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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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A Cup Full of Humble Fragrance #470779 added November 23, 2006 at 6:35pm
Restrictions: None
Oh, Henry!
Each time you lift your head, your eyes drink from the sky,
The blue where the fish swim and the blue where the birds fly.
The blue you feel when you are split in two
The blue on your brush comes to your rescue.
Yes, that’s me in the photo and I wrote that stanza. There will be additions to it. If you’re a painter, you’re a poet. If there is no poetry in your painting, don’t leave your day job. Well, I left my day job but that was due to my circumstances, not my skill as a painter. Actually, at that time, I was more skilled at my day job.
By profession, I was a temp worker. That meant I worked with an agency, which provided temporary jobs to people who didn’t like to stay in one place for too long. They loved me at the agency because I had a pretty good education. I knew two languages and I had a degree. I was their best commodity. I looked good on paper and this elevated their status a notch higher with their clientele. If I wanted to, I could have gotten a high paying, permanent job with fringe benefits on my own. Yet, I didn’t. I just couldn’t stay in any one company more than a few months at a time, but I was never fired. No, Sir! Several times, I walked out on my own just when I was about to get a promotion. It was like I was steering in the dark, not knowing where I was going, and bumping into stuff along the way. The same thing happened again with my last assignment but for different reasons.
Five years ago, I found a job handling the data in a company’s computer system. The company, Marks, Sharp & Cox, was founded by three art dealers who turned it into an auction house plus a gallery chain worldwide. The company was so successful that even Sotheby’s paled by comparison. I felt important working for this establishment. Surely I wasn’t the only employee who handled their computers, but I was very quick and accurate. Even though I was a temp worker, a month later after noticing my expertise, they trusted me enough to hire me full time with all the benefits and a cherry on top.
The cherry was Sheri Cox, a daughter of one of the partners. Sheri was a high-class knockout. She was a debutante who had gotten her education in prep schools and later was sent to Europe. She worked as the art director in the gallery section. That meant she traveled to France often after paintings and painters with fancy names. If I hadn’t met her first, I would never have accepted the full-time deal. Sheri was exciting, bubbly, and always full of ideas. I was obsessed with her. Although I would have denied that then, I was in love and love makes a person feed the lions.
Sheri and I started seeing each other secretly. At first, Sheri said she wanted it that way for the reason that the news of our relationship would mess up her professionalism in the company and that wouldn’t agree with her work ethics. Later she told me that it was her father who would make things difficult for us. I went along with whatever she said like a leaf in the wind.
Sheri had an uptown apartment. Her father lived in the suburbs, but if he worked late nights, he stayed in her apartment. We met mostly in her place and things went very smoothly for me for several months. Sheri never liked my pad. It wasn’t because it was downtown. It was because of the way I kept it. It was easy for her to criticize my housekeeping when she had a maid coming in twice a week, but Sheri had her ways. I was not supposed to be around when the maid or her father showed up.
One evening when we were in her apartment in her bedroom, we heard the front door open. We both stood up in fright. I knew I had to fight to save us and I didn’t like that one bit. I could fight off hackers, viruses, trojans, worms, bad programmers, or anything else that may pop up behind the screen. But intruders? In any case, I got ready to take him on. I grabbed a shoe in each hand, yet I couldn’t move because something had started pulsing at my temples
“Sheri, it is I! Sorry, couldn’t call you! It got too hectic and the cell-phone ran out of power.”
“ Dad! Just a minute! I’m coming right out,” Sheri yelled back as she stuffed me into her closet.
Don’t frown; it wasn’t so bad. Sheri’s closet was half the size of my bedroom. Besides, inside it she had an armchair. The best part was that I could hear the conversation from the living area through the ventilation system inside the wall. After Sheri served her father something to eat, they started to talk shop. What I could hear then, I didn’t like at that moment at all.
As soon as Mr. Cox went into his room, Sheri came to rescue me.
“Henry, quick! You have to leave now, while he’s in the shower.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the other one.”
“Hush! He isn’t hard of hearing.”
“Who’s Aun-ree?” I was seething with jealousy.
“Shhhh! Out!” Sheri let me out of the apartment. I was so angry with her, that two timing, backstabbing...aaarrgghh!
By the time I reached my place, I had the whole thing planned. I was going to quit right next day after messing up her auction bids list or something like that for vengeance. Stretched out on my own bed, I recalled Sheri’s conversation with her father.
“Sweetie, when are we going to announce your engagement? You know, I received another call from the Duke’s family. We can’t let this pass.”
“Dad! I am not in love with him. I’ll do anything for you but not this.”
“Sheri, you’ll end up being a spinster and I’ll never see the face of a grandchild.”
“Dad, please don’t get upset. Remember your heart.”
