The Definition of Affinity

The hot wind blew outside the National Gallery of Victoria, scattering leaves and dust all over the path. Inside hundreds of people walked around gazing at paintings and drawings, which had been displayed especially for the art exhibition.

    It was the last day of the showing of various artworks created by upcoming artists who wanted a big break in the industry. This particular selection of artists had been special because of the depth and expression of their creations painted and drawn by young people in the metropolitan area hoping to get the recognition they deserved.

    A favourite for this particular exhibition was a portrait of Golda Meir, the forth president of Israel. The artist’s interpretation of the woman was very positive and showed that she was a strong woman. The artist, Rebekah Goldberg, was Jewish herself and had won many prizes for her work.

    Mahalia Silberman, who was starting year eleven the next day, stood in front of the portrait. She herself was a third generation Australian Jew whose ancestors emigrated from Germany. She found the portrait quite inspiring. The more she looked at it, the more she found herself lost in another world. She wished she could paint as good as Rebekah! Her brush strokes created a painterly effect of expressive, colourful brushstrokes. She made her own work look like mediocre copies of another person’s master. Although she had never met her in person, she had seen her picture in the newspaper. She was a mirror image of herself with long, curly, black hair, dark eyes and a tiny frame.

    The spell was broken as Mahalia felt the presence of someone who stood beside her. She turned slightly and saw a guy who was probably in his early twenties with a shock wave of jet-black hair, craggy features and kind eyes. She wondered what this young man was thinking as he gazed up at the painting and her heart pondered over the thought of him being Jewish, too.

    ‘Wow,’ he murmured to himself. He shook his head and turned to Mahalia who quickly lowered her gaze and concentrated on the glossy, wooden floor. Presently, she returned her gaze to the portrait on the wall. However, her attempt to become engrossed in the paintings was in vain. The stranger beside her had truly shattered the moment.

    She decided to move on. She focused on a painting, which was a portrait of John Lennon, her favourite musician of all time. She studied the thickly applied brushstrokes, which created a monochromatic painting with a sharp contrast between light and shade. Again, she felt the presence of another person. She turned and saw it was the same guy as before. He met her gaze and they both smiled politely before quickly affixing their gaze again on the painting.

    ‘He was so amazing,’ he said in a voice that was barely audible.

    Mahalia looked up at him again. ‘You like John Lennon, too?’

    He turned to face her. ‘Yeah. Especially when he went solo. Actually, only when he went solo – The Beatles were way before my time!’

    Mahalia turned and feasted her eyes upon the Abstract section of the exhibition. She studied the lines and geometric shapes of the enormous paintings when she felt his presence again. She turned sharply and had a good look at him. He was wearing dark jeans and a black top advertising Greenpeace. She thought it was so cool. They both studied a painting for quite some time. Mahalia was intrigued with the lines and shapes and stared and stared until the sharp images became a blur.

    The young man shook his head again. ‘I just love this stuff! The expression… it’s just so…’

    ‘Unique,’ Mahalia said with a nod.

    He turned to her and smiled. ‘A lot of people would disagree with you, you know. They think people just slap up a painting and that’s it. You have a mature and keen eye.’

    ‘It’s the kind of thing I do at home,’ she said.

    ‘Really? That’s great!’ he enthused. ‘I myself find painting quite therapeutic!’

    ‘Yeah,’ Mahalia said and nodded again. ‘Me, too! As well as cleaning!’

    He nodded back at her before turning to the next painting. Mahalia followed his gaze to a painting of a dancer.

    ‘Wow!’ he exclaimed, his liquid, brown eyes lighting up. ‘This is it! It’s so right! The figure, although abstract, portrays movement perfectly. It’s fantastic!’

    ‘You know about dancing?’

    He grinned. ‘I should! After all, I teach it.’

    ‘Yeah?’

    ‘Well, occasionally. It’s my mother who runs the place. It’s called Goldstein Dance Studios. Ever heard of it?’

     Mahalia looked down at the floor. ‘I don’t know anything about professional dancing,’ she whispered.

    ‘It’s great, just great,’ he said looking at her and smiling.

    They moved on to the next painting and the next, complimenting and criticising each painting and drawing as they walked along. Mahalia stopped short in front of a painting of a little girl. She stared at it in awe. It was as though she was staring at an image of herself with a faded smile frozen in time. She could feel the gaze of the man beside her.

    After a while he broke the silence. ‘You know, it’s a bit strange talking to someone without knowing their name.’

    ‘Huh?’ Mahalia said as she broke out of her reverie and looked up at him.

    He smiled and repeated himself.

    ‘Oh,’ Mahalia said before introducing herself.

    He smiled. ‘David Goldstein is my name.’

    Mahalia grinned. So, he was Jewish, too!

    He moved closer to her. ‘The painting reminds you of yourself. Your lost childhood?’

    Mahalia nodded. ‘Yeah.’

    ‘It’s great, isn’t it when you find something that reminds you of your past? It’s painful but it’s great.’

    They moved on and Mahalia almost crashed into the wall not realising they had come to the end of the show.

