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.
