There was an artwork in our living room while I was growing up, hung high up on the wall, always there from my earliest memory. Its background was steel blue, deep azure, light grey, cream and black seemingly scraped onto canvas with erratic edges. A coiled figure sat in the foreground, etched with black lines of paint, mostly curved with some straight inflections. I’d always thought it was a potato. I never questioned why we had a large picture of a potato in the room where we spent all of our time. It just belonged there, as much as the curtains belonged there, the grey carpet, the bookcase built into the wall. They all played their own role in the identity of the room.
Slowly, as the lines of my own body unfurled, my hips expanded, my chest bloomed, my waist came in, I started to recognise my shape mirroring the shape in the artwork. It had never been a potato; it was a young woman hunched over with her back facing the artist. Her dark hair was tied into a low, loose bun. What I had thought was nature’s deep indent in the side of a starchy vegetable was actually the inside of her thigh, leading up toward her bended knee. The curved potato edge was in fact her shoulders, the ripple extending down a smooth curved arch was indeed her spine. It was a print of Picasso’s Blue Nude from 1902, an artwork that I now know to be quite iconic.
I always assumed it was Dad’s – he was the one who seemed to choose things for their beauty, but Mum told me she chose that print. She said she bought it during a period of separation. She was drawn to it because it symbolised going within and recognising her own feelings. She said it appealed to her because it represented stillness and self-knowledge – like solitary truth. I enjoy that idea of solitary truth. I loved that she shared that with me and I loved the quality of her response. My friends told me their own mums would likely have replied with something like, ‘It was a gift’ or ‘I liked the colour’. I realised how lucky I am that my mum has always been so generous with her thoughts and her stories, bringing truth and meaning to things we might otherwise ignore or skim along the surface of. I think I’ve inherited that from her, this generosity of thought, pondering, contemplation.
The artwork was one of the few beautiful things in our house. There was also a special glass cabinet in the kitchen, perched atop the cupboard which held plates, bowls and cutlery. It had two sliding glass doors hiding a secret untouchable world. It seemed to store the most magical, magnificent items I’d ever seen. It was home to a crockery set of white china with gold-flecked trims which one of my parents had received as a wedding present long ago. There were large crystals and gemstones, a substantial chunk of rose quartz taking up prominence, a purple amethyst glistening under the light. There was a white mortar and pestle Dad would occasionally use to grind spices and a long clear glass cocktail stirrer that I believed with my whole heart was a fairy’s wand. I wasn’t allowed to touch anything in the cabinet without my parents nearby which only added to the mystique and thrill of it all. There’s something about beauty being just out of reach that makes a lasting impression on your mind.
There were occasional pockets of prettiness around the house in unexpected, temporary places. Like when stone fruits would come into season and our fruit bowl would emerge on the table, overflowing with peaches, nectarines, apricots and mangoes, but mostly peaches. Their pinky orangey flesh and soft fuzzy skin would beg to be bitten, the sweet honey-like juice imploring me to tear it open and let it drip down my chin. The decadence of sweet, ripe fruit.
But there was nothing more delightful than when Mum or Dad would come home from the bakery with a bag of croissants, the paper bag of buttery sweetness becoming translucent as the warm oil seeped through. The traditional ones were our favourite but every now and then Dad would go rogue and buy pain au chocolat – chocolate croissants. Gathered around a plate of croissants is when we felt most at ease as a family – a harmonious group who all wanted to be near each other. My parents would tell stories about their lives before us, about their travels in their youth. My dad, having adored Paris, would sometimes show us the black and white photos he’d taken with his single-lens reflex camera and developed himself. I remember loving the images of bridges crossing the Seine, and imagining myself walking across the impressive arch, pausing for a moment to lean on the intricate gilded rails, drinking in the surrounding splendour. I still have those photos now, in gold frames, hanging on the wall in my home.
These iconic bridges were what I first looked for when I arrived in France, finally, after all those years of pining. I arrived, ready for my cliché. I expected cobbled streets dipped in gold, wicker picnic baskets overflowing with wine and baguettes placed on a bed of daisies and sweet peas. I was ready for it to come at me. It wasn’t completely fantastical wishing, as I had something waiting for me. A little secret not yet divulged. A few months earlier, I received a message from Frenchie. He’d said he missed me and had asked how I was going. We’d been chatting and realised he’d be working in Paris while I was there, a chance to see each other again.
It was a rendezvous in every sense, not just the usurped version of the word – in my opinion, the word rendezvous really should be reserved for secret night-time trysts with very flirtatious French men.
‘I’m here,’ he texted from outside my hotel.
I’ve always found something fascinating about the words ‘I’m here’. I’m not where I was, I’m not where I will be, I’m here. It brings a sense of anticipation, companionship, possibilities. It’s an invitation, the cusp of a new beginning. An announcement that I’ve done what I said I would do. ‘I’m here’ – now we can begin. ‘I’m here’ – I’ve arrived safely. ‘I’m here’ – where I need to be. ‘I’m here’ – for you. How many incredible moments have started with these two words?
Melany Querida 