ARIMÉ SPEAKS
Stepping into her art space invariably uplifted the spirit of Arimé Teffarly.
It could be argued that sublime inspiration would be a given, what with the fact that she lived in one of the most beautiful places on earth, that being, the wild and woolly west coast of Ireland, in stunning, County Donegal.
How many days, and indeed nights, had she spent eyeing her paintbrushes and colour palettes, conjuring landscapes or what have you?
Sure, the garden and the greenhouse were places of supreme enjoyment, with frequent internal satisfaction once her long and slender fingers penetrated the rich black soil. Still, there are rules to follow when gardening if one wishes to be rewarded with a successful harvest.
Arimé would shake her head in dismay at what some people found acceptable when pairing plants. She would regularly hold her tongue (unless she was categorically asked an opinion) when she observed her friend June, planting Brassicas—such as cabbages and brussel sprouts, or even worse, potatoes—right next to the tomato plants. Those aforementioned vegetables would undoubtedly be invaders of a kind that would brazenly steal the nutrients from the soil, leaving the tomatoes weak, limp and flavourless.
She would bemoan to her patient husband, “Why didn’t she plant basil next to the tomatoes? Even parsley would be acceptable. I’m not sure if I can see her again this year. I mean, really.”
Her husband was quite used to these edicts and thus would simply nod and agree, “Oh, yes Arimé, quite irrational of her.” Or, he may chortle and assert something witty, “Dear me, what next? Foxglove next to scallions!”
Arimé would not take too kindly to this kind of banter as Foxglove is quite poisonous, and one should never, NEVER, plant vegetables next to them.
But we digress.
While the garden was a place of wonder, the art studio was a sanctuary.
This particular day, opening the studio door aroused in Arimé a flood of giddiness that made her feel heady. A commission had been granted to her for a painting of fifteen swans for the Christmas season. That was the only direction given. Fifteen swans on a 24” x 24” canvas.
Upon stepping into the light mango-coloured room, Arimé sighed and spoke to the reflection in the mirror on the far wall, while adjusting the ties on her painting smock.
“Remember, there are no rules here in the sanctuary. Go right on ahead, Arimé, put blue and green next to each other. Feel inclined to place red next to pink? I’m talking to you!” she said, pointing to the other Arimé. “No rules for you, my pretty.”
Of course, Arimé was thrilled to have been asked to create the piece, and undoubtedly was in need of the financial dividends. There were several new paints she wanted to acquire, not to mention the numerous flower bulbs that haunted her psyche every time she opened her glossy coloured catalogue for the upcoming season of Gardens4You 2022.
Becky, Arimé’s pooch, sat outside the sanctuary door. She knew better than to step across the threshold but, being a bit cheeky, she lay down, paws barely touching the inner dimensions of the room, though over the edge just the same. Arimé tsked but allowed the intrusion.
“Well, Becky, what am I to do now? Fifteen swans. No other direction from him. I am not the biggest fan of swans, Becky. When I mentioned in passing that they could be fairly aggressive, yer man retorted with a most ridiculous comment, ‘Aggressive? Oh my no, defensive perhaps but never aggressive!’ Obviously, he has never wandered along the River Liffey, in Dublin, but no matter. I will simply paint the lighter side of swans.”
As always, time ceased to be, once the brush was in hand. A pencil sketch of the landscape was the first order of business. Then pastel colour washes atop each other, followed by blues and silvers for water and greens mixed with golden yellows for striking colour contrasts. Swans, swans, where to add fifteen swans? Could he not have asked for two or three? “I wonder if he would mind a handful of cygnets, Becky. They are swans, just wee ones.”
Two days passed but the fifteen swans continued to elude her. Yes, swans were sketched and painted but none were to Arimé’s liking. Gesso (similar to white acrylic paint, only harder) covered the canvas copious times, erasing the unacceptable attempts. There were simply too many swans to fit onto a relatively small area. Arimé was genuinely beginning to feel a tad mental. Even when other daily responsibilities called her away from the sanctuary, swans were at the forefront of her mind.
When the fifth day came and went, and still no swans graced the canvas, Arimé pulled from the shelf a bottle of 2015 Guigal Cote Rotie La Landonne wine from the Rhone Valley. That bottle was close to empty by the time her husband arrived home with a bottle of 2018 Chateaux Haut Brion from the Bordeaux region.
