Andy

Andy

By: Loretta Schiavo Smith

I was born under the Virgo constellation which contains Spica, one of the brightest stars in the night sky. My parents considered naming me Spica but decided it better suited our Golden Retriever. Instead, they named me Andromeda, the nearest major galaxy to the Milky Way; not because they appreciated myths, but because Andromeda was my mother’s focus of study at the time. Physics was my parents’ access to the universe. For me, the stars led to Vincent and Anne.

               My mother and father juggled their work schedule so that while one was at the university’s observatory, the other was home with me. Through the lens of our rooftop telescope, I learned patience and a respect of my parents’ scientific investigation. But, I had no interest in the stars other than their beauty. How quickly I tired of hearing about the size, and distance and gaseous compositions of Polaris or Vega or the infinite number of other stars.

               For my sixth birthday, my maternal grandmother, gifted me her beloved copy of The Big Dipper. I loved Ursa Major, the Great Bear, and my parents made sure I could locate him in the night sky. After celebrating with chocolate fudge cake, I enacted my story with child-like actions and sound effects. In my monologue, Ursa Major awoke slowly from his long winter’s sleep growling, stomping and shaking the universe. With his catcher’s mitt paws, he swatted away the enemy stars who tried to overthrow him. And those who refused to bow down and kiss his outstretched right paw were flung into the black swirling rivers never to be seen again. With this battle won, he stooped, sniffed and nuzzled his little ones. After eating his big piece of chocolate fudge cake topped with vanilla ice cream and candy sprinkles, which he shared with his cubs, he squatted, read a story to his babies, tucked them into bed and watched over his kingdom of obedient shining stars. The End.

“Well, no, Andromeda; that’s not quite what happens,” my father lectured. “Rather, Ursa Major…” At that point, I stopped listening and looked into the eyes of my purple brown bear that held stories only he and I could understand.

               At school the next day, I told Ms. Hillson, my first-grade teacher, about my bear. There are moments in life that one remembers with clarity. She praised me saying, “Such a delightfully imaginative story, Andromeda. Would you like to share it with the class and paint a picture of Ursa Major today?”

“But my father said it’s not real. Ursa Major is just stars in the Milky Way,” I answered.

“Of course, your father’s correct…but, the bear can belong to you too in a different way.”

With that, she gave me permission to separate myself from my parents and see things in my own way. To this day, I have that painting, somewhat tattered, which that dear woman framed in bright yellow construction paper and hung prominently in the school’s main entrance beside the principal’s office.

A few days later, Aunt Judy, my mother’s younger sister, brought me a box of watercolours, a set of brushes and a pad of textured white paper.

“Paint the grass blue or red or whatever you wish. The sky green and orange,” she exclaimed when I hugged her. “You create your own world, Andy.”

 Aunt Judy was so dissimilar to my mother, much to the chagrin of my grandmother who despaired of Judy’s “wandering bohemian lifestyle”.  While mom was austere in her appearance and demeanour-laser focussed on her work-, Judy was a rainbow, colouring me with joy. Her light refracted mine as I continued to move towards a future different from the one my parents expected of me.

When she visited a week before Christmas, having returned from a yoga spiritual retreat, I showed her my paintings. She examined each one carefully, stood up abruptly and left the room saying, “I’ll be back soon, Andy. I forgot grandma’s blueberry pie at her house. Tell them I’ll be right back.” I was not surprised because mom and grandma always said that Aunt Judy was a bit of a scatterbrain. I just thought her unpredictability made her more interesting.

I was disappointed when she returned within an hour without dessert. Maybe, she really was a scatterbrain, I thought. Instead, she carried a canvas bag with a large hard-covered book poking out.

“Andy, I love your paintings; they’re wonderful. Did you copy them from pictures you saw somewhere?” she asked.

“No. I just painted them myself. That’s all.”

“Lovely, darling,” she replied and yelled for mom, dad and grandma to come to the sun room.

She randomly scattered my paintings on the floor and asked, “When you look at Andy’s paintings, what do you see?”

“Please call her Andromeda,” my mother said. “We don’t want to encourage nicknames.”

“Lecture me later. Focus on the paintings now,” Aunt Judy said with impatience.

“They’re interesting; but, not technically accurate. Still, nice work Andromeda,” my father chirped and patted me on the head like I was Spica.

“Well, if you ask my opinion,” grandma offered, “I do think Andromeda’s time could be better spent on her studies if she wants to be a serious scientist like her parents.”

At that point, Aunt Judy looked like a volcano ready to erupt.

“What is this about, Judith? We’ve seen her paintings before and I’m busy…” my mother complained.

With that, Aunt Judy took the book out of her bag and showed them pictures of paintings that resembled mine.

“Don’t you see? The composition, the colours, brush strokes in Andy’s…Andromeda’s paintings are like… Van Gogh’s. Especially these,” she said as she pointed to my paintings of starry skies.

“That’s ridiculous Judith,” interrupted grandma. “For heaven’s sake, the child knows nothing of his work.”

“Exactly!” Aunt Judy said with exasperation. “That’s the point. She didn’t copy them.”

“Interesting analysis Judith,” said my father. “Perhaps Andromeda could attach these to her upcoming science project. What do you think?” he addressed my mother who responded, “Indeed, they might form a unique counterpoint to the charts and data.”

With that, Aunt Judy threw up her hands in frustration. “Come and sit in my lap Andy. We’ll look at this book together and you can tell me which paintings you like,” she said, as I snuggled close while she turned the pages launching my love affair with Vincent.

Reluctantly, a couple of years later, my parents agreed that Aunt Judy could enroll me in weekly painting classes at the conservatory of arts with a promise of a future trip to Amsterdam to visit the Van Gogh Museum…as long as I maintained my grades, especially in science, and attended the month long summer science camp at their university. The deal was done.

