1.7 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Ah, there you are,” Simone called out with cheerleader liveliness. “I’m not surprised you brought her here. It is time, isn’t. Innocence can only be allowed for so long before it becomes tedious.” I shrugged off Simone’s words. She often said things that were confusing, as if there was a point to it, but it had flown over my head. Like a person speaking English as a second language, her words, also, felt stilted and off. But she was a lovely person, and I hoped she thought of me as a friend. “Where is Gregor?” I asked her, seeing that she was alone. “Oh, he deserted me. I think he was bored. Last I saw of him, he was flirting audaciously with a cameraman. Since I don’t see either of them around, chances are they left for greener pastures.” “What a pity you didn’t,” Timothy said. “Timothy,” I hissed, giving the hand holding mine a jerk. He didn’t relinquish my hand, but his face simmered down. The inner flame of his dragon had been reduced to mere smoke puffs. Simone would survive his brief flash of irritation. “Timothy was telling me about pookas. They are delightful, fantastical creatures. I’d never heard of them before,” I told her. “Fantastical?” she said. “Ah, yes. The myths of Ireland. Too bad such tales are dying out from a lack of familiarity with such beings. I wonder where all the pookas went.” Simone glanced at Timothy, sighed, then stepped further away from him and closer to me. “Great gallery, Timothy. But I think it’s time for me to go home. I need my beauty sleep, you know.” She kissed my cheeks in that way she had with no touch involved, then waved goodbye to both of us, and walked out of the room. After she left, Timothy seamed reticent about discussing pookas anymore, so we moseyed into another chamber, the one called Oceans. It held the two Turners that Timothy had bought, although he’d told me that he’d also put in a bid for one of Turner’s castle paintings. The first painting was a bit of a disappointment. The ocean was wild and wooly, but it didn’t display the chaos I’d seen in Turner’s other paintings. This one was calmer and almost serene, in a way. Although the sky carried a bit of storm and told the viewer that another chaotic churning was on its way. The second Turner that Timothy had been able to acquire was more in the vein of what had always fascinated me: the oppositional forces of light and dark as they met in a painting. It held exactly what I held so wondrous: Aesthetic Realism that finds light and peace inside chaos and squalor. I understood from my readings on the man that Turner had hidden inside his work, seeking answers.
1.6 The Abyss of WonderLand
I closed my eyes, remembering my first sight of Timothy. His eyes had glowed with such a hue. I’d thought of sunflowers when I’d first looked into his eyes, but then I’d seen the color in his irises. That copper brightness, in shades painters called honey bronze, bronze sand, or golden bronze. “This is why you chose this painting, isn’t it. The stallion has eyes the color of yours.” Timothy seemed slightly disappointed with my words. I guess I’d insulted him. “I don’t mean the painting isn’t wonderful. It’s . . .” I didn’t know what to add. It had depth, but other than that, little artistic greatness. The stallion’s coat shown and his hooves sparked, like they held fire in them. The horse’s nostrils were flaring, reddish, as if the challenge of my looking at him was something he resented, no, not resented. He wanted me to do something. What? And then I knew. He was asking me to sit on his back, to gallop with him across the moors. Yes, I wanted to tell him. Yes, I will ride you. But of course, we weren’t in fairyland, nor Ireland. We were in a gallery, and I was merely looking at a canvas with an acrylic painting of a horse. “No, not a horse,” Timothy said. “He’s a pooka.” “I don’t know what that is. I’ve never heard of it. Is that a breed of horse?” “A pooka is a mythological creature who can shape change at will. He can be Harvey over there, or a wolf, a crow, or any other animal he wants. Even a human. He is long-lived and full of magic. The Irish say he comes from Faerie. The Norwegians call him Puke, which means nature spirit. Shakespeare called him Puck.” “Wow. Enchanting. You had me at magical. Where can I find one of these creatures? This stallion seems to want me to go for a ride.” “He would give you a riotous ride, my dear. Pookas are known to jump over hedges and gallop with wild abandon. But he would never allow you to be hurt. Although a pooka can be mischievous, he loves pretty women and treats them with great care. His sprint across the land might provoke a little fear, perhaps, but nothing harmful.” “How do you know so much about them?” I asked.
