Walls,
Solitudes and Rebirth
“If we are the
same person before and after we loved, that means we haven’t loved enough.”
~ Elif Shafak
I had just finished my
morning run when my phone rang. Still gasping from exhaustion and dripping
sweat on the wooded trail behind my house, I answered without looking at the
display. Receiving a call from Jilian two years after I had last seen her came
as quite a surprise.
“Good morning, Richard!”
Jilian said. “Hope I didn’t interrupt your ritual morning run. I suppose you
still follow the same 8 am routine.”
“Just finished it so if
you hear me rasping, that’s from having added an extra two kilometers to the
run. How are you doing? What a lovely surprise to hear from one of my favourite
patients and success stories!”
The first time I saw
Jilian was in the emergency room while I was on call. Her sister had called the
ambulance after Jilian had collapsed on the bathroom floor experiencing a
severe panic attack, debilitating anxiety and uncontrolled sobbing. Her Swiss boyfriend
had just broken up with her explaining in his text message that he could no
longer maintain their long distance relationship, that the ups of spending
blissful moments with her, and the downs of the unavoidable partings depleted
him of all energy. Even though she had sensed a change in him after their last
meeting, and intuition was telling her their relationship was doomed, the
message had still knocked the wind out of her lungs.
I ordered 1 mg of
Lorazepam to calm her down and then spent an hour talking to her because it was
an unusually quiet night at the ER. I admitted her to the psychiatric ward for
further evaluation but discharged her the next day after determining she was at
no risk of suicide and didn’t suffer from any mental illness.
When I saw her the
following week, she was deeply mortified over her reaction to the news of the break-up.
She’d thought she was more emotionally stable and able to deal with life’s
vicissitudes with graceful resilience and was disappointed in herself. After
all, the world was reeling from an array of tragedies, and what gave her the
right to spend taxpayers’ money on a fortuitous hospital stay.
“What can I do for you,
Jilian? Are you calling to invite me to another exhibition?” I asked, confident
that she had continued to conquer the world with her powerful art.
After the episode in the
ER, she came to see me a few more times seeking professional help in trying to
make sense not only out of her own life, but also out of more philosophical
questions of our purpose behind our individual existence. She was not only a
talented painter, but also a girl unusually well read, and what I considered,
spiritually evolved.
“Yes,” she responded. “The
next exhibition will be in Munich, eight months down the road, and since you
are retired, I hope you can insert some travel into your life. It’ll be the
time of Oktoberfest, and art and beer mix quite well.” She laughed with
effervescent insouciance, and as her psychiatrist who became her friend after I
retired, I felt proud not only of how quickly she climbed out of the threatening
abyss of depression, but also of what she did with the suffering she
experienced due to lost love and dashed hopes.
“Happy to hear you sound
so upbeat, Jilian. And regarding Munich, I may be able to come. Oktoberfest has been on my bucket list for a
long time.”
Before the fateful event,
Jilian had been an anonymous artist. A gallery had exhibited a few of her
paintings, but her depictions of lilacs in full bloom, poppies swaying in the
summer breeze, and lavender fields did not attract much attention. They were
eye-pleasing in their pretty naiveté, but their effect on the spectators was one
of fleeting aesthetic pleasure. The gallery managed to sell two smaller
paintings with the ubiquitous floral motif and returned the rest to Jilian.
“That would be so much
fun! And good for your soul to have a change of scenery and socialise with some
of my bohemian friends in Europe. Who knows, you may meet someone and fall in
love. By the way, does my painting still hang in your living room? I’ll always
be grateful for your support and trust in me.”
While in therapy with me,
Jilian started to paint furiously, processing the anguish and agony of a broken
heart through every stroke. She’d become obsessed with life’s dualities, with
lovers turning to strangers at the flick of a switch, with soul evolution experienced
through the stark contrast between joy and torment, birth and death, ascent to
bliss and descent into hell... Her paintings captured these dualities with a
force and power that mesmerized the lay spectators, as well as the art critics
and connoisseurs. As an art lover, I was the first one to buy a painting
depicting a couple in a fiery embrace on one half of the canvas, and the same
couple standing with their backs to each other on the other half. The second
half was painted in black and white, while the first one was an explosion of
vibrant red, orange and purple hues symbolizing the volcanic passion of a new
beginning. That painting stopped me dead in my tracks reminding me of my own
failed marriage and estrangement from the woman I used to be madly in love
with.
After the opening,
Jilian’s art became an overnight sensation. Her work was in such high demand that
she immersed herself fully producing breathtaking pieces one after another,
pieces displaying surprising compositions, unexpected perspectives, and bewitching
lighting. Her technique resembled that of the abstract expressionists, and at
the same time it contained elements of realism in her portrayal of people. While
working to the point of exhaustion, she was still going through the withdrawal
from her love addiction. After all, withdrawal from love can be as torturous as
that from any other addictive substance.
“Are you still there?”
Jilian’s voice interrupted my reverie.
