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Authors: Eleanor Brown

The Light of Paris

BOOK: The Light of Paris
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Also by Eleanor Brown

The Weird
Sisters

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

Publishers Since 1838

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Copyright © 2016 by Eleanor Brown

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Brown, Eleanor, author.

Title: The light of Paris / Eleanor Brown.

Description: New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, [2016]

Identifiers: LCCN 2016009821| ISBN 9780399158919 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780399573736 (ePub) | ISBN 9780399576980 (international)

Subjects: LCSH: Married women—Fiction. | Self-realization in women—Fiction. | Self-actualization (Psychology) in women—Fiction. | Paris (France)—Fiction. | Domestic fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Contemporary Women. | FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Family Life.

Classification: LCC PS3602.R6965 L54 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016009821

p. cm.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

For my parents and my grandparents, especially my grandmothers: Madeline Mercier Brown and Catherine McReynolds
Barnes

Paris in the rain is still Paris.

—Catherine Rémine McReynolds,
November 18,
1923

one

MADELEINE
1999

I didn't set out to lose myself. No one does, really. No one purposely swims away from the solid, forgiving anchor of their heart. We simply make the tiniest of compromises, the smallest of decisions, not realizing the way those small changes add up to something larger until we are forced, for better or worse, to face the people we have become.

I had the best of intentions, always: to make my mother happy, to keep the peace, to smooth my rough edges and ease my own way. But in the end, the life I had crafted was like the porcelain figurines that resided in my mother's china cabinets: smooth, ornate, but delicate and hollow. For display only. Do not touch.

Long ago, I might have called myself an artist. As a child, I drew on every blank surface I encountered—including, to my mother's dismay, the walls, deliciously empty front pages of library books, and more than a few freshly ironed tablecloths. In high school, I spent hours in the art room after school, painting until the sun coming through the skylights grew thin and the art teacher would gently put her hand on my shoulder and tell me it was time to go home. Lingering under my Anaïs Anaïs perfume was the smell of paint, and the edges of every textbook I owned were covered with doodles and drawings. On the weekends, I hid from my mother's bottomless disapproval in the basement of our house, where
I had set up an easel, painting until my fingers were stiff and the light had disappeared, rendering the colors I blended on the palette an indiscriminate black.

But I hadn't painted since I had gotten married. Now, I spent hours leading tour groups through the Stabler Art Museum's galleries, pointing out the beautiful blur of the Impressionists, the lush clarity of the Romantics, the lawless color of Abstract Expressionism. As we moved between the rooms, I showed them the progression of the paintings, movement washing into movement like the confluence of rivers, the same medium, the same tools, yet so completely different in appearance, in intent, in heart. No matter how many times I explained it, it seemed beautifully impossible that Monet had been creating his gentle pastorals less than a hundred years before the delicious chaos of Jackson Pollock's murals.

It was almost enough.

Usually Tanis took the older kids; she had four teenage sons and wasn't afraid of anything. But she was out, and the other docents were booked, so the coordinator asked if I would take the group. I had hesitated for a moment—teenagers seemed scary and uncontrolled, all loose limbs and incomprehensible fashion decisions and bad attitudes—and then told him I would. Their teacher would be with us, after all, and she had requested one of my favorite tours, on artists and their influences.

When I met them in the lobby, I asked the kids their names and who their favorite artists were, to which they, predictably, reacted as though I were trying to get them to divulge state secrets. Their teacher, Miss Pine, was young and slender, with hair that fell loose around her shoulders, more knot than curl, as though she wound her fingers in it all the time. I—and most of the women I knew—wore slim sheath dresses with elegant scarves, an acceptably polite pop of color, but Miss Pine was wrapped in a pile of boysenberry-colored fabric that looked less like a dress and more like a collection of handkerchiefs that had been safety-pinned together. She must have been wearing bracelets or bells, because she jingled as she
moved. Either that, or she was hiding a number of out-of-season reindeer underneath those swathes of fabric.

“How long have you been teaching?” I asked, making conversation as we headed to the first stop on the tour, followed by our little ducklings, the floors creaking agreeably beneath our feet.