1.5 The Abyss of WonderLand
The painting next to it showed a single rowboat, deserted, but adrift. The water displayed its shadow in a way that was almost threatening, as if the dark sky beyond promised a storm. I wondered where the boat’s owner had gone. Was this merely a boat that had broken free from its pier, or was this something more sinister? Had someone fallen into the water or . . . It was not a painting that left me with a comfortable feeling. I shivered and moved my eyes to the next. Timothy moved away from Gregor, back over to me. Once more he clutched my hand. Then, he bent over to whisper in my ear. “You see too much, Penelope. Maybe the artist only regretted his lack of a good rowboat. Perhaps this is merely the boat waiting for his arrival, prepared to drift him out for a peaceful day on the water. Maybe he has swum away a bit, just out of the picture and is enjoying the water.” Art was like that, allowing multiple interpretations. On another day, the rowboat and the sky behind it might not seem so dark and foreboding to me. But I moved on, wanting to purge my mind from those eerie visions. We said our goodbyes to Simone and Gregor and moved to another room. Timothy seemed excited to show me the next chamber. I stopped at the doorway, studying the room’s label. “What is Pooka Art?” “Let’s go forward, and you will find out. You have never seen a single work that I’ve put in this room.” “Why not? I thought you showed me everything, except the few you acquired at the last moment from local artists.” “No, this room is special. I wanted you to see the whole all at once.” I stood in the doorway, doing a brief scan. The center piece presented a giant horse. It was obviously a black stallion, rearing in a conventional pose to show his wildness and contempt for being ground-bound. But there was something about him that seemed slightly off. The eyes, I decided. On the right of him was Jimmy Stewart with his giant rabbit buddy, Harvey, standing close beside him. The painting was in acrylics, so the piece had a slightly humorous feel to it, as if someone had played a joke on the artist, and that was the result. Another painter had showed the pooka as a bird, flying upwards into the night sky. There was also a cat, a slightly odd cat, his diamond eyes staring out at us. His golden eyes seemed to see into me, asking questions I didn’t know the answers to. There was an owl, fox, raven, wolf, goat, and several other horses, both of those showing a low, full moon with darkness all around. The one thing they all had in common were the golden eyes, haunting eyes, eyes that entered the viewer and seemed to measure your worth. Except for the center piece. The rearing stallion. His eyes were golden but tinged with bronze. He had a ring around his iris that didn’t resemble any horse’s eyes I’d ever seen.
1.4 The Abyss of WonderLand
Simone laughed. “This is my friend, Gregor. I think Penelope is only entranced by his eyes. Nothing else, Timothy. She is as faithful as . . .” Simone rolled her eyes then finished it, “Old Faithful in Yellowstone!” Then she laughed again. “Not that I’m suggesting you are old, my dear. You are a mere sprout of green, a bud just waiting for the sunshine.” “Enough, Simone,” Gregor growled, shaking his head. “I didn’t come to hear someone slaughtering a delicate poetry reading.” If first impressions could be trusted, I was pegging Gregor in the likes only men category. I’d already theorized that Simone was in the opposite camp, having observed that she liked to touch the fanny of her favorite employee, and Shannon seemed to like that touch as much as Simone. This was the first time I’d ever seen Simone with a man in tow, other than with Timothy, and he’d assured me that the two of them were just good friends, childhood friends. Gregor was eyeing my dress. “Turn around, Miss Penelope. Let me see that gorgeous gown.” I unfastened myself from Timothy’s embrace and twirled. Gregor was nodding. “Superb,” he said. “Utterly divine.” “Simone picked it out,” I told him. “I agree. It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.” “Only on you, my darling,” Timothy interjected. “Now, what do you think of the gallery, Simone? Is it everything you imagined?” “Don’t crow so loudly,” Simone needled him. “Of course, it’s marvelous. I knew it would be. Don’t you agree, Gregor?” Gregor’s opinion went unstated because he had edged away from our chat to move closer to a very Renoir looking piece. In the artist’s painting, the river water sparkled with patches of white, and the characters on a boat, although they wore modern day dress, were standing on a flatbed boat as it drifted meanderingly down the river. It was definitely an impressionistic painting, but I thought it copied Renoir’s La Genouillere too much. The same tiny-leafed willow tree obscured the upper left side, providing shade for those assembled. “Is this not a Renoir?” Gregor asked, turning back to face Timothy. “Christopher Tuma is the artist. He is a local and most surprisingly, he’s a senior citizen who has just begun dabbling in oils. I thought this piece showed incredible promise.”
