Vignette

“Finally. Free at last!” I sighed to myself, walking along the Seine toward the Pont Neuf. After two days of arguing about anything and everything having to do with our short stay in Paris, I had decided to preserve the rest of my trip and ditch them. I realized that our agendas were different, since my three friends had never been to Paris, but for me this trip was to find that part of myself that I knew belonged there. I was determined to connect with the romantic, artistic, emotional side of myself that had been suppressed by my practical, sensible tendencies for far too long. And Paris was the perfect place to do that. I could feel it.
It was almost eight o’clock, and the blinding sun warmed my face as I continued walking toward the bridge. It was a perfect day—not a cloud in sight. It would be another hour before the d’Orsay opened, so I decided to explore the small island in the middle of the river. I climbed down the stairs to the small garden on the tip of the Ile, where I stopped to listen to a group of band students who were playing some typical French songs for the tourists who passed by on the riverboats. I stopped on my way to the d’Orsay at a little paint shop I had seen the day before and bought some paintbrushes for my mom, who had recently discovered that she is a talented painter. I arrived at the d’Orsay just as it opened and made my way to the impressionist galleries.
As I looked closely at each painting, taking time to notice colors and brush strokes, I suddenly recalled with perfect clarity the time I had spent there with my mother five years earlier. It was the summer of ‘98, just before I turned fourteen, and on this particular day in Paris—one of the few we were able to spend there—she and I decided to ditch the group to discover the famous Musee d’Orsay. My mom has never studied art formally, but I guess you could say she has always had an interest in it—even if subconsciously. She has always shown an almost obsessive love of color, which manifests itself in boxes full of paint chips and one particular kitchen wall that is always painted with multiple, experimental patches of the latest colors. I’ll never forget the day she and I were driving on the freeway, and mid-sentence, she screamed, “Di, hurry, find my purse!” When I frantically pushed her purse into her free hand, she pulled out some color swatches and waved them in front of the window. “Look,” she said, excitedly, “those trees are the exact color I’m going to paint the kitchen!” After my heart had stopped pounding, I thought I would die laughing. I guess I realize now that she must have always known that there was a painter in her somewhere.
As I wandered through the impressionist gallery, I remembered being there with my mom so long ago. I suddenly sensed that I was a completely different person than I had been the last time, which caused an inward smile to wrinkle the skin around my eyes. I seemed to see each painting a little differently this time. I noticed colors and shapes and brush strokes. Stories emerged from the canvases, and each painting invoked a passion and emotion that momentarily connected me with painters from a previous century. I caught myself leaning toward each painting, listening, wondering, just like my mother had done. I envisioned her leaning forward with intense interest, almost touching the paintings with her nose. I remembered how she had looked for a long time at one painting, and finally stepped back, smiling as if the artist had just whispered his secret to her. And suddenly, it was as if she had passed that secret on to me. I smiled, stepping back, and blinked back tears.