“Yes, I’ve just come into
the house and will put you on speaker. I never had a chance to tell you I went
to see your exhibition, ‘Walls and Solitudes’, but you weren’t there. I couldn’t
come to the opening but came a couple of weeks later. I felt so proud of you
and delighted to see so many had been sold.”
“I’m still trying hard to
beat life at its own game by turning pain, anxiety, disappointments and
especially self-doubt into art,” she replied.
“And you’ve done an
outstanding job with that. You’ve also inspired the patients at the hospital
with your talk on how creativity can be used to combat mental illness.”
“I hoped that my story
would resonate with others and add another tool to their fight against the abyss
of depression.”
“Your last exhibition was
a surprise, and I remember standing for a long time in front of two truly
captivating pieces. One had a silhouette of a man with a fog-enveloped lighthouse
in the background. The title was ‘Wrapped in the Mists of Solitude.’ The other
one was of a man and a woman with a wall of ice between them. What inspired
that series?”
I sat on the couch in my
living room, removed my running shoes and placed my feet on the coffee table.
Feeling quite comfortable, I continued talking to Jilian, still not knowing the
underlying reason behind her unexpected call.
“I had an exhibition in Basel, the city where
Karl lives, if you recall. I never told him that I’d be in town exhibiting, but
I suppose he saw the event advertised on social media, and he showed up. I was profoundly
shaken up upon seeing him approach me to congratulate me on the show, but I
tried to hide how completely nonplussed I was. Our conversation was strained,
and I felt a wall of ice rise between us. He stood before me like a solitary
lighthouse with its light dimmed by the stormy night sky of life. His gaze was pale, vacant, brimming with
unhappiness. He told me the reason for that. He had recently gotten divorced. I
looked at him, trying to make sense of the confused thoughts racing in my head.
Where did the man who once loved me disappear to? Who is this stranger? I felt like
I wanted to trail my fingers across his face but couldn’t touch him through
this invisible wall. So that encounter inspired my new works. Again, I had
dipped my brush into paint and immortalized the love he had killed with one
blow.”
“When you saw him, did
you feel you had gotten over him completely?
“It’s hard to explain. I
felt I’d always love the man he was while he loved me, but I also felt the real
man standing before me was barely worth getting to know. He had nothing
interesting to say, he exuded no charm or wit, and I had difficulty
understanding what it was about him that made me lose my mind.”
“So it seems you had
closure.”
“Yes and no. And that‘s
why I am calling you. I haven’t dated anyone since my meltdown. I was afraid
that without my art I’d get dangerously close to the edge of madness…that’s how
hurt and vulnerable I’d felt. But with time, I got better. A promising sign
that I was close to being healed was my feelings of attraction for an art
critic who came to the gallery quite a few times and who covered my exhibitions
in his columns. He appreciates my art, but it’s also become obvious to me that
his interest extends also to me as a woman. Anyway, last night, as I was
leaving the gallery after delivering another painting, I bumped into him. He
came to buy the painting you just mentioned, the one with the wall of ice between
a man and a woman. I went back inside with him and we chatted about the
symbolism in that painting, and then out of the blue he asked me out. I
accepted on impulse, but when I got home, anxiety overwhelmed me. I’m panicking
right now and am tempted to call it off, but that is cowardice. That’s why I
needed to talk to you.”
“You already have all the
answers. You’re an exceptionally intelligent girl and you know you cannot
continue hiding behind your art. The wall motif is not a coincidence in your
creative output, and it doesn’t only symbolize the alienation between you and
Karl. It also symbolizes the wall you’ve built around your own heart. There’s a
whole fortification you’ve built, but at the risk of being hurt again, you need
to open your heart and let someone else walk into it.”
“But I’m terrified of allowing
myself to feel vulnerable and risk being rejected again. I’m scared of being
weak and having another nervous breakdown. When I paint, I feel so in control
of my life. My brush goes where I intend it to go. Even when it assumes a life
of its own, I trust it to paint what needs to be expressed. There are no
disappointments or betrayals.”
“To overcome fear you
have to plunge into it head first. There‘s no other way. Give that man a chance.”
“I really want to, but
now that I agreed to this date, all the pain I had experienced resurfaced. I
keep rewinding the film in my head of the agony and ecstasy I experienced with
Karl. He had awakened in me a whole volcano of sensuality, love and lust only
to drop me like a hot potato. The images of stark dualities have come back to
haunt me. Last night I didn’t sleep a wink, replaying the happenings at the
beginning and the end of our…of the first and the last day, or rather of the
first and the last week of our relationship. I know, but the trauma of losing
him hit me again last night like a tidal wave threatening to drown me.”
Her breathing began to
sound like hyperventilation and I said, “Calm down, Jilian. Allowing yourself to
date again might be the most important step you take. This will be a test of your
strength. It will show you how far you’ve come. It’s time to come out of
hiding, to shed off the armour and trust the flow of events. If Karl hadn’t
come into your life, you may have never matured into a painter of this calibre.