1.3 The Abyss of WonderLand
Timothy looked puzzled when I mentioned that. “You? I don’t know about your friends since I haven’t yet met them, but you would never do such a thing. There’s an aura about you of earnestness and devotion to the art. How remarkable that those docents didn’t see that.” We were entering what Timothy had called the blue room, and an entry into modern art. Timothy might not have hung any Joan Miro or Picasso paintings, but he had found some very interesting pieces, most of which he was right that I’d never seen. One piece drew me. As I walked toward it, Timothy said, “Yes, that’s another local artist. It is a painting that describes the feel of rain.” I saw the turbulence inside it. I could feel the roar of thunder, the wetness of the chilling rain, and the sudden streaks of light off in the distance. The jaguar painting I would be delighted to live with. This piece I could not. It spoke of the unsettled nature of life, the way that it pummeled you with the elements, shouting in your ear. When I said that to Timothy, he laughed. “You are right. It does have the stormier elements of life, but I admire the patch of blue showing that the storm will end soon and the day will quickly brighten. And in the lower corner, see the touch of green. The plants have enjoyed this riot of rain. They are eager to burst through the trauma and send their leaves skyward. I nodded, liking his viewpoint. It was the Yin and Yang, which always seemed to balance each other. I smiled up into Timothy’s eyes, accepting his positivity on this piece and on life. It was at that moment that a photographer flashed his spot light on the scene of our sharing. I was so startled by it that I cringed from having my soul so abruptly displayed. But Timothy only smiled. “Send me a copy,” he ordered the photographer. We toured the gallery slowly and with great pleasure. Once, we were greeted by Simone who had come with a friend, a tall, handsome blonde, well-muscled but lithe as if he were a ballet star or a gymnast. His eyes were the purest blue I’d ever seen. Azure like lapis lazuli — no, that had a touch of green. Perhaps blue tanzanite? I guess I stared so long that Timothy felt the need to become more demonstrative, or was it territorial? Anyway, his arm wrapped around my upper body and moved me closer.
1.2 The Abyss of WonderLand
Next I noticed a hawk-like bird with his beak slightly open, peering out over his kingdom. His black outer feathers made it seem like he was wearing a cape. His neck held a patch where the top of a tie would be, and his chest was the white shirt of a business man. I collapsed on the bench in the center of the room. It was luxurious — cushy, soft, and perfectly suitable for staring at the picture on the wall. The light blue color of its padded seat blended well with the room’s carpeting, which was a mottled blue and black. But, after a second of reflection over such an elegant bench, my eyes returned to the jaguar picture. A hummingbird, with wings flicked back in a hover position was posed at a purple bloom, sucking in some flavor. His neck was a burnished green. I wished I could hear his characteristic hum. Another hummingbird was attacking a pinkish flower, his beak at the ready as his blue wings fluttered. The longer I sat there, the more I saw. A bright orange frog, his legs black, as were the spots all over him. A snake with splotches of yellow was wrapped around a branch of a tree, his body draping down as if he might fall. Over to the right, I discovered, hanging upside down, a small head and greenish fur — a sloth. The whole painted canvas was a textured painting full of life, and I absolutely loved it. Meanwhile, Timothy had been watching me. “I don’t have to ask which is your favorite painting.” “But the two ocean scenes by Turner . . .” I closed my mouth and turned back to the jaguar. Timothy was right. This was my favorite painting, “Are there any others by this artist? Is he a local? What’s his name?” “Yes, he’s a local. Yes, he has other paintings, but none of this quality. He’s young. Perhaps his future work will reflect the depth of this painting. His name is Juan Carlos de Santo. And as much as I see that you are taken with this piece, I think there might be a few more paintings I slipped in at the last moment, all local artists. Care to take the tour?” I gave one more glance to the jaguar, then joined my hand with Timothy’s. The other couple who’d been checking out the paintings had already left, but as we exited, a crowd of people drifted in, and a guard stepped back into place. Apparently, since Timothy owned the gallery, he could visit unobserved. The freedom of such exploration was thrilling. Museum guards had always followed the three of us women around, fearing that our enthusiasm for the art might lead to soup tosses at the paintings, I guess.
