The French story - 5
The next part of this draft... Some very useful comments thus far, thanks!
Five
For the remainder of that day and for the first part of the next, I tried to organise my tools, my materials, in an attempt to prompt inspiration. But I was kidding myself. Given my efforts were actually focussed on acclimatisation, there was no way I could produce anything until I understood the boundaries within which I was to work.
In the temporary absence of such vital information I strived to do what I could. Practically that involved little more than further rudimentary experimentation in terms of options for fixing unlike materials together: combinations of heavy plastic, light plastic, glass, and various prefabricated materials using glue, tape, screws, and nuts and bolts. Inevitably my efforts were both more and less successful. It was, I told myself, a fundamental grounding in the physical nature of my project; if I wanted to join two disparate things together then I had to have some idea as to how to do so.
Perhaps it was the effect of seeing them dwarfed in such a cavernous space, but I also realised my supply of raw materials — the largely un-recyclable that was to be my starting point — was severely limited, and I started to compile a list of the sort of components which might be of some creative value to me: heavy blue plastic drums, old tarpaulin, objects whose complex chemical composition or sophisticated combinations of a multiplicity of materials made extraction of the truly recyclable impossible. I was convinced I could do something with electronics, particularly televisions, but had only two battered old sets with which to start. In one of many idle moments I couldn’t help but wonder if it might add another dimension to any final object in which they were components if I could get them to work and display images too? Perhaps that was more Sylvie’s territory; as yet I didn’t know. Hergé had suggested he might be able to engineer a trip to a local municipal refuse collection facility to undertake a little scavenging — hence the motivation for my list. I had assumed we would go together, but he indicated — obliquely but politely — his own instructions demanded he be as independently helpful as possible.
Of course the other topic which exercised me over the same period was the uniqueness of the situation in which I found myself. Meeting Sylvie had helped in the process of crystallising how things stood, and allowed me to start to pull into sharper relief the nature of what working life at the chateau might be like. I was grateful my commitment to the project was, as far as I knew, flexible. I could come and go as I pleased, and did not believe I was tied to the place. My assumption was that I could leave whenever I liked. In a moment of fancy I tried to imagine what life would be like if the chateau was also my home and where the journey to and from ‘work’ was no more than a crunching meander across the pristine drive first thing in the morning. It was superficially appealing but I suspected probably not as rewarding as one might think.
Between experiments in fixing things together, I would often make coffee and, having taken one of the upright chairs outside the barn — probably in contravention of one rule or another! — sit in the sun. Although I scanned the parkland for a sight of other individuals (at one point I saw the gardener again) my gaze settled mainly on the house, examining the windows for signs of life, knowing that beyond them my benefactor was likely to be looking down on me. At some point I decided — admittedly based on limited input — that Madame was almost certainly a little on the crazy side; generous yes, but somehow flawed. It was a notion perfectly in tune with the frail old crone I had originally imagined her to be. Was it because of that I became increasingly less prepared for meeting her?
When the knock eventually came on my door I was absorbed in gluing experiments, trying various combinations of adhesive in order to cement together various selections of material. Whether it was due to a lack of patience on my part or the fallibility of the adhesives themselves, but I was becoming increasingly frustrated. Things appeared to stick, then fell apart; or, having not immediately set as intended, subsequently became attached to something entirely inappropriate. As it happened, earlier that morning Hergé had appeared unannounced, the estate van loaded with rubbish. It took us the best part of twenty minutes to unload it. I felt a little like a kid at Christmas. Not unreasonably I had assumed this second knock was him again, perhaps having undertaken another run into town or having found something we had failed to unload earlier. Whatever the reason, my guard was down.
I should try and give you my first impressions of Hélène de Belfort, to recall her just as she presented herself to me. The sun was retreating behind the barn, a transition which threw the area outside my front door into a greater depth of shade. For that reason bright daylight was still illuminating the grounds a little way behind her and this succeeded in giving her outline a certain halo. But the shade was not dark enough to prevent me seeing her clearly; indeed it may have been the precise opposite. She was about five feet six or so, and I guessed somewhere around fifty years old. Far from being old and decrepit, she looked slim and lithe, and the way in which she dressed — simple but refined — and the subtle make-up she was wearing, all pointed to a woman who looked after herself. Although her skin was beginning to betray her age a little, she had not fallen into the trap common for many middle-aged women by compensating for the loss of youth with an over-reliance on suntan. It had always amazed me how some older women tanned themselves to within an inch of their lives thinking that looking like a ripe prune made them appear youthful. Hélène’s tan was — not surprisingly — well managed; almost perfect, in fact. And it complimented her most striking feature which was her hair: short, perfectly cut, and prematurely white. On some women I am certain such hair would have aged them, but in her case it gave her an air of authority, grandeur, confidence, maturity — you choose the words. Even before she said a single thing, the image she presented seemed to explain the immaculate appearance of the castle, its grounds, even Hergé.
