Page 59 of A Thousand Painted Hours

“And I, sadly, am not the fellow to help you work this out, as I am fully colonial and have no education in anything else.”

“How am I going to figure this out?”

“I don’t know, dearest, but I have faith in you.” He gestured to the painting of Gurdaya. “I haven’t seen that one.”

“My friend growing up.” I suddenly remembered that she’d been very upset that day before she relaxed into the moment. “Her brother taught us how to swim in that pond. And I just remembered that she was very afraid of what would happen if anyone found out. I dismissed her worry because I wouldn’t have been in very much trouble.”

He looked at me, his irises catching the light as he listened. “And she would have.”

“Yes.”

“It is a better painting than the others. Perhaps it’s worth doing more to see why.”

“But what did I do differently?”

“She’s a person you love, not a pretty scene.”

I thought about how I felt, painting her eyes, and it was true—what I’d been painting there was love. Would that help me?

“Come,” he said, flinging an arm around my shoulders. “I’m famished. Let’s find your cousin and a good roast.”

A week later, he appeared again. “Come, sweet, I have an excursion planned.”

I had my sketchbook in my lap, a half-finished drawing lying dead on the page. “I must finish an assignment.”

He tilted his head to look at the work. “No.” He plucked the charcoal from my fingers, and pulled the sketchbook off my lap. “You’ve frozen yourself, and we’re going to fill you up with inspiration.”

“What sort of inspiration?”

“You’ll see. Wash your hands and prepare for sketching. We’ll make a day of it.”

I packed my artist bag with sketchbook, watercolors, a pair of brushes and various drawing utensils. My gray skirt had deep pockets I’d asked mother to sew into it for me, and to avoid unsightly smears and stains, I chose a navy blouse.

“You’re going to get lost in the mire of judgment if you don’t let yourself breathe, Elsie,” he said as we set out. “Today, we’re going to stare at the masters in museums. Your assignment is to simply allow yourself to notice what makes you feel something. When it does, sketch it or make a note.”

I stopped on the pavement. “I fear it will make this even worse, when I see how far I have to go.”

Undaunted, he tucked his hand into my arm. “For today, forget what your work is or what you might eventually accomplish, and let’s just enjoy the work of other artists. We love art!”

“We do.”

“We’re lucky young artists, as well. Weknowwe love the work, and we want to pursue it.”

“Even when it is difficult,” I admitted.

“Yes.” He smiled.

That was exactly what we did. We wandered the great galleries and museums of London for the entire day. Starting at the Tate, we looked at the masters of portraiture, Sargent and Gainsborough and Hoppner. I found myself responding to Titian and sketched a pattern of fabric in a Rembrandt, taken by the astonishment of texture. In the Turner room, Rocky teased me. “Your namesake.” He paused before an enormous seascape with a sky. “He conveys so much emotion.”

I evaluated the painting for the why of the emotion, the interplay of color, the smears of light. Something tight in my heart unfolded. The work was emotional, employing both extravagant and subdued use of color.

At midday we stopped for sausage rolls, then kept exploring. I particularly sought out anything remotely Orientalist. John Frederick Lewis was highly regarded, and I studied one of his works for a long time, a scene of a Cairo courtyard, women in what I would have called salwar kameez, the screened windows of purdah overhead, desert men in turbans and robes. “If I love this, am I still not seeing what I need to see about Orientalism?”

“A good question. I do not know how to answer, but let’s study it together.” He crossed his arms over his chest, kicking one foot out in front of him. “What do you see?”

“His use of light is masterful.” I pointed at the sleeve of a woman in front, the glazing of leaves. “And I love the colors, all that primaryred and yellow, the patterns in the fabrics.” I continued to study it. “The pigeons give it such a sense of life and movement.”

Rocky nodded. “It’s a masterful work. The details of the bird wings, and the blankets over the camel, and the woman’s scarf.” He pointed out the open window. “I love the woman peering out.”