“Do you have someone else in mind? Don’t tell me he’s another nerd. I can’t stand nerds, especially those behind the computers...”
“Dad, he’s a nerd. No, Dad I meant to say he’s not a nerd.”
“He better have something. A family name, culture, pizzazz...” The old man had ruled me out in one stroke.
“Dad, he’s a painter, an artist. He’s very well known in France and as a matter of fact in Europe.”
“What’s so special about him?”
“They call him the ‘Blue Painter’. For using blue colors a lot."
“That isn’t anything to be proud of.”
“He comes from a very good family.”
“Which family?
“Well, from one side he descends from the Bourbons and the other from the Medici’s.”
“Both Italian and French? Impressive! Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I wanted you to meet him in person. I’ve been trying to convince him to come here but he’s so busy...” I remembered the phone calls that she used to take from overseas in the middle of the night while hushing me.
“What’s his name?”
“Aun-ree... Dad, give me time, please.”
“What do you need time for?”
“It is like this, Dad. I have to make him realize I’m important to him. I’m sure he loves me, but you know how artists are...”
So that was the story...I had been used for months by a silly spoiled rich chick while she was making plans to corner a blue baboon in a beret.
Next morning, I showed up at the office as if nothing happened. By the closing time, I had planted a pop up bug in the whole system that would show up in two days. It would read, “Blue Painter” and would continuously pop up worse than AOL’s buddy list, all over the network, here and overseas. Before I left the office, I handed in my resignation saying that I had a family emergency and I would be leaving the state to be with my mother in Ohio. ‘Take that, Sheri Honey,’ I muttered to myself as I turned to give one last look at the building outside.
I kept my word. I went to see Mom to chill out for a few days. My mom is not an apple pie mom. Mom’s housekeeping could be showcased in the ‘really lived-in’ section of Good Housekeeping, and it is just the way I like. When Mom cooks I run for cover into the nearest Burger King, but Mom makes people feel at ease. That is why she is Mom.
Still, in some ways parents never grow up.
“How is that nice girl you told me about on the phone?”
“She’s history, Mom. No more fishing for a while.”
“Oh, Henry...Don’t say that!”
“Okay, I won’t.”
On my return, I found Sheri sitting on my bed.
“You are so clever, Henry...but you should have told me you’re leaving.”
“What do you want from me? Didn’t you have enough time to search for your Aun-ree?” I said while making plans in the back of my mind for changing the door lock.
“Oh, Henry! You are Aun-ree...” Sheri was beside herself with laughter. “And you’re so clever! Thanks for the pop-ups. They helped. I know we can pull this off together.”
It was beginning to dawn on me. Aun-ree was Henry in French, but pull what off? Well, at that point I didn’t care. I was full of joy. I had my Sheri back and I’d do anything she’d say. When you are in love, you learn to lie flat as a carpet.
Sheri brought in what we needed for a start-off: easel, palette, brushes and knives in all sizes and shapes and of course tubes and tubes of paint with several blues. I didn’t know there were so many blues: azure blue, cerulean blue, cobalt blue, thalo blue, and so on and so forth. She gave me a short lecture on the relationship of shapes and forms and left me on my own to start to create for the day.
During those first few weeks the going was rough, but Sheri had a good eye. She directed my efforts in her expert manner. Since we both found out that I stank at representational art, short of stuff that looked like bad cartoon drawings, we zeroed in on the abstract. And, Boy, did I shine with that one! With my angel Sheri, I was learning how to fly.
A few months later, the time had come for Sheri’s efforts. We shipped ten paintings to Sheri’s apartment in Paris. Sheri went to France and took two of them to be shown in a gallery there and scattered six of them around Europe. She brought two of them back into the States with her, and she had her father meeting her at the airport with a guard. This girl was something else. She knew which string to pull. Due to her efforts and knowledge of how the art world operates, the works of the “Blue Painter” or Henri De Perrache, alias –me- Henry Parrish, became the hottest issue on Park Avenue. I was even written about in the New York Times Art section several times and then some.
A year later, having gained a name in Europe, I was living in an apartment in Paris without knowing any French. Believe me if you think I didn’t earn my fame and fortune, you are wrong. I earned it just by living among the French who snubbed at my efforts to communicate. Since the French have this high regard for personal privacy to the degree of iciness, Sheri and I got by perfectly inside our day-to-day life. I knew I was a hot commodity for the media but I didn’t give any interviews. I had my representative, Sheri, to take care of the mundane stuff. You know how eccentric we painters are...