“I see you are settling in,” she said, choosing English which, not surprisingly, was also impeccable. “I trust Hergé has been useful?”
“Invaluable. Thank you.”
She paused, then after I had failed to overcome being suddenly struck dumb, “May I come in?”
I was immediately flustered, like a schoolboy who had just met his new form teacher for the first time and was desperate to make a good impression.
“Coffee?”
“Simple, please.”
She glanced around the barn’s interior then made her way to one of the upright chairs as I fumbled with the kettle and cafetiere.
“I have,” she said, filling the gap as we waited for the kettle to boil, “always liked the way the windows admit light into these spaces. It is good to think that it will be put to some use at last.”
Even that simple phrase provoked an armada of questions, but I refrained from asking any of them, wanting to focus on just one thing at a time — in this instance making the coffee. I cursed myself for feeling nervous, off-balance. I wonder what impression I must have created for her.
But I need to be clear at this point. It is important. Although she appeared to be remarkable as a physical specimen, at that point I assumed all that was superficial. The limited insight I’d had about her from Sylvie — the way she seemed to control her domain with such precision, dominance even — had done nothing to endear her to me in advance. Quite the opposite. Yes, I had been somewhat bowled over by her and the fact that she was far from being the wheelchair-bound octogenarian witch I’d imagine, yet I as poured water into the coffee and took it and the cups over to the table by which she sat, I reminded myself that I still needed to be convinced. I told myself the onus was on her, that I could still get up and walk away. At that precise point in time, that was what I believed.
“You must have questions.” She had waited until I had poured the coffee and sat down opposite her. There was a smile playing on her lips; not a superior or malevolent one, but a smile nonetheless.
“Where do I start?” I said.
“Why not try at the beginning?” she said, taking the rhetorical for something more literal. I wondered if that were part of her make-up too. Was she always a precise person?
“Okay. So why me?” It seemed the most fundamental question, though — if I’m honest — it was the one I had consciously dodged myself. From my perspective the best answer was that I was there because of talent, of being exceptional. Indeed, if that was true then my question was redundant and didn’t even need asking. Except I knew I wasn’t exceptional.
“You were recommended,” she said, her voice even. It was an undertone she did not lose for the rest of the conversation. On reflection, I can see now there was no place in her world for misconception — though truth was to prove entirely more malleable.
“Recommended?”
“I was already aware of you, of course. In fact I have three of your watercolours up at the house. And this notion of yours about the recyclable and the non-recyclable; you have some interesting ideas.”
There was already a lot there. To be honest, I felt overwhelmed by that one answer. I grasped the positive and decided not to probe too much in case it crumbled under examination. Finding it hard to resist demonstrating outright astonishment that she already owned some of my work, I sought to fill the greatest gap.
“Who recommended me?”
“I can’t tell you that,” she said, not filling it. “Not yet anyway.”
It was said in such a matter-of-fact way that I felt warned off. More than that, her answer — and the way she had delivered her words — informed me that I would know who my promoter was only when she was ready to tell me.
“You have spoken to Sylvie?” Having taken a sip of coffee, she tried to help me along. I nodded. “And?”
“She explained a little of what she did, what medium she worked in. And she tried to explain the rule she had been given, about our interaction.”
“Only tried?”
“I think I understood it — but I would like to hear it from you, to make sure I am clear. And to know if there are any rules that pertain only to me. And why you have them in the first place.”
Her smile broadened a little at this point.
“There’s more than one topic there,” she said, her tone a fraction lighter but still even and factual. She sipped a little more coffee, then put her cup down. “I have always been fascinated by art, loved art. And, I suppose, artists. And I am particularly intrigued by the processes you go through to create your end-product: what affects the outcome, what the inputs are, the emotions and distractions. I now find myself in the fortunate position — please don’t ask me how, it’s the subject for another day — to indulge myself a little, to explore these questions, to see if I can find some answers. Not that I know the exact riddles I’m trying to solve of course!” There was a little laugh at this point, something internal, aimed at herself. It was brief, then she moved on. “So this is, on one level, an opportunity to give two young people the chance to fulfil their potential — though that part is up to you! But on another it’s a chance for me to answer some of my own questions. It’s an experiment in a way; but I would argue, isn’t all art an experiment? Don’t you always try things out to see what works and what does not?”
In picking up her cup again she was evidently seeking some kind of indication that I was following her. I gestured to the rest of the barn.
“All this is an experiment?”
