I gaze with satisfaction out the old-fashioned bay window. The lavender velvet dusk lures me out into the cold. I grab my warm coat from my bentwood hatstand, and take a quick walk in my new neighborhood.
I love the run of boutiques just up the hill – a bakery and coffee shop, Jill’s Frocks and Fancies – a must for daytime when it will be open – a bookshop, the realty company where I signed my lease, and the handy pizzeria.
On the opposite side, just before a picturesque church, shop windows glow. Chatter and laughter spill onto the street – an art exhibition is opening!
I’m hardly dressed in my best given all the unpacking, but viewing art is always fun, and artists need all the support they can get.
I’m welcomed at the door by a young woman with a tray of drinks, so I gladly take a long cool stem of bubbly.
Paintings of birds of all kinds stare out at me. They’re striking; some, closeups of beaks and feathers, and others, huge – extraordinary clouds of birds above red barns, bright with movement. The detail’s exquisite, but I’m not sure I could live with all of them.
If I had to choose, I’d buy the lone seagull, pure white, poised between a dark timber dock and shining slice of silver sea, its beak and feet bright orange, and its beady eye, gleaming, staring directly into mine. It’s plucky. It’s defiant – a survivor, ready to swim, walk or fly. I want courage like that, poised at the edge of my new life at Brighton Court.
The chatter is deafening, but I can’t help but overhear an exchange behind me.
“So you’re Carla?” The tone is rich and resonant, the kind of voice that inspires confidence. “My daughter sends you her congratulations. Deirdre O’Connell? You knew each other at college.”
“Oh, Dee was so much fun! So you’re the Doc. Don’t you live somewhere out of town? In Franklin? How is Dee?”
“She’s fine. Big career in fitness and flat out with two kids or she’d be here. I’m new to town. Just moved in. Beautiful work, Carla.”
“Why thank you, Doc O’Connell.”
I glance behind to catch the owner of that delicious voice – the mystery “Doc” – I’m sure I know that name.
Just then a portly man in crimson trousers, a voluminous silk shirt and a flamboyant, multi-coloured vest rushes across and grabs Carla, pixie thin, with a nose ring, and leads her to a small podium in the corner.
I peer around. Do I know Doc O’Connell? I met hundreds of people in my old job at the tv network, and afterwards, Bart’s associates.
All I see is a quick impression of someone more formally dressed, tall and distinguished, if a little wooden – an older man with a striking presence; somehow out of place. Formal. Yummy aftershave. Mint. Spice. And he’s alone. A rush of excitement runs through me. Must be the champagne.
The speeches begin, first from the exuberant Patrick Lenihan, the gallery owner. He introduces Carla as “a bold and promising new artist” and gushes over her output. He advises us all to “buy up fast” before she becomes better known, and invites her to speak about her art.
“Birds are among the world’s greatest survivors,” Carla says. “They’re quick, and, best of all, most avoid chaos by flying. Some say their ancestors were the dinosaurs, now extinct, but birds stayed safe and adapted, high in the treetops and down burrows at the edge of the seas. Imagine making your home on top of a light pole, like a wily seahawk, or in the eaves of a shopping centre when your forest disappears.”
There’s a hush in the room, every face turned towards Carla. “I got to know each of the birds I painted,” she says. “That is, they tolerated me long enough to be photographed. As I committed them to canvas, I imagined their lives. ‘Free fall’ is my first exhibition.”
Applause breaks out as she lowers her head, humble, and I clap loudest of all. I’m a survivor and an artist, in a way. I’ll buy that seagull if I can afford it, to go beside my new front door. But Patrick, Carla and the waiter are rushed, and by the time I make it to them with my credit card out, Carla shakes her head. There’s a red dot beneath the seagull. I look in vain for the tall man, but he’s gone. I head home.
