘You should write a memoir.’

‘Vanity might be all, but it’s also quite boring. Never completed university. Hated it, and they didn’t care much for me either. It’s wise not to know a single thing while being educated—the pedagogues will resent you. My parents were close to disowning me when I dropped out and reconsidered after I bought and sold several paintings for a tidy profit.’

‘Look, is all this your way of avoiding telling me my painting is shit?’

‘On the contrary. It’s finished, and I want it. How much?’

‘What? I don’t know, haven’t thought about it.’

‘Then work something out and let me know. It’s bigger than The Red Smudge, so it has to be more. Paintings are always purchased by the square metre. Until, of course, when they are not, and then we consult our Who’s Who and add zeros.’

‘Okay,’ I said lamely and a little dazed. Two large paintings in the space of two months. ‘So, you named the first one The Red Smudge on my behalf?’

‘Untitled is insufficient.’

‘The Red Smudge it is, then.’

‘Do you have a name for this one?’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Can you deliver again?’ Stephen put on his hat, ready to leave.

‘Do you walk everywhere?’

‘I don’t like cars. If I can avoid them, I will walk.’

‘Okay, good to know. Got any of that delicious red wine left?’

‘Several crates of the stuff. I will even cook. I’ve been told I’m a dab hand at Osso Bucco.’

This time we hung my painting to the left of the French doors.

‘How do you know something’s missing?’ A hint of irritation crept into my voice. I could feel his eyes on me. ‘Sorry,’ I murmured.

‘It simply isn’t there?’

‘Yes, it’s always the same. I look and look for this missing thing you call absence.’

We stood in front of my painting, wine glasses in hand, the aroma of stewing beef wafting from the kitchen. Stephen had brought the bottle.

‘Needs more illumination. Those deep blues are going black.’ He adjusted the ceiling spots by turning a dial on the wall.

The light transformed the painting.

‘An excellent painting, Bella. You have a way of telling a story with colour. And better still, you tell it by leaving things out, and it’s my experience all the best stories are so told.

‘Are you telling me you’ve strategically left things out of your story?’

‘Absolutely. My visit to Afghanistan, for instance, was far more hair-raising than an unexploded bomb.’

‘You are a rotten tease, Stephen. If I didn’t like you so much, I’d find you fairly disappointing.’

‘Ha-ha, you have the cruellest way of saying the nicest things.’

‘What can I say? It’s a gift. Are you going to fill my glass or not?’

After pouring and placing the bottle at our feet, he pointed to a spot on my painting I’d worried to near oblivion. I’d considered painting over it.

‘Those marks there make me think of two lonely people, one behind the other, in an isolated terrain. You leave the viewer half in, half out.’

He took a sip of wine and tilted his head. ‘There’s something private about your pictures, but also a promise, a sensory dialogue to be had. Can you see how it doesn’t matter? The missing bit, I mean. ‘I’m sorry, I’m intellectualising your work. A bad habit.’

‘It does matter, though. Oh, I don’t know.’

Later, we sipped our wine on the veranda. The sun had finally made its way to shine elsewhere, and stars were beginning to fill our tiny corner of the universe. We listened to the creek trickling over the weir.

‘Blue is the colour that has the most effect on me. It is the colour of night and yet the birth of a fine day,’ Stephen glanced at the gloaming beyond the doorway. Today, for instance, has been splendid.’ We gazed into the little valley, the lights of the town in the distance. ‘The skies are blue, but so are we occasionally, aren’t we? Why call a whole music genre ‘The Blues’? Songs of loneliness and broken love. The colour of illicit deeds, tethered to the dark of night.’

‘Stephen, where did you go? You were away for five weeks.’

‘The Antarctic, a beautiful and forbidding wilderness.’

‘You get around, don’t you?’

‘I have to travel. Can’t sit still for long. You look pretty fit…are you?’

‘I go to the gym a couple of times a week.’

‘I’ll be hiking in Peru next summer to see Rainbow Mountain. Hidden since the beginning of the last ice age. Discovered recently when the ice melted.’

‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘Look it up; it will amaze you – the colour spectrum as landform. Want to come? You will have a marvellous subject.’

‘That sounds lovely, Stephen. I want to come.’

‘Good. Now, have you thought of a title for your painting?’

I looked into the vastness above. A lone star blinked, surprised by our presence.

‘I’d like you to name it.’