“Precisely!” She seemed pleased. “But if an experiment is to deliver meaningful results then it must have some controls in place, and so ‘rules’, as you call them.” She drank some more, then put down the cup again. “You may have noticed I am a person who likes order.” There was no invitation to comment this time. “I am intrigued by how artists interact with each other, especially in this situation — admittedly false — which I have created. So I would like to be able to examine that chemistry, understand and explore it. To that end I merely ask that any interaction you and Sylvie may have while you are here is carried out in her studio where she can record it, interrogate it herself. That way it also becomes part of the art work she is creating; it serves two purposes, you see? And if it doesn’t work, if the constraint is too much or gets in the way, then we can remove it. Of course.”
I had the sense she had included that last phrase just for me, to sugar-coat the pill as it were; but I didn’t believe it. Only she would relax the rules; we would have no say. There was always the withdrawal of labour, you might argue. And of course, you would be right. Bit did it occur to me then as being an option I might ever need to exercise?
“And if we fail to adhere to your request?” I kept my tone deliberately light, avoiding the harsh words.
“Then it is the end of the experiment. Fin.”
Her use of the French word at that precise moment was telling. It had such brutal finality about it. She wanted to communicate that transgression would bring the adventure to a close, and that it would not end in a pleasant fashion. ‘Finish’ was too weak a word. I could only nod. Message received and understood.
“Does Sylvie have other rules?”
“Perhaps. But some will be just between the two of us.”
“And when we do speak,” I pressed for clarity, “is there anything about which we cannot talk? I know you wanted her not to speak about you before we met.”
“Ah,” she said, smiling again, “I am glad she told you that. And that she did as I asked. I was nervous about preconceptions; I wanted you to make up your own mind. It is important our relationship is shaped by the two of us alone, don’t you agree? How it progresses should be subject to our decisions, no-one else’s.”
How could I not concur?
“But when Sylvie and I meet in the future — later today, or tomorrow say — is there any subject we cannot discuss?”
Hélène shook her head.
“You can discuss anything at all, including me: though why you would want to waste your breath on such a boring subject, I can’t imagine.”
Only someone who was supremely confident in themselves and their position could make such a statement. I realised in that moment I was no nearer to working out whether I liked her or not.
“And rules for me?”
“I have two; both of which you are free to share with Sylvie. There may be others later, if art demands it.” It was a clumsy catch-all, but she delivered it without irony. “The first relates to Sylvie seeing your studio. You will be in hers often enough I am sure. There is no limit or constraint there other than any she may choose to impose — and the one with regard to recording your interactions. If she wishes to see what you are working on, then all I ask is that you let her. If she knocks to come in, please stop what you are doing and — without speaking, obviously! — permit her entry. When she is in here not only would I like you to give her full access, but full reign too — whatever that might mean.”
“She is aware of that — opportunity?”
Hélène nodded.
“So please wait outside. For as long as she is in here, alone, you must wait outside. I want to capture her unadulterated reaction to your work; I am hoping she will record something about it in her studio afterwards. It is — a little like your conversations — a way of feeding off each other, a fusion of what you are trying to do, if that makes sense. She may think or say something that proves valuable to you.”
This was the kind of request which makes artists nervous, allowing others unsupervised access to their studio. Hélène sensed my concern.
“I have told her that she can’t be coming in to disturb you all the time, obviously! So the rule is a maximum of once per day. Is that all right? Again, let’s see how that goes.”
If I wanted to object, her word “Fin” was still ringing in my ears.
“And the second rule?”
“This will surprise you perhaps,” she said, straining to keep the playfulness from her voice. “But I want you to paint me.”
“To paint you?!”
Given my evident surprise she was unable not to suppress a laugh.
“You see! Yes, yes, I know you are here as a sculptor, Paul, but there is a quality in your paintings… For me at least. I feel as if you are somehow unfinished there. Please sculpt and create as much as you wish, but I will insist on your painting me.” And here she became serious again. “I want to try and help you free that something I think is still locked inside you. I may be wrong, but please humour me.”
“I am, as you say, surprised — and a little confused.”
“Hergé has brought your things over, and I have asked him to augment your supply of art materials.” Her focus on me was unstinting at this point. “But this is important. You will paint me on demand, whenever I request it, whatever you are doing. And there will be a time limit for each session. A very strict — and probably very short — time limit. I want to try and release you from your current style, your habitual need to detail and overwork. I want to liberate the painter I think exists within you, the one I fear you have given up on.”
Did I sense then that she may have been right? I know the answer well enough now. I had become frustrated and a little lost as a painter, abandoned the medium because I had assumed a lack of talent. Hélène’s notion that it may have had more to do with application, with method, was intriguing.