    ‘Hey,’ David said gently grabbing her arm. ‘You all right?’

    ‘Yeah… yeah. I – I didn’t realise we’d come to the end!’

    Inwardly, she berated herself for being such a klutz. She looked at her watch and gasped. Her father should be arriving to pick her up and if she wasn’t waiting outside, he’d come looking for her. She looked up at David. ‘Got to go. Nice talking to you.’ She started to back away. ‘See you,’ she mumbled before she bolted for the exit.

    ‘Yeah! Bye! Oh, and you have great taste in art, too!’ he called after her.

    Mahalia kept going but managed to yell back, ‘Thanks!’

* * *

    The next day Mahalia woke up late as usual because she could never fall asleep early enough or even sleep properly. Her troubled mind did not allow her the pleasure of sleep.

    Her body shook as she went about getting ready for her first day at West Melbourne Senior Secondary College, a school with over two thousand VCE students. How on earth would she be able to fit in? She pondered over her timetable over her breakfast of bagels and coffee. First up would be a double session of Art, then Psychology and finally Japanese and Environmental Science.

    She walked to school dressed in her Boho attire of a long, flowing dress and made it in time as the first bell went and everyone slowly made their way to the main hall. She sat herself down by the wall away from as many people as possible. The principal walked up to the microphone on the stage but her first words were drowned out by the terrible feedback from the speakers. Mahalia blocked her ears and everyone else moaned and groaned. Mahalia’s mind turned off and all she heard was a boring, uninspiring drone. Her head ached and she felt dizzy, yet she remained composed until they were finally dismissed. Mahalia got up as quickly as she could before the rush started. She couldn’t be bothered trying to find anyone she knew from her days at West Footscray High.

    She hurried over to the Art room. She felt both nervous and excited. Art classes were so relaxing! No class talks and very little written work. All you had to do was sit at the table and draw and paint to your heart’s content.

    Mahalia was the last to enter the classroom and she managed to find a seat at the back of the room. The teacher hadn’t arrived yet and Mahalia looked around. Most of the kids were dressed as she was in dresses, skirts or jeans and there were a couple of Goths dressed in black mesh tops and black, skinny jeans. To her dismay, there was the odd two or three dressed in the latest label brands. What would they know about art? she thought to herself.

    Some of the other students looked a little lost, too. Others were chatting away amongst themselves. Mahalia opened up her school diary and started to do a sketch.

    The din soon dampened down a little as soon as the teacher entered. Mahalia looked up and her mouth opened in surprise as her eyes met his. It couldn’t be him – but it was! Her teacher was the same guy she spoke to only yesterday at the gallery!

    What was the probability of that happening?

    He looked back at her and Mahalia could see the disbelief on his face. His thick, black brows were arched as high as they could go and his dark eyes were open wide. He turned and focused his attention on the class. ‘Right,’ he said, putting his books down on his desk. ‘I’m Mr Goldstein, your Art teacher for the year.’

    ‘Mr Goldstein, what kind of a name is that?’ whispered one girl.

    Mahalia turned sharply and noticed an old foe from her days at West Footscray High. She bullied Mahalia relentlessly. The blonde and beautiful Lori-Elle Lamb sat with her group of friends. To Mahalia it was the queen bee and her drones, who thought they ruled the school.

    If David heard what she said, he didn’t let on. Instead, he went on a bit about art, which Mahalia didn’t take in because she was looking at what he was wearing. He was in jeans once again, with a white shirt and an unbuttoned, silky, black vest. She wondered if he felt nervous. Who wouldn’t? she thought to herself. Teaching a class full of senior kids.

    She watched him as he searched through his book for some paper before he handed them out. She wondered what he would say when he came to her table. He looked at her with those deep-set eyes full of understanding and smiled.

    ‘Hey,’ he said and handed her a sheet of paper.

    ‘Hey.’

    ‘How are you?’

    Something caught in her throat and prevented her from making a comprehensible reply. David simply smiled again and moved on.

    When the bell rang at the end of the lesson, Mahalia jumped up and tried to make a beeline for the exit. Her mad dash was ruined by her pencil case with a broken zip. Her entire collection of coloured pencils, pens and paintbrushes scattered across her table and onto the floor as everyone else rushed out the door.

    David picked up his books and slowly approached her table. ‘Let me help you,’ he offered. He bent down and started to pick up her pencils. She joined him and tried to ignore the look of amusement in his eyes.

    ‘I, um, didn’t know you were a student,’ he said quietly.

    ‘Didn’t know you were a teacher.’

    David smiled and looked at her. ‘It’s my first year.’

    ‘Why be a teacher?’

    ‘Why not?’

    ‘It’s stupid!’

   David grinned. ‘Got to earn a living somehow.’

    ‘Why not be an artist?’

    ‘Art doesn’t pay!’

    ‘But if it’s what you really want to do then why not?’

    David grinned again. ‘We’ll see,’ he said before he stood up. ‘By the way, your artwork is terrific.’

    Mahalia’s eyes widened in surprise as she gathered the last of her things, putting them away safely. ‘Really?’