Two years and six months after we had first met, Sheri and I got married quietly in a small church outside of Paris. Sheri had decided that we should keep our marriage secret from our families and the world. Frankly I didn’t mind the mystery because I had the love of my life, my Sheri, and we were making a fortune together. Plus, I had truly started to enjoy fooling around with the paints. I woke up every morning with my heart beating and beating just getting ready to make the paints come alive on the canvas. Give a dog a name!
Last year around Christmas time we decided to go home for a visit. Since we still had kept our apartments, we thought we could manage the hide and seek with her father and my mother. Well, what we didn’t count on was Sheri’s father. He had made up his mind to be everywhere and snoop into everything.
On our first evening in Manhattan, after we had gone to sleep, Mr. Cox showed up in the apartment. Neither of us had heard him come in. He came into the bedroom and suddenly turned on the light. I cowered under the quilt, as Sheri jumped onto the warpath.
“Dad, you should not enter without knocking.”
“I wouldn’t enter if I hadn’t heard the snoring of a giant. Who’s he? What’s he doing here?”
“He’s my husband, Dad. Aun-ree! We just got married”
“Then, why is he hiding?”
“He’s just learning English and he’s shy. Aun-ree! Say hello to Dad.”
I lifted my head from under the sheet and said, “Bon Soir, Monsieur.”
A smile drifted across Mr. Cox’s face. “Bon Soir Aun-ree. Now, go back to sleep, Children. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Sheri was beside herself with happiness. “He bought it! He bought it!”
“I’m surprised he didn’t recognize me,” I said. “He has seen me few times in the office.”
“He probably didn’t even look at you. He never liked people with computers and things.”
“What are we going to do now?”
“Don’t worry. Just don’t talk too much. I’ll tell him you have laryngitis!”
Everything went smoothly. Mr. Cox was very happy next morning about his only daughter being married. He kept talking in French to me and I kept nodding and pointing to my throat. Love had set me going like a fast watch. The three of us had a nice family breakfast together. After breakfast while I was clearing the dishes with Sheri, Mr. Cox had a phone call. Sheri took it. One of the crates with the paintings sent from Paris had arrived and there was a problem with the customs.
“I would go, Children, but I am feeling a little tired today. Everybody is away for the weekend. Sheri, can you see to it? I’ll wait for you here with Aun-ree!”
After Sheri left, Mr. Cox sat across from me at the kitchen table.
“Relax,” he said in English. “My daughter knows what she’s doing. The paintings will be fine.”
I looked at him as if I understood little. He burst out in laughter.
“Henry Parrish, I told you to relax. Paintings came yesterday. I told them to hold it until today, so you and I could have a chat without Sheri.”
“Sir, how did you know?”
“I knew it all along, you two silly kids! I knew she was going out with you when you were working at the office. If I had shown approval, she might have turned away from both of us. I guess I spoiled her a little. Sheri likes success, drama, doing things her own way. Then, when a friend of mine told me my daughter was living in Paris with an American, I figured out it would be you. The only thing I didn’t know at first was that you were the blue painter.”
“Sorry, Sir. Will there be any trouble now?”
“I don’t think so. Everyone can work under a persona, like a pen name for a writer, or a fancy name for an actress. You are the one who is painting the paintings and they are good. I’m surprised that they are, but they are. I am a businessman first and I like the business you have brought into my office, Henry.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“You were Henri De Perrache in the art world of Paris up to now, but you are Henry Parrish for the family. If you could become Henri de Perrache, we can turn you back into Henry Parrish easily. After all, my daughter is a Parrish now.”
My eyes filled when I looked at this kind man’s face. Mr. Cox was building a bridge to my true identity for me. I had been living in a dream I loved. Now, I could live in the reality of that dream.
Sheri’s dad and I played along with Sheri’s antics and between us kept the secret of Mr. Cox knowing who I was until Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve, just before we sat down to dinner at Mr. Cox’s house, a limo pulled up into the driveway and Mr. Cox announced he had invited another houseguest.
When I saw a middle aged woman with auburn hair making her way up the front stairs, my heart skipped a few beats. A few seconds later, Mr. Cox grinned with mischief at me as he led my mother into the room. Everything was coming together with a little push from someone who knew how to push the right buttons.
After dinner, Sheri shook her head at his father and me, still surprised but happy.
“Oh, Henry! Oh, Dad! Wait till my next trick,” she threatened jokingly. “It will be on both of you.”
“I’ll help you, Sheri,” my mother said, smiling from ear to ear. "You better go buy a crib, Henry."
For five years along the way, I Henry Parrish, as Henri de Perrache, have acquired a shadow with a title and a promise. I owe a lot to that shadow. That shadow gave me a passion for painting, something to be excited about, and a vocation I will never ever quit. I know I will always be a painter and I will paint poetry whenever I can.
If you have a shadow don’t worry. That means you’re in the sunshine.
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© Copyright 2006 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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