Love between a daughter and her father. A reunion in Arezzo (2)

Here are more excerpts from my novels. These passages are taken from Apotheosis, the third volume of the The Three Sides of the Coin trilogy.

We are in a flat in Rome, in the middle of a discussion over a tray of tea. Present are Massimo, Deirdre, a man whose identity I prefer not to reveal and whom I therefore indicate with five asterisks, his wife, and a friend of *****.

ψ

– But for now, I should like you to tell us about your T-shirt – said *****.

– My T-shirt? – her eyes widened slightly. – What has that got to do with…

She was bewildered. Her hazel eyes filled with a touching, unspoken question. After a moment she said:

– My father gave it to me. He left me a wardrobe full of blankets and clothes for every age, decorated with those strange geometries. I must have been five when he initiated me into an ancient practice, one with a ritual flavour.

Deirdre lowered her gaze. Her voice grew fainter.

– My memories are vague. After he abandoned me, I took my mother’s surname, Le Saux, and burnt many documents that might have explained those patterns. Now and then I wear those clothes, driven by an impulse towards him.

She paused. Her hands trembled slightly on her knees.

Then, her gaze lowered once more, she added: – I’ve never really made clear to myself what I feel for him… […]

[Deirdre’s emotions grow ever more intense. ***** takes her by the hand…]

– You are about to experience something powerful, Miss Le Saux.

She waited. Her fingers tightened slightly within his grasp. Nothing happened. She was about to withdraw her hand when a shiver ran up her arm, radiating through her legs, chest and head. Her eyes widened as a flash crossed her mind, tearing through the veil that had hidden the pain for years. The tea, the voices, the warm light of the sitting room vanished with the rest of the world, giving way to a vertigo of images and sounds.

She was ten.

She saw the door opening, her father’s hesitant step as he turned for the last time. She felt the knot in her throat, the tightness in her chest, and her small hand stretched out towards him.

Then another flash, and *****’s voice brought her back to the present, together with an embrace miraculously restored.

She was no longer alone. Besides Massimo, she now had him too: her father. Thanks to *****, she had sensed that they would soon meet again. She broke down, weeping uncontrollably, torn between joy and pain. Sitting beside her, Massimo drew her into an embrace so long and so full of love that Deirdre’s tears slowly subsided in his arms. Flavia, overcome, was crying too, with one hand over her mouth. The two friends were deeply moved, but made an effort to remain composed. […]

ψ

After the meeting with *****, Deirdre had returned home to Monti with Massimo. The days passed. From time to time she would open the chest where she kept the clothes left to her by her father and look at them with a new awareness. ***** had told her that, if she wished, he could help free her through a number of sessions. She decided she would first try on her own and only ask him for help if necessary.

Sometimes, standing by the window beneath the moonlight, she would take one of those garments and try to loosen the blocks that prevented her from seeing clearly. But she could not.

One evening, holding the same T-shirt she had worn for her visit to *****’s house, she drifted into sleep and had a vision: someone, from the highest summit of his soul, was contemplating humankind. And, observing them from so far away, marvelled at their smallness.

Upon waking, she asked herself: “Who was that being? Was it my father? And if so, why did his soul stand higher than the other souls?”

A REUNION IN AREZZO

It was All Saints’ Day. After her performance at the Teatro Petrarca, Deirdre stepped out into the cool evening air. The symphonic phrases with which she had conversed at the piano in Brahms’s Second Piano Concerto still lingered in her ears. They seemed unwilling to leave her. She loved them deeply.

Now well away from the theatre, she walked along Via Cavour and turned left into Corso Italia. Arezzo lay steeped in a golden tranquillity. The nearly deserted streets echoed with the sound of her footsteps upon the stone paving slabs.

Massimo had warned her more than once: “Please, don’t walk about alone, especially at night.” [I cannot reveal the reason for Massimo’s worries.] But she had merely smiled, making no promises. She was not afraid.

With a light step, she surrendered herself to the desire to wander without destination. Turning right into Via Vasari, towards Piazza Grande, she found herself drawn by a gentle glow that seemed to welcome her like an embrace. She paused beneath the arches of the Loggiato, struck by the untouched beauty of the place.

It was then that she saw him, leaning against a pillar, a book in his hand, his gaze lost elsewhere.