“Almost ten years,” Miss Pine said, smiling at me. I must have made a face of horror, because she laughed, a light sound with a rough edge that made me smile just to hear it. “They're not so bad, are they?”

Glancing over my shoulder at the kids, who meandered along in our wake as we climbed the wide marble staircase to the second floor, I laughed too. “Not so bad.” The boys were bouncing off each other like pinballs, a couple of the girls walked with their heads bent together in the inimitable intimacy of teenagers, a few others drifted off to the edges of the staircase to look at the paintings that lined the walls or the sculptures on the landing.

“I just have lingering flashbacks to my own experience. I didn't cope so well with high school kids when I was in high school myself. I basically spent four years slinking around, trying to fly under the radar.”

Miss Pine waved her hand, setting off her bells again. “We all did. It's much easier from this side of the desk, I promise you. Plus, you get to try to make it a slightly less miserable experience for them than it was for you.”

“All right, ladies and gentlemen, first stop,” I said when we reached the Renaissance room. I turned to face them, clapping my hands together and then instantly regretting it. I was not an earnest, hand-clapping, Precious Moments stationery–using sort of person. “What do you know about Renaissance art? Lay it on me.”

The kids, who had been chattering enthusiastically as we walked, of course chose that moment to fall sullenly silent. Elementary-aged children seemed almost violent in their desire to speak, hurling their entire bodies into the air when they raised their hands, as though they were
controlled by marionette strings. But these high schoolers were draped with languid adolescent ease that didn't hide the twitch of their eyes, their anxious fingers worrying their pencils, the edges of their sketch pads. I had thought for sure the Renaissance paintings might get them, all those nudes with their tender, pale skin and tactfully placed hands and leaves, but they seemed only politely interested.

“Come on, people,” I said. “I'm getting you out of school for the day. The least you can do is answer my questions.”

Miss Pine and a couple of the kids grinned. Eliza, a girl with long brown braids and a T-shirt bearing a faded print of Munch's
The Scream
, raised her hand. She reminded me a little of myself at that age—a spray of pimples across her forehead, curls breaking free of her braids, a thick, sturdy body. She held a paintbrush between her fingers, perhaps in case of an unexpected art emergency, which kind of made me want to give her a hug.

“My savior!” I said. “Pray, my lady, speak.”

Eliza flushed a little as her classmates turned to look at her, but when she spoke, her voice was loud and clear and confident. Or at least as confident as a teenage girl could be, her voice lilting up into questions at the end. “They were really interested in, like, Classical art? Like, Greeks?”

“And the Romans, yeah!” I said. I was so excited someone was actually talking that I might have spoken a little too loudly, because a boy named Lam, his black hair swept into a style that made him look as though he were standing in a wind tunnel, actually took a step back. I cleared my throat and tried for something a little less enthusiastic, the reserved voice I used in the rest of my life, where I spent all my time talking about things I didn't care about. “They were fascinated by Greco-Roman culture, and you can see those influences everywhere. Take this painting, for instance,” I said, pointing at a piece by an Italian artist. “Do you see these sculptures running along the top of the building in the background?”

The kids leaned forward and I suppressed a grin. So they were
interested after all. It was just a matter of breaking through their external cool to find the real people underneath.

Lam spoke up. “It looks like those friezes on the Parthenon.”

“It does, doesn't it?” I said. “And that's not an accident. They were trying to revitalize art, so they went looking for the pinnacle of artistic achievement, and they found it in Classical art.”

“So they were copying?” a short, slender girl asked. I couldn't remember her name. When she had introduced herself, I was distracted by how small and insubstantial she seemed, as though she were a shadow her owner had left behind.

“It's not copying,” a boy named Hunter said, his words dripping with disdain. “It's like, inspiration.” The shadow girl dropped her chin, shrinking even further into herself, and I wanted to rush to her rescue. Hunter was good-looking in the irritatingly effortless way some teenage boys have, their features delicate and girlishly pretty, and I could tell from the way the other kids arranged themselves around him that he was the center of their social constellation.