1.1 The Abyss of WonderLand
“And the media who know nothing about paintings?” Timothy prodded. “They won’t learn anything by my extolling the uniqueness of each painting due to the artist’s use of light, the depth of the image, or the drama of the piece.” “I agree,” I said. “A painting needs to be appreciated on its own, from the way it makes you feel and the emotion it pulls out of you.” “Bella,” the man said, “You are exquisite.” “Enough, Danny. Go do your job.” With an arm suddenly enfolding me, Timothy guided me over to the right side and into a chamber that I actually hadn’t seen yet. “These are some new paintings I encountered at the last moment. I hope they meet your approval.” I almost didn’t hear him. I was staring at the one that had captured me from the moment I entered the room. A jaguar stared into my eyes, entreating me, his whiskers so detailed, I could almost reach out. His painted face itself was a work of art. He stood at the side of a forest, a rain forest, I presumed, but he wasn’t hiding. He was brazen, fierce, and challenging anyone who entered the room. I inhaled my breath and stepped forward, already lost in the enchantment of the piece. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t look away. The jaguar beckoned. “Yes, I thought so,” Timothy murmured, which was such an odd thing to say that I actually turned and glanced at him, breaking my trance with the cat. “He is wonderful. This is the picture that rules the room. He is so splendid all the other paintings must be jealous.” As I said that, another couple walked in. The woman spotted a painting on the right, one with a huge oak tree that seemed to age as the viewer looked. It was a lovely piece, but it didn’t call to me. I went back to the jaguar, soaking up his aura, feeling his greatness, and his vast courage. A hazy light filtered in from the left of the painting. I could see that it was approaching dawn. The sun was almost ready to rise above the trees. I could feel the moisture in the air due to the patches here and there of low clouds. But none of that bothered the cat. His eyes continued to stare into mine. The beauty of the rosettes on his body of tawny-yellow made me yearn to pet him. But his front leg displayed rippling muscles as if telling me that he could charge me if he wanted. I could almost hear him, that low growl of subtle challenge. He was peeking through a dense group of ferns. Above his head grew a slightly smaller tree with a banana-shaped leaf. I guessed it might be a rubber plant. And there in the canopy behind the jaguar, that dense green layer that enclosed the jungle like a roof, I spotted a blackish spider monkey, his tail wrapped around the branch of a large Brazilian nut tree. As I stared at the forest, I found a tapir, a pig-like animal that really shouldn’t be anywhere near the jaguar. Did he sense that the cat wasn’t hungry at the moment?
12.31 The Abyss of WonderLand
I took a step back, but his hand went to mine to stop me. “I know, no talk of marriage. But, you know I adore you. Is it wrong to want to be with you always?” Danny Franco, the gallery’s new manager who I hadn’t met before, interrupted us then. “Sorry to break in, but I think it’s time for an introduction to this lovely lady.” Mr. Franco looked Italian. He was tall, handsome, and wore a suit like he was born to it. His hair was black as obsidian and just as shiny, although not in a greasy way. The man was smooth, sophisticated, and smiled with such charisma, it was impossible not to grin back at him. “Enough of that. Turn the charm down,” Timothy growled, as if he should ever worry over competition. I gave him a quick smile, a mocking one, I’m afraid, and he took it with only a hint of chagrin. “All right, you two. Danny Franco, this is Penelope, no last name necessary because she’s going to be taking mine as soon as possible.” “You are consistently persistent,” I laughed. “But I bet the day I said yes, you’d run off screaming.” “Not likely, my dearest,” Timothy said, kissing my hand. “But shall we try it, and see if you’re right?” I pulled my hand back and held it out to shake hands with the new gallery manager. “Hi, Mr. Franco. My name is Penelope Casey,” I said, shaking his hand. The man had on Italian shoes that probably cost more than my weekly salary. I reckoned maybe $1,000, but I once read that the really high quality men’s shoes went from $5,000 to $10,000. How could I tell? Rich color with a natural sheen that almost glowed, stitching that was small, fine, and delicate, and the fact that they looked sleek and timeless. How did I know all this? One of Cara’s friends, well, roommates, actually. James had gone on and on about fine quality men’s shoes, telling me more than I ever wanted to know. “You like my shoes?” Mr. Franco asked with an amused look. “Shouldn’t you be attending the guests,” Timothy asked. “That’s what you’re paid to do.” “The guards will see to their behavior, and the guests don’t need me pointing out my favorite paintings. The connoisseurs must savor the art work on their own, without a curator breathing down their neck.”
