Christmas Is Over
And Boxing Day is, too. I don’t complain.
I spent both days thinking about my past Christmases, just like Mr. Scrooge from A Christmas Carol by Dickens. There is nothing that makes you think of the days when you were little like Christmas, isn’t there? You’re reminded of all your childhood hopes and dreams you thought you had long forgotten but are still there, intact, aching.
Still, I do consider myself a lucky man; I’ve been through so much and yet I don’t have many regrets. Given the extraordinary circumstances I’ve often found myself into, I’m not unhappy with the decisions I made: did I always do the right thing? I don’t know. Only time will tell.
This Christmas I thought a lot about Gwendolyn, too. Of course, how could I not? My thoughts flew back to the afternoon I drove Devi to her uncle’s diner. The rain was washing the wheat fields, everything looked kind of misty. Devi and I were alone in the car, so I decided I’d take my chance to finally have some answers.
-What’s indigo art?- Devi looked as if she had been expecting such a question. but took her time to answer. Carelessly flattening her blue sari, she told me indigo children were children who were geniuses. They could paint, write poetry or music at an incredible early age and with excellent results.
-Haven’t you ever heard of them?
-No , I don’t think so.
-They are quite a controversial group. There are some religious fanatics in it, people who think the kids’ abilites are someting God gave them to distinguish them from anyone else; according to this people indigo children are the chosen few who can save the world. And, as you can imagine, there are adults who try to exploit the children’s extraordinary talent financially.
- I see. Why are you so interested in the group, Devi?
As if it had known that Devi didn’t want to answer, her cell started ringing. Trying to conceal my disappointment, I concentrated on the road map in order to check our position. You can think I’m insane, but I had the impression Devi had known the cell would phone so that she could avoid answering me. And when she finally ended her conversation (in Indian, I couldn’t understand a word) I was parking right outside Uncle Ben’s diner.
Should I not have time to go on with my story before 2007 ends, let me just wish happy new year to you all.
Indigo Angels
I haven’t written for some time, I know. The thing is I came down with a bug. And to be completely honest with you, I’ve also had doubts about my decision of keeping a blog. You mustn’t think it is easy for me to write my story and take the risk of not being believed, once again. I was advised to try and write my story down to get rid of all the negative feelings, the bitterness, the disillusionment it caused. Not that my story is a terrible one: there’s love and happiness in it as well, life being a skillful blend of sweet and sour. It’s just I don’t feel it’s all over for me yet, but I need closure. Keeping an online diary is, hopefully, my way to closure.
But before I start rambling on about my present, let’s go back to the afternoon I met Kinvarra, the incredibly talented kid. Everything about her was extraordinary, I found myself thinking she must have been made of the same materials angels are. She looked like a little Eskimo, she had almond-shaped, starry black eyes and silky black hair. Her fringe looked uncombed and completely covered the girl’s left eyebrow.
Mrs. Todepp introduced us to the kid; she held her hand out for us to shake it. I thought this was a bit ridiculous and out of place, but made no comment. Besides, Devi was behaving as if meeting an eight-year-old painting virtuoso was the most normal thing in the world. That woman owed me more than one explanation. But I would have time to talk to her after, over a good cup of coffee.
So I simply listened to the conversation between Devi and Kinvarra, without understanding it completely.
-Kinvarra, I was prepared to see true talent but your works are well beyond my expectations. -
-Thank you very much. Yes, I’m aware of my own talent, but I’m not the only one who’s been gifted around here. And, if you’re familiar with indigo artists, you’ll know that we try to be modest about our abilities, without denying them of course.-
Here I must admit that I thought the kid was taking herself too seriously, posing as an adult . Her art was undeniably remarkable but I could see no reason why she should pretend to be a grown-up when she was just a child. Her mother was almost certainly to blame for it.
Devi apparently took no notice of the bizzarre way Kinvarra was acting and amiably carried on the conversation.
-Oh yes, I’m intensely interested in indigo art and I certainly know you people’s attitude towards your own talent.
Mrs. Todepp was positively impressed. -Would you say you understand it?
-Yes, sure, but I can’t say that I share it. – Mrs. Todepp bit her lip but said nothing. Devi went on pretending not to have noticed.
-Kinvarra was saying there’s someone else like her around here, is that right?
Mrs. Todepp didn’t seem eager to talk about someone else’s talented children, but she could not have avoided answering without being rude.
-Well, there’s Jett Sourcil, but he’s way older than my daughter and a lot of experts acknowledged he can’t paint as well as Kinvarra. Anyhow, he’s certainly a remarkable painter, considering he’s only fifteen…
Kinvarra felt the need to rectify what her mother was saying in order to make us leave thinking her daughter was the best indigo artist, whatever that meant.
-You’re forgetting Gwendolyn mother! She’s so much better than Jett. She’s probably much better than me to be honest. – As she finished talking, Kinvarra looked down out of modesty. Her mother was gazing at her cheap pair of mocassins, embarassed.
Devi’s eyes lightened with curiosity. She should have been more tactful but she couldn’t help herself and eagerly asked Mrs. Todepp if it was possible for her to arrange a meeting with the Sourcils, so that we could see Gwendolyn’s works. Mrs. Todepp revealed that Gwendolyn’s paintings were on display at the small diner owned by the girl’s uncle. Devi seemed to be driven again. I liked Mrs. Todepp less and less but I couldn’t justify Devi’s behaviour either. Just like after I had agreed on taking her to the exhibit she had shown no more interest in me on the train, now she rudely put an end to the conversation with Mrs. Todepp and Kinvarra, whom, given the new circumstances, she regarded merely as a loss of time. She made me think of a detective following a trail. Or of a dangerous fanatic.
