Twin Souls. Raimon Samsó
for you to complete a job is the same time it takes to do nothing at all. Make good use of your time. Life keeps going anyway. There’s a certain cosmic rule for which we exchange our time -life- for the things that makes us feel alive –what you have lived- Which means, we give life to get life. It’s a fascinating exchange and without a doubt a fair one.
But if you hold on to what you can give, without offering it to others, then you make its experience something incomplete. We can all commit to a purpose in life. How do we recognize it? Asking yourself what it is, constituting your natural talent, contribute to the greater good by putting it in service of others. What would you make of your life if success was guaranteed? What is your secret talent? What brings more light into your life? A gift is not something we receive; it’s an ability we give to ourselves by exercising it.
We all have something to offer to others as incredible as it seems. The beauty of this day demands something from all of us. What are you going to do with this day Victor? »
Signed: J.
Nothing more than that letter.
I printed it and turned it off.
I read it again... «Javier, little by little, not so fast…», I thought. Truth be told, it surprised me that it came from him, since he used to express himself in a different manner.
Chapter Four
Javier kept a large amount of his paintings in the studio. I checked them one by one, I crumpled them, pictured what he was trying to express by painting them. I could hear inside of me the sound effect from each brushstroke. Each painting seemed better than the last, and with it my admiration started climbing on an infinite stairway. His painting touched me, it reveled itself full of emotion and strength, opposed to the bareness of mine. Javier painted with a warm subtlety I lacked. And he endowed with soul each one of his art pieces, while I was frozen lost in theories. The fact of being able to appreciate the huge difference between his art and mine, and at the same time being incapable of equating it hurt inside of me. Why had God given me the ability of admiring what I could not create?
Commonly, Javier used luminous colors, tending to ochers. He captured his particular universe through a wide spectrum of warm colors. I believe this was because California’s light got deep inside of him, fogging his palette. Frequently he would break this clarity with a violent gray trace. A gray that was not gray, but a black capitulation. I remember that once he secretly told me about his gray: it was not paint, it was volcanic sand brought from Chile mixed with water from no particular place. Those days I checked his fabrics once and again; with admiration since I’ve always recognized Javier’s geniality.
The studio’s door bell rang. It was Lorena with a message from her father: «He would feel happy if I accepted to join them for dinner», she recited all at once under the doorway, while catching her breath. And then added joking: «No jacket required». I accepted gladly. And something else, she had brought me an apple pie she had made herself for me. I thanked her with two kisses, and begged her to come in while I put it in the fridge.
She got interested in some of Javier’s paintings. I explained some details, balance, or unbalance of the whole, the dialog between traces and colors. I remember her absolute amazement to the argument avalanche which thwart her opinion that abstract painting doesn’t follow any criteria and that it is an absurd art.
-Wow, Victor. It is amazing how much you can draw from a painting, and you? How is your painting?
I was unable to answer that question. I wasn’t even sure if I could consider myself a painter. As if, after finishing that last cloth -on New Year’s eve- and washing my hands with solvent, at the same time my previous paintings had vanished through the drain. In photographical terms: an excessive exposure to sadness had veiled my complete work.
-You see, Lorena, I used to paint daily objects, very familiar object, and some portraits. It is called hyper-realism. It’s like taking pictures with brushes.
-Portraits? Like the one you owe me?
-Yes, like the one I shall someday make you.
-Someday, some day… I wished it were today so you do it with me wearing this new dress.
Years before, Lorena might have been a young lady with braces on her teeth, but she had become a captivating woman.
-Well, we’ll see, maybe soon. What about you? What kind of music do you perform?
-The kind you sing with your eyes closed.
That night I had dinner with my neighbors. They wished to know me better and get comments about Barcelona. They knew it because of the Olympics. Little by little these human and simple people made me smile. They managed to make me feel welcome in a foreign land.
-Tomorrow I’ll show you Javier’s car: a convertible 66 Chrysler. A real wonder - pointed Sam as he gave me the keys.
-Great, tomorrow- I nodded.
-Could you take me to Capitol Records? I must pick up a check. Would you do me this gigantic favor? I will show you the financial neighborhood; those buildings will impress you -proposed Lorena.
-Naturally, if you then come with me to make some shopping -I closed the deal-. And that you sing to me while I drive -I added shaking her hand.
-Is that a yes?
-Yes.
-Yes, yes, yes - nodded with the head while taking the dishes to the kitchen.
Sam offered some liquor, enlightened by a wide smile.
-Lorena is my whole life. Isn’t she charming?
Yes, she was. And he seemed a dear and tender man. Someone who preserves the inner child we all used to have, the child who holds the grown up’s heart. He showed me pictures from when he won his league’s championship. We ran our fingers through his past, while he commented his life in black and white. His past with memory dates wrote on the back. His dreams and hopes. So many, that put next to one another, on one night -from beginning to end- you wouldn’t be able to cover it all. Memories are a part of human condition; I manifested this while sipping on my glass of brandy. Also, the longing for a better past.
The third street, passing through the pedestrian zone in Promenade, is a vital place in constant commercial and cultural ebullition. Three words are repeated there: novelty, vanguard and design. It is a zone that shows the creative side of the city, a kind, always cheerful and filled with great energy.
Tuesday of the week followed by my encounter with Jodie, I went to the same Donna Marie art gallery. But Jodie didn’t show up. I waited for her for two endless hours, next to the door. I consulted my watch, tic toc, knowing as I knew every minute, what time it was; and I distracted myself watching people pass, minding how little I minded them. While I waited, I looked in people’s face Jodie’s. I imagined her smile. I imagined to hear and feel how her voice named me, but when I saw for her, I didn’t find her. I only heard tictoc, tictoc, tictoc… Twice I thought I saw her from far away. Not on the first or second time was it her. My heart beat and stopped beating twice. Better yet, my heart was a clock that started winding down: tic… toc.
Tuesday after that one, the same thing happened, I mean, nothing at all happened, except that I waited for two hours, three sodas and two news papers. Alone and bored I waited at Starbucks cafeteria’s balcony. That day Jodie Wright didn’t show either. I admit I began to feel a little stupid. What was I doing there? How had I got to that? Away from my country, my house and my work, even from my memories. It didn’t make any sense.
And truth was I wanted to see her again. Where to find her? I didn’t know. Was I becoming interested in a woman again? That question brought me a bunch of half answers, all of them accompanied by a feeling of guilt. Never the less, I visited again, for a third time, the gallery. I still remember my surprise to see the sold sign in the frame of the painting we had discussed the other day. I thought that the staff from the gallery could give me the information from the buyer. It might have been Jodie