12.30 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Thank you for coming to the opening of Caldwell Fine Arts Gallery. All the paintings displayed here are original art. Some may be known to you. Others are from local artists, chosen by their paintings’ appropriateness to the room and, of course, by the artist’s use of color and light which is part of what makes a painting superb. The talent in each work of art will be obvious to all of you. “Each painting here has gone through an entire panel of expert opinions with ample discussions, and in some cases, a splash of argument. This committee, who mainly wish to be anonymous, or I’d be introducing them, came to a consensus about which pieces would be shown first. Other paintings wait for their chance to shine. Those pieces will be rotated a room at a time, probably monthly. All of these paintings were approved by Danny Franco, who you’ve all met. He will be the manager of this institution. Penelope, myself, Danny and others feel that the quality of the pieces needs no further explanations. I know you will enjoy your tour of the Caldwell Fine Arts Gallery. “But before you go on your way, I must remind you, that all food and drink must remain in this room only.” That was the announcement they’d been waiting for. No one rushed, but the general feeling is that the crowd heaved forward, placing drinks and semi-empty plates down on a vacant table set up for that purpose. I smiled at Timothy. “You were marvelous,” I said, “and all this is amazing. Thank you for dragging me here. I’m glad I got to see you in action.” Despite the fact that there were a few guests still finishing their drinks and snacks, not ready to join the eager herd, Timothy pulled me close and touched his lips to mine. “This is the highlight, my darling Penelope. This.” He kissed me again, more lingeringly. Then he sighed. “I own a castle in Ireland, which I’ve restored most pleasingly and several flats in other cities, but this gallery was a yearning fulfilled. Your assistance made it a true labor of love.” “A castle?” I sputtered. “You own a castle? Wow.” “And a flat in London and one in Paris. I will take you there when you agree to marry me.” I chuckled. I wasn’t sure if he was teasing me or not. Was he really that rich? If so, what was he doing with me?
12.29 The Abysss of WonderLand
“Penelope, how did you two meet?” an elderly man asked as he attempted to shove his microphone into my face. Timothy kept that from happening. “Distance,” he ordered, giving the man a look that seemed to temper the guy’s aggressiveness. “At a party,” I said. “He was rude, but he got better.” Several of the reporters chuckled. Timothy nodded his head and looked chagrined. “Yes, that was the worst mistake of my life.” The banter continued for several minutes, then Timothy cut them off. “This is a night about art, my friends,” he said, “not about relationships, no matter how enchanting Penelope is. First, sample the refreshments. Then mingle among the paintings. Choose your favorite and write about it. I shall enjoy reading which painting or paintings you’ve chosen to share with the readers of San Jose.” Timothy started to move forward, but then stopped and looked back at the man who’d asked Timothy his reason for building another art gallery. Addressing the man primarily, but loud enough that others could hear, Timothy said, “There are more than fifty art museums and galleries in New York City. The last I heard, San Jose was listed as having between ten and fifteen, but several of those specialize in glassware or other areas of work. My gallery is, right now, only paintings. Did San Jose need another art gallery? I think so. Otherwise I wouldn’t have opened Caldwell Fine Arts.” As if he’d said what he wanted to say, Timothy steered me forward. The reporters seemed willing to open a path for us after we’d had our little chat with them. Several of them smiled at me. One woman praised my dress. A huge buffet table was spread with glasses of bubbly. Timothy had said no alcohol, so I figured it must be sparkling apple juice. There were crackers, cheese, and vegetable platters. Oh, and huge platters of fresh fruit all sliced for easy nibbling. Napkins and small plates were available, as well as abundant glasses. Neither the glasses nor the plates were plastic or paper. I guessed that Timothy’s team had set up an arrangement with a catering service for their dishes. I hoped the service also washed up afterwards. I was certainly not suitably dressed to be on the clean-up team. “If I may have your attention,” Timothy announced to the assembled crowd. His voice was so loud that not even the chatter of so many people kept everyone from hearing him. They all turned, stopped talking, and prepared to listen.