It was Arthur, her father.

Not an encounter, but an apparition.

The shock struck her like a blow to the chest. She stood motionless. She had recognised him at once, despite all those years. He was still young, with the same bearing and those unmistakable eyes she had once hated and now loved again, helplessly. For a long moment neither of them moved or spoke. The city around them seemed to hold its breath.

Then she ran to him. They embraced tightly, with infinite tenderness.

They remained locked in each other’s arms, in silence, for an indeterminate length of time.

– Why are you here, Dad?

– I wanted to see you again. And to hold you in my arms.

– Why didn’t you wait for me outside the theatre?

– Because you’re my daughter. I knew that sooner or later you’d come to this beautiful square. Arezzo is beautiful. And I sense that someone you love has roots here.

– You know about him?

– Yes. I’m happy that the two of you love each other, for many reasons.

– I’ve missed you so much, Dad. More than you can imagine.

– My dear, I’ve missed you too. But perhaps you’ve understood that it was necessary.

– Yes, I have. Or rather, I was helped to understand it.

– The Organisation?

– Yes. I know you’re part of it too…

A long silence followed. Then she said:

– Perhaps this isn’t the moment, but I’d like to ask you something. Something I think I already know, yet need to hear from you.

– Tell me, Deirdre.

– Who are you, Dad? I’ve had visions about you. Ever since then, I haven’t stopped wondering.

Arthur remained silent. Then he said gently:

– Do you really want to know?

– Yes.

– Wouldn’t it be better to leave everything as it is?

– No, please. It would also explain all those years you spent away from me.

By then they had moved to the centre of the square. Arthur Second raised his eyes. The sky above Piazza Grande was clearer than it had ever been before.

– Who am I?

Three words hung in the air.

A white cat appeared and brushed against her ankles.

– I am a man who, a very long time ago […]

"Portuguese Woman (The Large Portuguese)," Robert Delaunay, 1916.

Delaunay (1885-1941) was a French painter who started as a Post-Impressionist, then founded the Orphism movement, before moving on to Abstract art. Such was the lot of an artist in the turbulent early years of the 20th century!

Today we have an example from his Orphist years. Orphism is an offshoot of Cubism, and focuses on bright colors and images broken into geometric shapes. Many Orphists use the motif of the circle with colorful concentric rings, as you see here.

Delaunay was certainly breaking things down here, but it's still recognizable as a human figure with some tropical plants, but what she's carrying is unclear. Still, this painting is about the colors and shapes more than it's telling a story. Orphism pretty much died during WWI, and afterwards Abstraction became popular.

From the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum, Madrid.

#Art #Orphism #RobertDelaunay #Colors

"Nude Woman Reading," Robert Delaunay, 1915.

Delaunay (1885-1941) was one of the founders of Orphism, a short-lived style of art that was a bridge between Cubism and Abstract Art.

He didn't do many nudes, but he painted nine variations on this scene with varying degrees of abstraction. This is pretty representational; although she's fairly abstract, we get enough with her hair and the fat rolls on her side that make her seem genuine and real. The oval framing of the painting accentuates her curve. And the bold colors are definitely Delaunay; he loved experimenting with color and hue.

This is technically a sort of semi-abstract, but nicely captures a moment alone when a woman, either dressing or un-, is taken by something on the page before her.

From the National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne.

#Art #FrenchArt #Orphism #RobertDelaunay #WomenInArt

#SoniaDelaunay #Art #modernism #Orphism

Sonia Delaunay, born as Sarah Ilinitchna Stern on November 14, 1885, in Gradizhsk, Ukraine, and later known for her innovative contributions to art and design, was a trailblazer who shaped the trajectory of 20th-century modernism. Throughout her career,

https://lumlux-art.com/sonia-delaunay/

#AlbertGleizes merged Cubism's fragmented forms with the vibrant energy of the city. His 1917 work "On Brooklyn Bridge" captures the bridge’s architectural brilliance through bold diagonals and dynamic orbs, reflecting Orphism’s focus on modernity.

See it in our exhibition "Harmony and Dissonance: Orphism in Paris, 1910-1930" opening November 8. #OrphismGuggenheim

Guggenheim Museum
@Guggenheim #art #museums #artgallery #orphism