Against the Wind (9 page)

Montreal, June 21, 1968

Dear Mama,

I spontaneously wrote “Dear Mama” though I always say Françoise in person. As you see, I'm more proper in letters.

You have no reason to be worried. But I can understand that you were. This is the first time in my life I've gone so long without being in touch with you.

I started to tell you a little on the phone, but it's not the same. I find it hard expressing myself when I can't see the person I'm talking to. I always try to imagine their face at the other end of the line, to imagine their eyes, their expression, and I'm blocked when I can't. But with letters, since you're already far apart, there isn't the same problem, and you can go on for longer. I know you're like me in that way.

Mama, dear, without going into the details, I'm going to tell you basically what I've been through recently. We'll continue in person this summer. I've decided to come and spend the two last weeks of July with you. For the past few weeks, there have been too many unknowns and I couldn't really choose the dates of my vacation. In August, I'll be going to New York andMassachusetts for maybe two weeks.

We'll have two good weeks to talk about a lot of things. I miss talking to you too, and I can't wait to see you.

But first of all, Mama, I want to tell you again how saddened I am by Aunt Isabelle's death. How sad I am for you, especially. I know how close you were. She was your only sister and, as you often said, your best friend as well. I know how hard it must be for you, and my thoughts are with you. You've had two very great losses, this one and the loss of Papa. I've only known what I would call minor losses. The loss of my mother, whom I barely knew, is like a little hidden grief, one that will stay with me below the surface almost my whole life. Losing Papa was a lot more painful. But – how can I say this? – since I was caught up in so many questions, so many changes and discoveries in my own life, I experienced Papa's death as one more big disruption. It was the same when Grandmama died. It was as if sudden deaths were a natural part of my life. Do you understand? I'll talk about all this with you again.

When I come, I'll stop in Quebec City and go to the cemetery to see Aunt Isabelle's grave. I hope you're not too upset with me for missing the funeral. As I told you, I was away at the time. Three weeks. It's true I could have told you I would be away. I was going through a very difficult time. In any case, please forgive me. I know how much you would have liked me to be there with you. I'm sure you'll understand and maybe even read between the lines, as you always have.

I'll put flowers on Aunt Isabelle's grave. The kind she loved… not too many, July flowers, daisies. I'll see your family monument for the first time. And all the names and the dates. You must know them by heart. Unlike almost all my friends, I don't find that cemeteries make me sad. Or rather, it's a good sadness. There, more than anywhere else, I feel a sense of history – it's stronger and more present there than in history books – and a yearning for those who came before us. There are more names in cemeteries than there are living people on the whole Earth. Do you remember, it was in the cemetery, that first time I went with my father Seamus, that I had my first visions. I don't have them anymore, as you know. They seem to have become part of my paintings. Those I paint and those I see within me.

But I'll come back to my painting. I'll tell you. Only, right now, I want to get to what's essential. That doesn't mean painting isn't essential to me. It is, more and more so, even. Better and better, even. What I've recently experienced is of the utmost importance for – how can I say this exactly? – my vision of the world in my paintings. I've always been a painter, as far back as I can remember. Only – and I would say just recently, but it's the result of a long maturing process – without knowing fully why and how it came to me, I understand with more clarity (and greater certainty?) the direction painting is taking for me. Or, if you wish, the direction I'm taking on the path where painting is leading me. It's a complex path. Diverse and varied. An extraordinary path, made up of fascinating explorations, with some surprising discoveries.

You'll see. You'll see because I have some big news for you: I'm preparing for my first solo exhibition since my return from France. It will take place in a little over a year. In the fall of 1969. As soon as the date of the vernissage is decided, I'll let you know. And you'll come. Françoise, you have to be there. You'll stay at my place. I'll treat you like a princess.Which is what you are!

I've signed a very advantageous contract with the Horz Gallery. For quite a long time. We have an excellent relationship with my Paris gallery. And it's possible that the exhibition the following year will take place at the 48th Parallel in New York.

Sometimes I wonder why I have this need to show my paintings. I find the whole official and commercial side of it tiresome. But the desire to share my explorations and my discoveries is so strong, so much part of the act of painting that I don't bother too much with the burdensome aspects of the public market. I'm sure you understand.

Mama, I have returned from a long, sometimes painful journey, which I'll tell you about. I couldn't talk about it before I had come through it. You would have worried. For a few weeks, even months, I was not at all well. A kind of depression, if you will. But I want to reassure you that everything is fine now. I did what I needed to do to get over it. I'll tell you about it. I can see now that it was a beneficial crisis. I even wonder why I didn't go through it sooner. How I was able to manage – and manage quite well – till then.

All kinds of painful things came to the surface that I had thought were buried forever. Laid to rest. Settled. Events I had thought were dead and gone, so to speak. I went through a major spring cleaning inside. The first in my life. Now, to continue this image, I'll have to pay attention to maintenance. For a long time. Forever. The way you do with houses.

In that turmoil, something happened that will cause you sorrow, at least for a time. I didn't dare tell it to you on the phone. Marie-Nicole and I separated a few weeks ago. Permanently. You knew she had left me for a year to “take stock” and that at the end of that time, we were to make a decision. But for her own reasons, she “had to act sooner.” She could no longer stand that “emptiness,” and she wrote a letter breaking up with me with “no possibility of discussion or delay.” She said she didn't love me anymore. And that she didn't want to see me again for “a good long time.” She had “suffered too much” with me. Especially since the episode with Irene.

At first, I found her decision very hard to accept. I couldn't imagine life without her. She was a natural part of my life. I felt cheated and humiliated. I no longer knew what horizon to look toward. In fact, there was no longer any horizon. I felt trapped, like an oyster in the viscous vault of its shell. I was huddled inside myself, inactive, and I couldn't paint or think.