    David nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s great. Sixties psychedelic with a twist – I love it! Anyway, I shall see you on Wednesday,’ he said before they parted ways.

* * *

    Mahalia sat up straight as she listened to David speak. He was teaching the class about art and philosophy during their second Art lesson.

    ‘Our entire life is an unfortunate struggle between the intellectual and physical principal,’ David began. ‘When one cannot calm the elements fighting in himself, how can he stand up against life’s tempestuous urge, how is he to act calmly? Out of calmness alone can great and beautiful deeds emerge on which ripe fruits thrive. That’s what a young Karl Marx wrote in 1835. Does anyone know who he was?’

    Before Mahalia could raise her hand she was beaten by Lori-Elle. ‘Wasn’t he some sort of Commie dude?’

    Mahalia glared at her. Lori-Elle stared back and poked out her tongue. Yet, David carried on nonetheless.

    ‘And so it is for people in the Middle East in particular in Israel and Palestine. The Art department and the school administration has let me use two walls in the school grounds to paint a peace wall. And you are all going to have the chance to decorate it with your creative skills.’

   He started by putting them into groups. Mahalia was put with three Muslim girls in hijabs: Yasmin, Leila and Shirin. They brainstormed and then decided to decorate their part of the wall with the words for “peace” in Arabic and Hebrew. When David came up to them and they explained what they were going to do Mahalia added they were going to have a Jewish girl dancing with a Muslim girl.

    ‘That’s great!’ David exclaimed. ‘My two sisters would love that!’

    ‘What are their names?’ Mahalia asked.

    ‘Shoshanna and Shula,’ David replied.

    ‘Are they dancers, too?’

    ‘Sure are!’

    ‘Man, you’re lucky to have a family that supports creativity.’

    David raised an eyebrow. ‘And yours don’t?’

    ‘They want me to study Social Science.’

    David smiled. ‘I’ll see what I can do on parent-teacher night,’ he said before moving onto the next group.

* * *

    David was true to his word and managed to twist the arm of her parents on parent-teacher night allowing for Mahalia to consider studying Art at tertiary level. Not only that, the peace wall was unveiled and Winter came with the students taking a trip to the Winter Masterpieces at the National Gallery of Victoria, which featured an exhibition on Wassily Kandinsky. The class had to write an essay about the great artist and complete a composition inspired by his art. While they were working on their paintings some of the students were chatting about what they were going to wear to the school social.

    ‘Are you all going?’ David asked.

    Everyone nodded in the affirmative except for Mahalia who remained focused on her work. After class, David took her aside and asked her why she wasn’t going.

    ‘It’s just not my thing,’ she replied.

    ‘What’s the real reason?’

    Mahalia sighed. ‘It’s because of students like Lori-Elle who make my life difficult.’

    ‘Hey, don’t let smart aleck’s like her stop you from attending such an important event. If you don’t go – you’ll regret it.’

    ‘Will you be there?’

    ‘I’ll be there standing by the wall supervising. There’s going to be a teacher group dance at the end of the night so you can watch us all make a fool of ourselves.’

     ‘You’re a professional – you won’t.’

    David grinned wickedly. ‘No, I won’t – but others will. I am sure you will all find it highly amusing.’ His look suddenly turned grave. ‘Look, if she gives you trouble just let me know and I’ll deal with it.’

* * *

    Mahalia found herself traipsing into the second floor of the local nightclub, which had been reserved for the event along with Yasmin, Leila and Shirin who looked elegant in glittering hijabs and long dresses. They stood in a corner watching others dance in the dark. Mahalia had raided her mother’s make up kit and now looked several years older and was stunning in a flowing dress. Presently, Lori-Elle came up to Mahalia and with a sneer said, ‘Finally found yourself some friends, hey?’

    Behind her was her date named Tristan or Clayton – Mahalia wasn’t too sure.

    Mahalia sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘What do you want Lori-Elle?’

    ‘Just to tell you that you suck.’

     ‘Why don’t you tell someone who cares?’

    ‘And that I hate you.’

    Mahalia looked her right in the eye. ‘You don’t hate me as much as I hate you.’

    Lori-Elle looked at her for a moment and Yasmin whispered. ‘I think you really got to her. I think she’s hurt.’

    Mahalia crossed her arms. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough.’

    Then, there was the presence of another as David came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and he motioned for her to come with him. After that, there wasn’t any more trouble and the fun really started when the teachers hit the floor and started to dance. Mahalia watched David in wonder for he was a good dancer, light on his feet and he knew how to move with the grace of a trained dancer. His elegant moves were in stark contrast to the embarrassing moves of the other dumpy and frumpy members of staff who tried to keep up with him. Yes, here he was, the man who had saved her from an awkward moment at the school social and who had taken her from paint brushes to perfume, from crayons to a compact case, from pencils to a powder puff. In him she’d found a mentor who could guide her through this incomprehensible maze called life where she could be true to herself. No longer was she that scared little girl but was now a grown woman. She felt safe in the knowledge she had an ally and hopefully a lifelong friend.