But when she asked me to go to the diner with her I didn’t esitate. The whole story was proving too bizarre I was getting more and more curious. Without thinking about the consequences, I declared I was absolutely interested in meeting Gwendolyn and seeing her paintings.
There we were, in my rented Ford, driving to the diner. I was about to meet Gwendolyn Sourcil, I was about to pass the point of no return. Now I know I should have gone back to my hotel, taken a walk by myself, gone to a cafè, to the cinema, to sit on a bench, I should have done anything but meet her. But, unfortunately, now it’s too late.
I’ll try and write during the holidays but I can’t garantee. I’ll just say Merry Christmas for now. Take good care
Indigo Art
And there I was, waiting for the old Indian lady to go to the exhibition with her. I had had the impulse to phone her and tell her I coulnd’t go anymore more than once, but curiosity had kept me from doing it.
Devi arrived on time. She had told me she had been named after the Hindu goddess who manifests herself as all other goddesses. This appearently useless information would often come to my mind after that moment; I didn’t not know what to do with it then, I just found it another charming thing about her.
So we entered the small but modern building where the exhibit was held. The name of the painter was almost as exhotic as Devi’s: Kinvarra Todepp. We entered the permanent collection room of the museum: colorful sculptures sharply contrasted with the immaculate whiteness of the walls. I’m no art expert, but the names of the sculptors were all unknown to me, I was quite sure I had never heard them before ; this made me think that the place must have been full of local art.
Why had Devi come all the way from India just to see Canadian local art? And why had she insisted I should go with her so much? In spite of all this speculation I was anything but eager to see Kinvarra Todepp’s works.
I was ready to see Saskatchewan’s landscapes but Kinvarra’s paintings were nothing of the sort. Powerful might be the right adjective to define them. Kinvarra had certainly found her own style, her own voice among the noisy world of painter wannabes, and it was a powerful one. There was something in her paintings that made you realise you were in front of the work of a true artist, not in front of somebody who thought of themself as an artist.
The subjects of Kinvarra were extremely varied. Portraits, religious scenes, imaginary landscapes. I would have liked to spend more time in front of each work to try and understand it better, enjoy it, analyse the technique but Devi wanted to meet the painter and asked me to go and look for Kinvarra with her.
It turned out Mrs.Todepp was indeed there at the museum and we were able to identify her. There was nothing unexpected about her: she had brow hair, brown eyes, a nice smile. I have to admit I was a little disappointed. I was hoping to meet an extravagant lady wearing unconventional clothes, you know, someone who would fit the stereotype of the damned and beautiful artist. But Mrs. Todepp was a perfectly normal, boring woman. I soon lost interest in what she was saying about how wonderful the people in charge of the organization of the exhibit had been. As I was letting my sight wonder once more on the amazing paintings hanging on the walls, I heard her say she would call Kinvarra immediately. I turned my head to see her march off the room and come back with a little girl who might have been no more than eight years old. Kinvarra.
The Beginning Of The End
In my story things are at the brim of improbabilty and impossibility. Since everything started, I’ve often had the feeling of losing grip with reality, but it never felt like I was jerked out the comforting railroad of normal events; I rather had the impression the world we all live in was gradually shifting into a bizarre parallel universe. It all started on that train to Saskatchewan. I was still working away on my laptop when they announced dinner would be served soon. I saved my work and put all my stuff on the seat next to mine.
The Dream
It happened again: last night I had that dream again. Maybe it is because the last thing I did last night was walk up to this library, start my blog and walk home thinking about the inexplicable things that have been happening to me.
Over the last few years I’ve had a terrifying recurrent dream. You couldn’t call it a nightmare because there are no violence, pain or fearful elements in it. The most fearful thing is its recurrence over the years and the effects it has had on my everyday life. The dream is very simple: my life is completely back to normal, I’m still an internationally renown professor and, as I’m in the middle of a conversation with somebody, be it a colleague or a student, the person I’m talking to suddenly stares at something above my left eye. I try to carry on the conversation as nothing had happened, but I know what’s making my interlocutor look so nervous: my eyebrow has abruptly turned indigo. The reason I know about this sudden change in my appearance is due to the fact that I’ve had this dream so many times I perfectly know what has happened and how it is going to continue.
Nevertheless, last time just like any other time, I found an excuse in my dream and left the person I was talking to in order to go and check my reflection on the first available surface. As expected, last night as a million nights before, the image that was reflected on the glass door of my office showed a pleasant, middle-aged man whose left eyebrow was indigo.
The first times I’ve had this dream I found it slightly disturbing, but it has become quite obsessing over the years. I carried out an extensive research on the symbolic meaning eyebrows have in dreams. All books seem to agree on the fact that eyebrows denote that the person who dreams about them will encounter sinister obstacles in their immediate future.
Someone has booked this computer so I have to go, next time I’ll tell you more about my story. Today I’m still shaken because of the dream so I told you about it; it’s part of my story anyway.
Talk to ya’ later