Fortunately, Miss Pine stepped in before I had to. “Dial down the attitude, Hunter,” she said mildly, and I watched the kids shift again, Hunter deflating slightly, the shadow girl glancing up from underneath her eyelashes, the others looking somewhat relieved. I gave Miss Pine a mental high five. “It's a fair moral question, given how much you all get harangued about plagiarism.”

“And that's really what we're here to talk about today, right? Where artists get their ideas, their techniques, their style,” I said.

“From each other,” Eliza said, waving her paintbrush at me.

“Exactly,” I said. “Why don't we go check out the Neoclassicists and see some more examples?”

Our conversation was livelier in the Neoclassical room, where I managed to engage the kids in a conversation about the Romans, possibly because I mentioned vomitoriums. Proof that no one ever progresses past
the age of thirteen, and when nudity fails, gross-out humor is always a good idea.

When the kids had exhausted their (fairly impressive) repertoire of throw-up jokes, I gave them a few minutes to linger in the room. Some of them were sketching wildly, and I felt my fingers itch as I watched them. The self-conscious tightness that had surrounded them fell away, and their inner eager elementary schoolers sprang out. Long ago, that would have been me, so desperate to create I could hardly keep my hands still.

I leaned against the wall, and Miss Pine came to stand beside me. “Anyway,” she said, continuing our earlier conversation as though it had never been interrupted, “teaching is really the best way to stay in touch with my own art. If I'm encouraging them to create, I'd feel like a fraud if I didn't do it myself. What about you? Are you an artist?”

“Oh, no. I mean, I took art in school, but that's not, I mean, it wasn't real,” I said hurriedly, lest she get the wrong idea.

“Really?” She raised a pale eyebrow. “But you talk about it so passionately. I just assumed . . .”

Tamping down the longing that always emerged when I was talking about art, I shook my head. “I wanted to be a painter, but I just . . . I guess I just grew out of it.”

The truth was far too difficult to explain, especially to Miss Pine, with her heart big and warm enough for these kids and their self-conscious eyes, and the earnest chitter of her jewelry. This was the bargain I had made. I knew Phillip had married me partially because he had zero taste and I knew something about art, but I was only allowed to be in contact with it in the most clinical of ways, preferably ones that made him look good. I could visit dealers and haggle over paintings for his office, or for the condo, purchases based more on square footage and their power to impress and/or intimidate the person looking at them than on artistic merit. I could lead tours here, volunteer, but I couldn't make art myself.

“Art isn't something you grow out of just because you're not a teenager anymore. It's not like falling out of love with a teen idol.”

I clutched at my heart in fake horror. “Don't even joke about that. Isn't it your job to protect teenage dreams?”

“Not officially, but I suppose I do it anyway. See, if I'd been your teacher, you wouldn't have given up painting.”

“Ah, but then who would do the glamorous job of introducing apathetic teenagers to the glories of Rembrandt?” I asked.

“I'm sure someone would step into the breach. Not that I'm mocking what you do. You're a volunteer, right?”

“Right,” I said, though I wasn't sure whether volunteering truly made what I did more impressive. The deal was, I worked for free and got to pretend I was altruistic and not just bored to tears with the Chicago Women's Club and the achingly dull business events Phillip insisted I attend with him.

And leading tours brought its own kind of discomfort, the way it boxed me in as surely as any of those other duties. When I talked to tour groups, I spoke about technique, about chiaroscuro and proportion, about brushwork and craquelure with the confidence of a scholar, but I never spoke about the way art made me feel. I never spoke about how seeing a painting for the first time—really seeing it—is a wondrous thing. When I open my eyes to a painting, it is as though everything has changed and will never be the same again. Colors look more vivid, the lines and edges of objects sharper, and I fall in love with the world and all its beauty—the tragedies and love stories on the faces of people walking by, the shine of a wet sidewalk or the way the leaves offer their pale bellies to the wind before a storm. I want to weep for a broken eggshell below a bird's nest, for its jagged edges and the bird inside freed to take flight.

BOOK: The Light of Paris
5.66Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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