A few days before our flight to Amsterdam, the year I was about to enter high school and turn fourteen, we reviewed the week’s itinerary with my parents. With few revisions, they agreed to it if we included a visit to the Artis Planetarium and met with Professor McKeating-if he was available. Later, Aunt Judy substituted that item with a walking tour of the Red-Light District; time better spent she thought. “Let’s not tell them about this, shall we?” she whispered. “We’ll walk by the Planetarium and count that as our visit. Agreed?”

During the over night flight, Aunt Judy looked at me with a seriousness I seldom saw and explained, “Part of a person’s education Andy is to see the world as it is. Real, raw…up close. To touch and explore its grittiness. Even if it’s wretched, ugly and evil. Count yourself fortunate if you can do that and still see its beauty.” Before I nodded off, I heard her mumble, “Not a world millions of light years away.”

Our charming apartment in the Canal District was centrally located. Once we unpacked and settled, I placed my worn copy of Van Gogh’s paintings and Anne’s diary under my pillow eager to enter their lives.

Edward, an artist friend of Aunt Judy’s currently living in Amsterdam, offered to be our guide. He joined us for our first dinner at a sidewalk café on the Herengracht Canal in the city’s old district. I sat facing the street and the canal. While Aunt Judy and Edward enjoyed their after-dinner liqueur, and chatted about friends they had in common and Edward’s current love affair, I pictured Van Gogh sitting in the same spot, looking at the same night sky and peering into the dark canal. My thoughts were interrupted by Edward who had to repeat his question to me.

“Andy…I said which artists are you interested in? Please feel free to include others than the Dutch,” he laughed.

“Van Gogh is number one on my list. Of course. Ever since Aunt Judy introduced me to him, I’ve loved him. I mean his work. Mr. Derby, my art teacher, said it’s important to study all art periods so I develop my own style and be more spontaneous. Aunt Judy agrees. She thinks that depicting a piece can morph into learning to feel one.”

Edward smiled and winked at Aunt Judy. “I would never disagree with your aunt. What else do you admire about him?”

I struggled with my answer. There was so much to say: his use of colour, application of paint, light …but these were techniques he used to express his ideas and feelings. Instead, I spoke about Vincent’s obstacles and his sadness.

“And why is that Andy?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe because he felt alone and unloved most of the time…” I stopped because I was getting into territory I didn’t want to explain. “Let’s get going. I need my sleep since Vincent is waiting to meet me first thing tomorrow morning,” I joked as I got up quickly.

 After we finished breakfast at our apartment, we met Edward at the Van Gogh Museum. Aunt Judy took him by the arm, held him back and let me enter the museum first. I was filled with a reverence I suspected one might experience upon entering a church. Edward suggested we start with Vincent’s early works in order to see the progression of his paintings. And, the changing state of his mind I thought.

Once we stepped into the first gallery, both Aunt Judy and Edward recognized my intense absorption; they didn’t intrude to lecture or comment unless I asked a question. When I stood before his sunflowers, I wanted to stroke the petals. I thought I would be most moved by the starry night paintings, since they were my introduction to Vincent as well as my tenuous connection with my parents; but, it was his bedroom paintings which caught me unexpectedly. I felt he had been happy here and that made me happy.

When we left, I knew I had to visit Vincent again before we left. Once was not enough.

It was a gray morning the day we visited the Anne Frank House. How somber was the line snaking around the corner like a funeral cortege. As we stepped through the entrance to the Secret Annex and climbed the narrow staircase, I found it difficult to breathe. At this static point in her life, Anne was my age. As I loved painting, she loved writing. I knew that we would have been friends in a different time and place. I stroked the walls, placed my hands on the windowsills, and walked the rooms of her confinement. I knew what I would paint when we returned home.

The night before we were to leave, I started to cry.

“Oh, darling Andy. I understand your tears. I promise I’ll take you on other adventures,” Aunt Judy said. She came and sat beside me on my bed and wrapped me in her arms. “It’s always hard to leave when you are filled to the brim with love. Remember to take it with you wherever you go.”

It was that and more… like an unfinished painting.

The next morning, I awoke very early, dressed quietly and put my copy of Anne’s diary into the pocket of my jacket. On the bathroom mirror, I tacked a note to Aunt Judy telling her I was taking a farewell walk around Amsterdam. I would return in plenty of time to pack and for Edward to take us to the airport.

I was first in line at Vincent’s museum. Once inside, I headed straight to the Portrait Gallery and stood as close as allowed in front of injured Vincent.

“Hi Vincent. I met Anne yesterday. She’d love your letters to your brother Theo as she was a writer. Like you, she saw wonder and goodness even in a harsh world that wanted to beat you both down. I don’t know when, but one day I will return,” I promised.

It took me about thirty minutes to get from Vincent’s to Anne’s house. While waiting in line, I tore out a page of her diary and wrote in the margins. I folded it into a very small square and held it in my closed hand. I knew my time was limited to return to our apartment. Once inside, I hurried to catch up to a family who was close to entering the secret annex, smiling at them and chatting with their children as though I was part of their family. This time, I didn’t find it difficult to breathe; I was visiting my friend.

In Anne’s bedroom, I bent to adjust the laces of my shoe and slid my note under the blanket covering her bed. “My dear friend Anne. I miss you. Guess what! I was able to speak again with Vincent. I told him about you. Hope I have the courage like you and Vincent to see beauty in darkness and colour in the blackness of night. One day, the three of us will hold hands among the stars. Love Andy. PS Wait until you meet Aunt Judy. You’re going to love her.”