by Jill Eldredge Gabriele
The reality is: it’s hard to be alone. Totally alone. Alone like I’ve not known for 30 years. Even after four years of living on my own, only now does this reality dawn upon me, sitting quietly on a pale grey bench in front of the Royal Academy of Arts. 3pm. The sky matches the bench. The eternally overcast sky of a London winter has the ceiling so low, it loses the tops of the modern skyscrapers.
Yet no modernness surrounds me here. Not in this empty courtyard, where the sounds of black cabs and red double-decker buses provide an auditory muffled backdrop to the muted sky and architecturally pale limestone. It’s Sunday, city life is hushed, the weekend hustle of nearby Oxford Street shopping is removed from this urban island. No more than a stone’s throw from Piccadilly Circus, this courtyard seems somehow devoid of any holiday light or decoration. Alone.
Undergoing huge renovations, the only exhibit in the museum, holds five small rooms of black and white drawings, inspired by Constable, Gainsborough and Turner. I find only three large oil canvases with compelling landscapes by the masters themselves. They provide a few moments’ transport to another time, another place: a lone shepherd resting upon a hard ledge, his flock of sheep grazing in a darkened valley. He cannot see the astonishing yellow sunset just beyond the trees; some darker clouds make me wonder if a storm will deluge the shepherd. The deep green forest provides a foil between the sun and valley; a softness juxtaposed with boulders and a distant mountain. The green provides me hope and a slight softening of the scene; warmth, a care, much like the resting shepherd. He may get wet, but the sun feels warm and eternal; a feeling of something grander, omnipotent, ever present.
Pulling my discouraged soul out of the disappointingly small exhibit, I feel overwhelmingly dispirited. Black and white drawings indeed. Constable, Gainsborough and Turner? They are color and light personified: my needed fix for elevation out of the winter doldrums thwarted. The museum is in hibernation, all seemingly packed safely away, with precious little sign of life or oxygen.
Exiting the building, looking upwards towards the street, I feel the tremendous strength of a two story Roman arch entrance on elegant Ionic columns, framing the occasional flash of red or black as the world quietly bustles by.
The top two stories feature windows in a 1 – 3 – 1 theme, granting upward motion, while being subservient to the grand arch beneath. The three center windows, nearly touching one to the other, were us: nearly Siamese, attached at the side.
A united family unit, living our connected life, side-by-side. One darling daughter, artistic, astute, petit but fiery, one delightful son, sharp-minded, perceptive, scholarly and soccer-mad were my constant companions. Both wise beyond their years, their places were very empty.
Four final adornments point my eye to the heavens – looking like individual candlesticks piercing the oddly lilac-grey sky. The furthest left and right columns secure lightning rods. These seem very much like my two children, having ascended into adulthood, leaving me alone. Our family now detached. Separated. (The reality is far less bleak, yet my desolate feeling pervades.) In their youthfulness, they attract problems and power to themselves as they venture forth, trying new avenues and adventures.
I worked hard as a parent, to plan for my own job obsolescence, helping prepare my children for an independent life. Why did I not prepare myself for the same?
Romanticizing the past is human nature. We long for what we cannot have. And so, time to reinvent ourselves. While we will always be parents, our identity must continue to develop. We are no longer needed within the confines of our home and heart. And thank heavens.
There should be a celebration in this success: “Mission accomplished.” But not like George W. Bush’s aircraft carrier. My two frigates occasionally return to harbor, needing a little help with refuelling, navigation or logistics. But then, they up-anchor again and hit the high seas, as they’ve been taught.
I wonder: can the harbor move?
Jill Eldredge Gabriele: Writing has always been a part of my life: project editor at Rand McNally; editor at Mobil Travel Guide; and now for pleasure.