Portrait of Julia redux

 There is something poetic about the flu--or whatever it is--that has visited itself upon me, my husband and my favorite male model. It has taken each of us three weeks--give or take--to return to the Land of the Fully Alive. It forced each of us into a cadence we would not have chosen for ourselves, a cadence and meter that would support any number of rhyming variations, perhaps.  For me, it was the most horrific pain in my sinuses I have ever endured. Ever. For any reason. And fever. And aches. And deep, dark coughs. And depression.

For my husband, it was a bit of achiness, a bit of fever...and rivers of mucus such as only a really significant Norman schnoz can hold and issue forth. No depression; my husband is one of those mesomorphs to whom depression is as foreign as being a Pollyanna is to me. Even when sick. In both cases.

For Alex, it seemed to have been a sluggish, achy, chilly, spacey sort of thing. Some depression. Or so it sounded in the retelling.

What sort of thing is this, that could affect us all so differently? Perhaps it was a painting. Yes, perhaps. A poem would mean pretty much the same thing to all readers. But a painting--perhaps something by Magritte--would cause each viewer to come up with his or her own reaction.

But it's done now. I was hoping spring would arrive at its conclusion. A few warmish, sunny days in the past ten or so--during which walks on the beach helped us regain our strength and something akin to hope for the future--convinced me that the next expression of being would be spring.

***

So, one of the coldest days of the year, and several days into spring. I did, finally, spend an hour at the easel and Julia is finally becoming more Julia-like. I didn't want to do it yet, while I'm still investigating the relationships of the planes of her face, but I had to drop in some background for contrast so I could really see the outline of nearly perfect nose, full lips and high forehead. And then it began to take shape. It's based on a favorite photo of her from about five years ago. She was looking out the window of the Bodmin & Wenford Railway during one of their Christmas week carol-singing, scone-eating jaunts. It was a gray day, and not much light came in the window.

Julia and Simon with the crew of a Bodmin & Wenford Railway Christmas carol train.

Julia was wearing a black jersey. All one could see was her blonde hair and her face, surrounded by darkness, with a spill of weak daylight casting odd shadows. I decided it was perfect for an atmospheric painting of a young woman of 20, who has since become a wife and mother. I don't think we shall see that springtime Julia again; she's fully into summer now, balancing kids, home, husband, a future that has increased several-fold since the days when she could just stare out a train window, wondering--perhaps--how her father and stepmother had cooked up this odd adventure. Now her adventures include a toddler and an infant, a dog, sometimes a husband, a big American car, shopping/cooking/cleaning/egad! The summer of a married woman's life lasts a while--about 21 years at last count--and I expect I will paint another portrait of Julia along about the middle of her lifetime's summer, before I hang up my palette for good. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll paint her in the early fall of her life, too.

But we had such a good time the day I took the picture that is becoming a portrait. The railway chaplain, who led the carols, was like something out of a Cornish romance novel, all dishevelled, as if he had no wife to darn his jersey or put a crease in his trousers every now and then. A sweet old guy.

There wasn't much to see in the train's short run, and none of us is particularly fond of group singing. Still, it was a steam engine pulling the thing, and we stopped after for photos with the train crew. By which time, the sherry served on board had worn off, and we headed to the Jamaica Inn for a little warm-up. Touristy? For certain. The whole day was. But it was interesting...interesting to see Julia on the edge of adulthood, pensive, wondering what lay ahead. And to realize the great love I have for her, although I didn't give birth to her, and would never presume to claim her.

This painting...this painting...is filled with things. I hope it turns out well.