“You are so right. I did
build a wall around my own heart, but it seems Andy…this is his name, may have
found a chink in my armour. Thank you for listening to me. I do feel better.”
“Please call me tomorrow
after your date. I’ll be dying of curiosity.”
I didn’t hear from Jilian
for three months and had forgotten about her call. It was a period when loneliness
laced with a lack of purpose had seeped into my bones furtively and
unnoticeably, until its presence could no longer be ignored. Indulging in
hobbies no longer gave me expected satisfaction, and a hole opened up in my
soul, clamouring for fulfilment. I became restless and filled with a yearning
for something I couldn’t even define. I had just turned seventy and my birthday
made me ponder my existence. Thinking that my life was turning into an empty
road leading to nothingness made me break out in a cold sweat. Suddenly, I felt
so small, insignificant and forgotten by the world.
At that moment, the
doorbell rang pulling me out of my self-defeating thoughts. A tall blond boy
was standing in the doorway with a bouquet of white roses.
“Mr. Oliver?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
He smiled and handed me
the flowers. I took them to the kitchen, unwrapped the cellophane and took out
a blue envelope. I thought it might be a delayed birthday gift from my sister,
even though that would have been out of her character to send me flowers.
‘Dear
Richard, I never had a chance to properly thank you for everything you have
done for me, especially for giving me the present of your friendship. I am
writing to invite you to the opening of my exhibition called Rebirth. You will
find the address and the time on the back of the card. I have a little surprise
proposal for you and can’t wait to talk to you. Love. Jilian. P.S. I have two
surprises, in fact. And I still hope you also come to the Munich exhibition.J’
As soon as I read the
card, my spirits lifted and the darkness within dissipated. I had something to
look forward to, and the anticipation was as delectable as the glass of port
wine I enjoyed every evening.
The gallery was already
full of people when I arrived. When I entered, the sight of the paintings caused me
to stand before them agape. The colors
screamed joy; there were hearts within hearts, seeds blooming into flowers and
springing from a woman’s mouth, with crimson red lips, a naked couple fused in
an embrace rising from the frothing sea, clouds raining stars and children
catching them in utter mirth. Joy and happiness were everywhere. When I felt a
tap on my shoulder and turned, I barely recognizes Jilian. Her hair was now
blonde, and she wore a bright red lipstick. Her eyes sparkled and she exuded
pure bliss.
“Let me
guess. Your date turned into full-blown love,” I said.
Before she
could reply, a man approached us, extended his hand and said, “I’m Andy and you
must be Richard. Very happy to meet you.”
He put his
arm around Jilian’s waist and said, “Has Jilian had a chance to talk to you
about our project?”
“No, not
yet,” she replied, adding that we should go to the room next door to get away
from the din. People were approaching Jilian and congratulating her on the
extraordinary work. A reporter asked for an interview, and she took his
business card saying she would contact him.
The room she
took me to was empty except for two chairs and a couch. She said they needed to
furnish it and then told me about her idea. She planned to give painting
classes to the people suffering from mental illness in hope that art therapy
would help them heal, and she wanted me to work with her.
“So, we would
like you to be a part of that important project. You wouldn’t be working alone.
A psychologist I recently met also agreed to be part of this effort. She’s
around somewhere…let me find her.”
Andy and I
chatted while Jilian disappeared. Soon, she returned with a woman in tow. The
woman was tall, slim and athletic looking in spite of her mature age. When she
extended her hand and clasped mine in a firm grip, her blue eyes sparkled with
warmth. I smiled, catching myself blushing. Her name was Anne, she was
semi-retired and has been a widow for the last two years. The next two hours
sped by with the speed of lightning.
When Jilian
said it was time to close the gallery, I couldn’t believe it was already 11 pm.
When I arrived home that evening, I felt like a moonstruck teenager filled with
great expectations and a slight trepidation of a new and promising segment in
my life. Jilian’s rebirth seemed to have rubbed off on me, and I couldn’t wait
for the sun to rise. And it rose in all its resplendence.
THE
END
Jana Begovic
As
far back as she can remember, Jana has been fascinated by storytelling. Her
love of reading and writing propelled her toward studies of languages and
literature resulting in B.A. degrees in English and German Languages and
Literature, an M.A. Degree in Literary Criticism, as well as a B.Ed. Degree in
English and Dramatic Arts.
Among
her publications are an academic article published by Cambridge Scholars, UK,
the novel “Poisonous Whispers” published by Roane Publishing, N.Y., poetry,
short fiction, articles, art reviews and blog posts featured in literary
journals, such as Ariel Chart, Chantwood, the Pangolin Review and Abstract. Currently,
she is working on her second novel, finalizing a collection of children's
stories and acting as a contributing editor and writer for Ariel Chart and
Canada Fashion Magazine.
She
lives in Ottawa, Ontario and works for the Government of Canada as an education
specialist in the field of military language training.
Tags:
Short Fiction