By the time the clock struck midnight, Arimé was contentedly slurring her words. As she headed up the stairs to bed, she turned to her husband, “I must lelve..dee..delve into this headfirst tomoorrow. I freel right now … I feel a bit twisted in the head over it, and I hope I don’t end up in an emotional crish … crish hen … crescendo like Gobnet O’Lunasy in the song The Twelve Days of Christmas.”
A blur was the next few minutes. Head on the pillow. Out like a light. Time passing.
Then.
Arimé was nudged awake by Becky. “Need to go out, Becky? Hang on a tic while I put on my dressing gown … There now, come along.” As the two descended the stairs, something caught the periphery of Arimé’s vision from the sitting room window. A sizable white blur rushed along the side of the house. Arimé did a double-take but paid little mind as she opened the back door to let the dog out into the black of night. Becky growled low and slow, baring her teeth.
Becky’s eye line pointed directly toward the greenhouse. There was definite movement within. Arimé took hold of a torch by the washing machine, slipped on her wellies and guardedly made her way to the unknown intrusion. “Who’s there?” inquired Arimé before swinging wide the greenhouse door.
In the centre of the rows of freshly planted basil and tomatoes there were six swans poking their beaks into newly tilled soil. All at once, they looked up and charged at Arimé as though she had invaded their place of residence. Arimé screamed and slammed shut the door, running back to the house, confused beyond belief.
“What on earth? Swans? Really? SWANS!?” she said to Becky.
Removing her wellies, Arimé returned the torch to its proper place, and walked, bewildered, toward the staircase. What a shock it was when she looked to the dining table in the kitchen. Sitting around the perimeter were seven more swans, conversing (in English, mind you), about the state of the world. The swans looked up from their surrealistic discussion. Becky high-tailed it underneath the computer table in the little alcove off the kitchen.
Arimé watched in horror as the swans sluggishly but deliberately pushed back their chairs, creating a horrid sound, much like nails on a blackboard. It was then that the hissing began. Emphatic, alarming hissing. Arimé ran toward the stairs—toward the safety of her beloved. As she passed the front door, another swan banged upon it from the outside. She could see wings flapping at the glass panel on the side of the door, and the pounding of its beak upon the wood, akin to a nail being hammered upon.
She took the stairs two at a time, counting as she went. Six swans in the greenhouse, seven around the table, one at the door. Fourteen swans. Fourteen swans only. That means there could be another one hiding on the landing. Arimé slowed her steps, her breathing heavy, her heart pounding. She listened intently for any noises from above. Nothing. All was quiet. Where was the fifteenth swan? Assuming she had miscounted, Arimé passed the two guest rooms toward her own room where her beloved was sleeping soundly.
It was nothing short of a mighty shock when she opened the bedroom door. Her beloved was in the centre of the room, involved in a combination of an arabesque-pas de bourrée-pirouette routine, wearing a white tutu, white swan wings protruding from his shoulder blades.
The fifteenth swan.
Then … blackness.
Arimé woke abruptly and sat bolt upright. Her beloved turned to her, “What’s wrong, Arimé?” he asked, concern dripping from him as a yolk from a raw egg.
“What a dream I had!” Arimé replied. “It felt so real. I truly have swans on the brain.”
“Go back to sleep dearest, it’s still only 4 a.m.”
“Yes, I think I shall, with pleasure,” she replied.
Arimé’s beloved turned on his right side, and she snuggled up to his back, blowing away a few strands of hair from his head that tickled her nose. She touched the hair, but something released into her hand. A white feather. She screamed, “What the … !”
Arimé was startled awake for a second time. In a blind fury, she dressed, caring not about the torn blue jeans or the mismatched socks. There was only one thing she desired now, and that was to enter her sanctuary. To finish this painting once and for all. Was it the pressure of the deadline or the lucid dreaming? It mattered not one whit, but Arimé’s brush flew across the canvas as, well, a swan in flight. She was only an hour in, and already had four swans in the background. “Becky. I think it’s time for the radio.” Once again, time retreated to some bizarre continuum, and Arimé absentmindedly sang along to the songs playing on Owenea Radio.
“Eight maids-a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming … ”
Arimé held the paintbrush in mid-air and let loose a hearty laugh.
“Five golden rings … ”