“I will bring a little timer. It will trigger when you start and end. During each sitting we must be silent. I will choose the pose; that is part of the challenge. The medium is your choice — but you will be working very quickly, so I suggest acrylic, not watercolour or oils. Or possibly crayon, pastels, pencil. There will be a number of these images of me, and most of them will be unfinished because of the little time I will allow you. I suspect most of the initial paintings you produce you will hate. But you can destroy none of them. Consider them mine. They too will be a record of your journey. I want you to be able to look back and see how far you have come.”
“And if I have achieved nothing?” I asked.
“Then I will have been wrong.”
She said it with the air of a woman who was seldom wrong.
*
“And that was it?”
I had given Hélène sufficient time to regain the chateau before knocking on Sylvie’s door. She had immediately put a finger to her lips and ushered me in.
Her half of the barn had been laid out in identical fashion to my own: the small carpeted area, the kitchenette, the toilet. There was also a broad desk adorned with three large monitors and two computers. The bulk of the space had been partitioned into a number of differently sized zones or ‘rooms’ delimited in the main by a network of heavy black curtains. As she led me toward the nearest one, I could see a faint glowing from some of the others. Perhaps her experiment with cress.
The space we entered was about four metres square and gave me the distinct impression that it had been laid out explicitly for our meetings with two armchairs placed opposite each other. An up-lighter provided an ambient glow, clearly calculated to be sufficient to meet the needs of two video cameras to which she pointed theatrically before she turned them on. Small lights changed from red to green, and I heard her breathe out.
“Made it!” she said.
I gave her a rundown on my meeting with Hélène, trying to miss out nothing — though this had not been specifically for Sylvie’s benefit. I knew replaying the whole scene as quickly as possible would not only cement it in my memory, but help me understand it too.
“After our conversation about the paintings, there was little else to talk about. There were no more rules to be outlined — I explicitly asked — and so the conversation fell away. There was no ‘chit-chat’.”
“I doubt she does ‘chit-chat’,” Sylvie said more freely than I might have imagined under the circumstances. I glanced at the camera pointed directly at me.
“Anyway, I think she sensed I’d want to come and see you straight away.”
Sylvie laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing really. It’s just that the last time I saw her she said she thought that’s what would happen. That we would want to compare notes immediately.”
“How often to do you speak with her?” I found myself eager to understand all the interactions of our bizarre little triumvirate; it seemed important to be able to triangulate, as if getting bearings as soon as possible was critical for navigation.
At this Sylvie glanced towards the little green light on the machine facing her. In the silence I thought I could hear the dull hum of electronics at work. I looked again at the lens pointed at me. Tomorrow or at some point thereafter Sylvie would replay our conversation, see me staring at her through this impersonal device, and in doing so make some kind of assessment. I tried to smile — not at her but at the camera — as if that might soften some blow in the future, hoping she might then forgive me if I had crossed some kind of line. She was my sole ally, but one I had only just met. It was easy to assume she was on my side against Hélène (if sides had to be taken), but for a fleeting moment it struck me as equally possible that they were both ranged against me.
“Quite frequently,” Sylvie’s words dragged my attention away from the camera. “We have established the beginnings of a routine; something that works well for her, and which offers me prompt feedback on what I’m trying to do. She likes to see my output — my ‘work in progress’ — frequently.” She paused. “You will probably find that Hélène is very ‘hands-on’.”
“‘Hands-on’?” I echoed.
“Perhaps like her wanting you to paint her,” Sylvie suggested. “She seems very committed to her project, this experiment.” I noticed how she picked up on the word with a little hesitation. “I believe she wants it to work — whatever that means. She believes it will work, that something important will come out of it; hopefully something important for all of us.”
“You believe that too?”
I hadn’t meant to sound as incredulous as I felt I had, and found myself glancing at the camera again, trying to apologise into the future. At that precise moment Sylvie had three weeks’ head-start on me and had been in the programme for long enough to start seeing some results. She had a working relationship with Hélène; mine would come at some point in the future — assuming it would come at all. Perhaps Sylvie was right and the paintings would forge that, become the catalyst for something beyond their mere creation. Wasn’t that the kind of thing for which Hélène was striving? Perhaps they would prove to be about more than just colours on a canvas.
“Don’t answer that,” I gave my instruction to the camera, then looked at Sylvie. I wondered how she would respond to my statement when she played it back later, compared to how she might consider it now. “Don’t,” I reiterated, “it’s not fair. Give me time to make my own discoveries, draw my own conclusions. That’s how it’s supposed to happen, right?”
Sylvie smiled but said nothing. Then she turned off the cameras. The interview was over.