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Thu | August 25, 2005
Field of Flowers
This assignment was to write the story in a painting.
Claudia sat on the fold-up stool and looked at her daughter in the field of flowers. Her daughter Veronica had retained her figure despite having had a child. The boy, now four, played with Marie's six-year old daughter. They tumbled in the grass. They wrestled, and the girl straddled the boy in pure innocence.
Her daughter wore a pastel blue dress which flattered her graceful figure. Claudia had helped her choose the dress when they were at the shop in town. It matched the blue lavendar in the field. She could not make out her daughter’s facial expression, however. It was a blur. Claudia’s sight was deteriorating. The children were mere shapes in the grass. She saw that behind them, there were three slender trees with tall, dark trunks, but the leaves were indistinct patches of green and blue.
Veronica carried a parasol which completed the picture for Claudia. But for Veronica the purpose of the parasol was not to look beautiful, but to shield herself from the sun. Veronica was practical. She had been told since a young age that she was beautiful, and thus thought little of it.
"Veronica," she called. "I am getting old," she said as her daughter approached. She knew that this bothered her daughter but she could not help it. It had become as natural as 'hello' or 'how are you' and she could not open a conversation otherwise.
"Stop saying that," said Veronica. "You are the healthiest sixty-year old woman in the world."
"What would you like to have for dinner?" Claudia asked.
"I’d like to try that bistro we saw in the town," said Veronica.
"Ah yes. I am going to order the duck. And afterwards we can go to the theater. Marie will take care of the children."
An artist had come to the field and the children gathered around to observe him. Soon their little hands grasped at the pastel charcoals and the frenchman courteously prevented them. "Désolé," said Veronica as she swept both of the children up in her arms and took them away.
As they departed Claudia remarked, "When I was young I wanted to be a painter."
"I never knew that your appreciation of art had that connection," said Veronica.
"I was very young. Until I was ten, twelve, and a little beyond that. I liked to draw. I drew and I painted all day, for hours on end. When I was not drawing or painting I was imagining how I would draw or paint whatever was around me."
"And what happened?"
"Nothing. I was a child. My mother told me I spent too much time with my drawings and I should spend more time socializing with friends. So I did."
"I liked to draw a bit too, when I was a child."
"I was pleased when you took that on. But you did not continue. Did you ever want to be an artist?"
"No, I thought of it as a small hobby."
"I would have given my life to it, and not known it had passed."
"I am sure you would have made a fine artist, mom." She had not received the intended impact of her mother's statement. Like many people, Veronica did not take the talk of elderly people very seriously— especially not her own mother's. This is how Claudia knew she was getting old— she could say anything.
"If your child shows any inclination for art you will encourage him."
"Of course."
They walked through the field of flowers. The golds and the greens were like an enchanted land in a fairy tale. She marvelled anew that her daughter, herself so exquisite, did not feel inspired and uplifted in the presence of beauty. Veronica did not notice things. The frenchman had thrown her a mischievous look but she had barely seen him. They progressed slowly. The mother and daughter walked in a straight line, and the children ran ahead and around them in all directions.
Claudia and her daughter had taken this trip to France for her sixtieth birthday. They were in Provence, away from the asphalt they saw daily in Pennsylvania. At the edge of the field they sat waiting for the car that would take them into town.
"I am weak," said the mother.
"You've had too much sun," said the daughter.
"That's not what I mean," said Claudia. "I am weak in spirit. I never had the audacity to do what I wanted. I found a decent man to marry and I married him. Then I lived a mundane life of petty, trivial problems. How to arrange the furniture in the living room. What kind of toaster to get. The things to cook for dinner. How to liven up the salad. I know a million variations on the theme of dinner."
"That's what life is."
"I wonder if I could have been a painter. A great one. I was afraid to even try. And you- have no such desire."
"I have a great appreciation for art but I have no desire to create it myself. Is there anything wrong with that?"
"No, nothing at all," said Claudia. She saw the car approaching at a distance and nodded towards it. "Let's go have that duck."
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Comments
I thought the story would more interesting if you focused more on the theme of the child missing the point of most of what her mother is saying. A commentary on how we often hear but do not listen. But, don't point this out in the story. Make the reader figure it out.
Or maybe that's what you are trying to say. That last line with the mother saying - Let's go have that duck - is her giving up trying to get her point across to the child.
Posted by: C on August 29, 2005 06:49 PM