Art Escape

One of the first English idioms I learned was about losing oneself in a work of art. I spoke many languages as a child but it was only after I’d immigrated to the States that I began to understand the odd little sayings. However, I doubt being literally trapped inside my own piece of art is what the colloquialism was meant to convey.

*****

It began with my trip to the grocery store. While my items were being rung up, I busied myself with carefully bagging the food to evenly distribute the weight for my walk home. I was also thinking about the laundry I needed to do that day and hoping I’d have time to hang some out to dry on my tiny balcony before the predicted storms rolled through that night. I didn’t notice that I was packing more groceries than I’d selected until the rosemary focaccia showed up; I knew that wasn’t mine because there was no way I could afford it on my strict budget.

“Oh, no” I said quietly, belying the panic building inside me. The clerk didn’t seem to hear me and I reminded myself to take a breath before speaking again.

“Oh, that’s my fault,” said the next lady in line before I could say anything. “I guess I forgot to put down a divider and my stuff got mixed in with yours!”

Now the clerk did stop but the lady waved him on. “Don’t worry,” she said to me. “Since it was my mistake, I’ll just pay for your groceries as well, okay?”

I was fighting for composure as both the lady and the clerk stared at me, awaiting my response.

“Are you sure?” I managed to say through the swell of emotions I was trying not to show. The quick turn-around from dismay to relief was making me dizzy, not to mention the guilt over having someone else pay for my items coupled with the sense of reprieve if I didn’t have to worry about a grocery bill for this week.

“I am absolutely sure!” the lady responded. I couldn’t see if she was smiling with her mask on but her eyes twinkled at me merrily. She waved me off as I began to stammer my thanks. “Don’t worry about it, dear. Just consider it to be a random act of kindness. May the rest of your day also be full of pleasant surprises.”

Taking that as a means of providing me with a graceful exit, I gathered up my bags and left the store. Still reeling from the roller coaster ride of emotions over the past several minutes, I concentrated on taking small breaths through my mask until I was outside and could pull it down. Lost in my swirl of emotions, I was newly rattled when I reached the end of the store’s overhang and realized that the rain had arrived early. I looked out at the downpour and felt tears well up in my eyes again. I couldn’t possibly carry the paper bags, full of my food for the next two weeks, home in this storm. Numbly, I walked over to the bench placed near the store’s doors and sank onto it, contemplating whether the money I’d been spared in the store was worth using to call a cab or other car service.

“Is everything alright, dear,” I heard from behind me. Turning my head, I saw the same lady who had just bought the groceries I now held.

“I wasn’t expecting it to rain until tonight,” I answered.

“We can share my umbrella to get to your car, if you’d like,” she offered, holding out a large umbrella.

“Thank you for the offer. You are truly very kind,” I replied. “However, I don’t own a car. I live close by and walked here. I’ll just wait out the storm now, I think.”

“Don’t be silly,” she exclaimed. “I know you have perishables in your bags. I’ll give you a lift home.”

Again, I was overwhelmed by the woman’s generosity. Perhaps it had just been far too long since I’d experienced much kindness. I was still stammering my thanks when she lifted one of my bags into her cart and turned towards the parking lot, leaving me no choice but to follow her.

“I’m Renley, by the way,” she said as I got into her car after we’d unloaded our bags into the trunk.

“I’m Yasmin,” I replied. “I really appreciate this. I only live a couple of blocks away but with this rain, getting home would have been very difficult.” I gave her quick instructions on getting to my apartment complex.

“Oh, I know where that is, no problem,” Renley declared. “That’s Willow Grove, isn’t it?” At my nod she continued, “I see the sign for that place daily when I’m at my shop. Have you been living there long?”

“A bit more than four years.”

“Do you like it?”

I murmured assent as Renley approached the rambling series of garden apartments where I lived. They sprawled, as much as anything downtown could do so, over a few streets and I directed her through the turns to get to my building.

Spotting a vacant parking spot I said, “You can just pull in there to drop me off, please. Or,” I hesitated a moment before adding, “if you have the time, would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”

Renley looked at me as she parked. “I’d like that, yes.”

We got out of the car together and Renley again helped me carry the grocery bags as we dashed through the rain to my building’s door. Fumbling for my keys, I unlocked my door and stood aside to allow Renley to enter first.

“Oh, this is lovely!” she exclaimed.

“Thank you,” I said sincerely. My apartment was tiny and obviously a bit run-down but I had lived there happily for the past several years and it was my haven. I stepped into my kitchenette and set my bags down, inviting Renley to do the same. Indicating my combined espresso and coffee maker, of which I was inordinately proud, I said, “I’m not great at making cappuccino but if you’d like a latte, I can do that. Or I can put on a pot, if you’d prefer?”

“Oh, a pot is fine, Yasmin. Don’t go to any trouble. In fact, if you’ll show me where you keep your grounds, I can get that going while you put things away.”

“You are the nicest person!” I declared. “I actually grind my own beans, are you okay using a grinder?”

“Absolutely! Freshly ground beans taste so much better.”

Nodding agreement, I opened my coffee cupboard and pulled out beans and the small appliance, setting them on the counter and gesturing for Renley to help herself. Returning to the bags, I began unpacking the groceries as I heard beans getting poured and ground. She seemed completely comfortable with the process and, when the grinder was quiet, I could hear her softly humming. Smiling, I sorted things into my freezer and refrigerator.

“Oh,” I stopped in surprise. “I believe these must be yours.” I held up a bag filled with pears.

“Hmmm,” Renley turned from where she was adding water to my coffee maker. “Oh, well, do you like pears?” When I nodded, she continued, “Why don’t you just keep them then. I bought enough other fruit.”

