The Strangers' Gallery Read Online Free PDF Page B

seemed propelled by an undercurrent of nervous energy—lingering emotional distress, perhaps—but she was suddenly silent and put her hands over her eyes. This was the first time she had spoken about her parents, and in such an intimate way. I thought she was going to break down and cry.
    â€œI guess it’s hard to talk about your parents…about the accident,” I said.
    â€œNo, I don’t mind,” she said, recovering her composure. “Ilse took it a lot harder than I did. That’s why I’ve spent so much time with her this past year. She just turned twenty-three—she’s four years younger than me. I had to be the strong one, so that helped me cope. She was so close to Dad. He used to take her everywhere with him—fishing, camping, skating, hiking the East Coast Trail—but I was happy just staying at home, reading and drawing, listening to music. She was very athletic—a star soccer player, a gymnast, a runner, a figure skater, but not a dancer, strangely enough, which is what she does now.”
    Perhaps Hubert had been right, I thought. “What sort of dancing does she do—ballet?” I asked. “I have two nieces at the National Ballet School,” I added, proudly and paternally, as if they were my daughters, and as if I had forgotten my long-standing objection to the boarding school life.
    â€œReally?” she said. “No, Ilse does modern dance. She does mime as well. In the fall, she has a show that combines dance and mime—Pascal’s
Pensées
, with Surtitles, done to the music of Erik Satie. I sat in on some rehearsals and they asked me if I could design a set. But it’s all very abstract, very conceptual, what they’re doing. I can only paint what’s in front of my face, not what’s in my head. I was a bit of an outcast in art school. Simple old-fashioned representation is good enough for me, but realist painters are regarded as primitives these days.”
    â€œWhat do you like to paint?” I asked.
    â€œI’ve been painting flowers for years, mainly watercolours—wildflowers at the moment. I like to think they have individual faces, so I approach them as portraits.”
    â€œHave you ever done portraits of people?” I asked.
    She laughed. “I’ve done a few,” she said. “Ilse wanted me to paint her when I was there. Try getting a dancer to sit still. Even the muscles in her face were moving. And her tongue, of course. She talks non-stop. It was impossible. We had to stop after only an hour. At least it made us laugh—we needed that. I need a few hours of false starts just to get going, especially for a portrait. I was just beginning to clear my head of what she looks like—the picture of her I have in my mind, I mean—just beginning to see her as a stranger, someone I don’t know, which is what I need to do. It’s not much different from trying to paint a flower. To paint a dandelion, you have to get all the images of dandelion that you’ve seen, your idea of dandelion, out of your head and look at the one in front of you. It’s a bit racist, if you know what I mean, to think that they all look alike, if you’ve seen one dandelion, one pitcher plant, one sunflower, you’ve seen them all. You’re thinking of having your portrait done?”
    â€œOh God, no. I don’t even like having my picture taken. Though I can sit in one place for as long as you like.”
    â€œJust like a flower,” she said. “Your name is in
flower
, you know.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I said.
    â€œThe name
Lowe
is in the word
flower,
though you can’t hear it.
It’s hidden in there.”
    â€œThat’s amazing,” I said. “I never noticed that before.”
    â€œI usually see words when I first hear them,” she said, “names especially, all the letters, and then I see images and hear rhymes for the