I now understand Marie-Nicole's decision. I know now – as I couldn't know before – what she meant by her “terrible feeling of abandonment.” I realize now that Marie-Nicole loved me more than I loved her. I know now that I was never truly in love with her. I never felt that passion, that madness of love that transports you, that gives you a nameless energy and lets you see all horizons and move mountains. I know now. And I'll tell you.

Marie-Nicole was – and probably still is – very hurt. She often said I was the great love of her life. Maybe she will always resent me. Perhaps someday another love (one shared more equally) will bring her back to me as a friend. That's what I would wish. For the time being, I'm trying to clarify my responsibilities. And to free myself from a certain feeling of guilt. Are we responsible for how we love? Is it possible to prevent inequality in love?

But, Mama, I know it must be painful for you to read this. You loved Marie-Nicole “like a daughter,” you used to say. And she loved you too. That was perhaps the most painful thing for me. When you separate, you don't just lose a partner. You tear yourself away from family. And even from many friends. I've lost a few in the turmoil. Some of them – I realized this at the time and it hurt me – felt the need to choose one side or the other. You thought you were loved for yourself, and then you realize it was as the companion of your partner. Others – and this is odd, you see it in their reactions – didn't really love either one. It was the couple they loved, and when the couple fell apart, they vanished. Another category, a surprising one, is couples who are shaky. At first, I didn't understand. I thought that happy couples would be the first ones to react badly to the couple having problems. But it's the opposite. And I think I understand it now. The happy couples are not threatened by the break-ups of other couples. But couples who are shaky are confronted with what they should do – or perhaps should have done. It makes them nervous and anxious. And they too abandon you.

As you can see, with all this, I've gone through a lot of emotional upheaval. And I've had to deal with a few losses. To come back to you and Marie-Nicole, I don't see why our break-up should separate the two of you. I'm even sure she'd like to see you again and to get a letter or a call from you. Do as you wish, but in any case, it wouldn't bother me if you remained friends. You'll see with her. Maybe, because of our closeness, she'll find it painful to see you, at least at the beginning. You'll see.

Now, how can I tell you the rest of my news? It will perhaps seem abrupt to you, I mean too sudden, too quick. You're getting it all at once, while for me it's the outcome of a long, slow process. So I won't beat around the bush.

Mama, I'm in love! For real! And I have the feeling – a kind of joyous certainty – that it's the first time. And that I am loved as much as I love. Her name is Véronique Blouin. She's twenty-nine. And more beautiful, intelligent and charming than you could imagine. You'll see. She's a jewel, love personified. We met during my trip.We knew right away. But, both of us having being burned before, we were cautious. This love feels so absolutely complete and everlasting that we're taking our time to make decisions. Véronique is a pianist, a brilliant performer. You may have heard her or seen her on television. Anyway, she's changing her direction a bit. She wants to set up a music school (“real music,” she says) for young children. A colleague and friend of hers has just decided to join the project and share running the school with her. I'm in complete agreement, and I'm going to help Véronique financially in the beginning. I have no problem with that. My move to the new Université du Québec à Montréal (people call it UQAM) seems to offer me and my colleagues from the École des Beaux-Arts financial security.

And your idea of selling the house in Amqui and giving me “part of my inheritance,” as you put it, will help me considerably. I've even come up with a plan, which we can talk about in July. Since Véronique is going to move in with me (with her piano, her furniture, her books, and so on), I thought we might buy a house. Something big enough. In Montreal, in one of the neighbourhoods we like – Outremont, or maybe Plateau-Mont-Royal, near Saint- Louis Square, or Ahuntsic. We'll see.

Mama, I've dreamed of you coming to live with us. Think about it. You're so alone there now, even though you have good friends. There would be nothing to prevent you from inviting them to our house. I've imagined beautiful rooms in the house for you. You'd have a large bedroom, your own bathroom, a little private living room with your telephone, television, etc. You could furnish your space as you wish. I could take care of closing up the house and moving the furniture and things we want to keep. I could also take care of selling the house if you want. Anyway, we'll go into all these details when I come.

And there would be nothing to keep us from making little trips to the valley in the summer. Like you, I'll always be very attached to our part of the country. Even though I no longer live there, that beautiful land of my birth will be part of me until my last breath. In a certain way (which is my own, as you know), it lives in my paintings.

Think about my proposal. I'm sure we would all be happy together. Véronique will have her music room (a sitting room, but also her work space). For me, I imagine an attic that I could set up as a studio. A whole floor with windows on all sides, and with skylights. All this is a dream, a beautiful dream, and I know now that the most beautiful dreams can become reality if you work hard.

Véronique and I also dream of having children. Not too many. We'd like two. If the first one is a girl, we want to call her Élisabeth – Élisabeth Sully-Jacques. If it's a boy, his name will be David – David Sully-Jacques. I've decided to give them both my names. Véronique doesn't really want to pass on her family name. I'll tell you about it. Her parents are rich. They spoiled her, so to speak. She's an only child. Now she's distancing herself from them. And I understand her. She doesn't want their money anymore. You'll agree with her when I explain it to you.

So, Mama, what would you say to becoming a grandmother soon? I'm sure you'll be overjoyed if it happens. And you'll be a wonderful grandmama, the best! If you come and live with us, my children will be able to really get to know you. They'll be so lucky! I'm dreaming. But I've never been so happy.

Also in terms of my “career” (I don't really like that word and what it implies), I feel I have the wind at my back. I don't mean I've achieved perfect mastery of my art. But I can see openings, new perspectives, and themes or motifs or forms to explore. I'm filled with new creative inspiration (I can't express it any better). I feel an energy within me. A drive and a huge desire to continue with my painting. I'll bring you some drawings and sketches in July. You'll see.