Amazed anew at her magnanimity, I opened the bag and set it in the fruit bowl on my counter. “I could cut one up now for us, if you’d like? They seem to be ripe enough.”

“That sounds nice, dear,” she responded. We continued with our tasks and soon were able to sit at my dining table with mugs of coffee and plates of fruit, to which I’d added some grapes from my fridge. I also set out a plate of little cookies that I’d had in my treat cupboard.

“Delightful,” Renley enthused. We sat at opposite sides of the table, which wasn’t a 6 foot distance, but we still lowered our masks in order to enjoy the repast.

“You mentioned that you have a shop nearby,” I said before having a sip of the coffee. “Oh, this is delicious!” I proclaimed in amazement. “It tastes so much richer than I’m used to!”

“I added a small dash of cinnamon to the grounds when I put them in your machine,” she said. “It’s an old trick I picked up when I worked at a cafe in Italy years ago.”

“Wow,” I replied. “I’ll have to try that.”

Smiling, Renley took a drink of her own. “My shop is actually an art studio I just opened down the street near the library.

“I don’t think I’ve seen that,” I replied. “Is it near where that pizza restaurant closed a few months ago?”

“In that space, as a matter of fact.”

My eyebrows shot up. “That’s really large for an art studio, isn’t it?”

“Normally I might agree, though having a lot of space can be conducive to creativity. But with social-distancing being so essential right now, I wanted to have plenty of room for everyone to feel comfortable. Also, I was able to section some of the space off into separate rooms to be used for more private instruction or classes. And I’ll keep a portion near the front in order to display work and facilitate sales, if my clients want to sell.”

“That sounds really nice,” I told Renley. “Did you move here for the opportunity when the restaurant closed or have you lived here for a while?”

“I was living mostly in Europe up until a year ago,” she answered. “But I was born in New York and, when I had the idea for this studio, I wanted to return to the U.S. and try it here.” She paused. “I guess my timing was good since if I’d waited much longer my ability to travel would have been severely impeded.”

“I’m happy you were able to make it work here. I’m sure there are many people looking for a creative outlet right now.”

“You should feel free to come up and browse through, the gallery will be open to the public.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Did you say you’ve lived here for five years?”

“Not quite, a bit more than four,” I responded. “I moved here after I finished college.”

“And what is it that you do?”

“I translate books for a publishing company.”

“Impressive,” she smiled at me. “How did you get into that?”

“My mom was French and my father Turkish but they both spoke multiple languages. They met when they worked as translators for the U.N.” I paused as Renley expressed astonishment. “They spoke to me multilingually from birth. But, my mom died when I was quite young and my father moved me back to Turkey where his mom could help raise me while he continued work there as an interpreter.”

“Mmm,” murmured Renley. “Turkey has been through so many challenges the past few decades. That couldn’t have been easy.”

I nodded. “My dad came home distressed one day when I was ten. He had overheard something he wasn’t supposed to. He was frantic to send me to live with my mom’s sister, who was living in Chicago at the time. He put me on a plane that week and by the time I’d landed here, he and my grandmother had been killed in the upheaval following the 2007 elections.”

“I am so sorry,” Renley sighed.

“My aunt took good care of me,” I responded. “She was more like a big sister so I had more fun than I might have otherwise through my teen years. And Chicago is an awesome city in which to live.”

“Well,” Renley took a deep breath. “I’m certainly glad my absentmindedness at the store led to meeting you, Yasmin. You are a lovely person!”

“Thank you,” I blushed. “You are as well. I’m happy we met.”

Glancing out the window, where the sun was shining once more, Renley stood up. “I should get going though. I still have my groceries to get home.”

Waving aside her attempt to clear the table, I walked her to the door.

“I do hope you’ll come by my art studio, Yasmin,” Renley said. “Do you paint or draw at all?”

“I have one of those adult coloring books I’ve been working on,” I admitted a bit shyly. “It’s very soothing.”

“Why don’t you come try your hand with a canvas.”

I began to politely decline, sure I wouldn’t be able to afford the set-up costs, but Renley continued.

“I offer free trials for beginners,” she said with her kind smile. “Perhaps you could come by this week and see if it’s something you might like.”

Nodding, I agreed. “I’m free the day after tomorrow, does that work for you?” I asked.

“Certainly!” Renley pulled her mask back up as she turned to the door. “How does early afternoon sound?”

“Perfect,” I grinned. “I’m looking forward to it!”

*****

Thus it was that I found myself entering the doors of The Escape Artist. The studio was bright and airy and beautiful. Renley met me as I was perusing the artwork on the walls. She showed me around before setting me up with an easel and supplies.

I’ve never considered myself particularly artistic. I hadn’t enjoyed art class while in middle school. However, as I dipped my brush into some paint, a scene formed in my mind and I found myself capturing it clearly on the canvas.

Absorbed in the craft, I didn’t realize how much time was passing. When I paused to roll my shoulders, I was amazed to see that the sun had set. I stood back to gaze with pleasure at the painting and noticed a glimmer in one corner. It looked like the river I’d depicted was moving. I shook my head and blinked, sure my eyes were just tired. But when I looked closer, everything swirled wildly and I felt myself getting faint.

I awoke in a forest near the river. I looked around frantically, trying to figure out where I was. Far away, I could hear Renley’s voice. Looking into the distance, I spotted the art gallery and I realized with shock that I was in my own painting and it had been hung for display. Distantly, I could see that it was daytime beyond the studio doors. In the gallery, Renley walked past the paintings with a young man. I could just make out his words as he exclaimed over how realistic the art appeared.

“I enjoy guiding my artists to find their escape here,” Renley responded. “The world is such a crazy place now, I find people really need something to help them get away.”