The Palette of Paris

George was staring at the stipple ceiling above his bed when silence was broken by the postman. He pulled his stiff legs to the bedside and rose slowly, his hips creaking with strain. He donned slippers and shuffled from the room. Cold air caught his breath as he made his way down his front steps to retrieve three newspapers.

He had once enjoyed venturing out to the shop each morning for his papers. It had been his final tie to the outside world, severed when the government imposed lockdown a year earlier. The brief conversations that always arose en route were - in his opinion - the antidote to loneliness, which had crept like a dark fog into his home in the years since his partner had passed.

A thick envelope hugged the papers on their retrieval, and George smiled at the formality of its presentation; ivory linen paper, his address elegantly penned in cursive. He had received a handful of such letters over the years since his retirement; for recognition of his work, invitations to various shows, or the rare request to speak at a college or event. He’d never accepted nor responded to their offers, kind as they were, but they invariably made his day when they came; they were one of the few reminders of his working life he allowed.

George sat in his conservatory and opened the letter, his curiosity piqued. There were many pages included in the envelope, more than he’d expected, and removing the first slip caused him to gasp sharply.

It was an American cheque for $20,000. Not recognising the name of the payor, he scrambled to pull out the other papers, entirely seized with shock and confusion. Opening a random collection of documents he saw the headed paper and instantly understood the meaning of the large sum;

HAYWARD GALLERY Belvedere Rd, South Bank, London.

It was a multipage document detailing the movement of his art over time, from gallery to well-renowned gallery, eventually coming to reside in the Hayward. He scanned dozens of rows of public and private galleries, museums and exhibitions until he reached the first entry, dated January 2017;

He sat back in wonder, slowly piecing the story together. Upon his partner’s passing in 2016, George ceased painting, and removed all evidence of his career as an artist from his home. His neighbour Pim, a young Dutchman and budding artist in his own right, visited often, knowing George had no living family. He vaguely remembered him rushing into the conservatory a few months after it happened, with a letter from Tate Britain Museum, requesting submissions for an upcoming exhibition of ‘Queer British Art 1861-1967’. Had Auguste, his husband, been alive to receive this letter with George, it would have been a moment of immense pride, the personal significance of the invitation without doubt surpassing all prior accomplishments. George, however, no longer wanted anything to do with his work, so full of Auguste it was, and their lives together, and silenced Pim’s persistence by welcoming him to donate any paintings he desired from the garden shed to the exhibition. Pim must have actually submitted some of his work. He smiled, the Dutchman’s kindness never ceasing to amaze him.

Glancing once more at the five-figure cheque, George, for the first time in years, paused to reflect. From a young age, he was less than masculine; his kind, delicate nature was brought into sharp focus by contrast with his brutish brother, six years his senior. His father, a bitter man twisted more by his years at war, beat him routinely, condemning his son’s effeminate attributes; George soon learned his cries gleaned no sympathy from his mother, who understood little of his strange inclinations to nature and art. He grew up the target of his father’s outbursts and spent most of his time alone. Conceding to himself at seventeen his undeniable identity as a homosexual man, he confided in his mother, who immediately summoned his father. He denounced George as his son, the rage and venom in his blows leaving George with scars still visible at his 79 years. Days later, he stole his father’s savings from his office (better named ‘the room he locked himself in to drink’) and made his way to London, in search of a career as a painter, and more importantly, a home.

He spent the next years painting mercilessly all of the ideas he had imagined since his youth, energetically converting his visions to canvas, often forgetting to eat or sleep until mental fatigue forced him from his work. Even so, he was never satisfied with his paintings, which – captivating as they were – always lacked something George couldn’t quite articulate; he destroyed many impressive pieces searching within the canvas for some elusive quality.

It was Auguste that would unlock for George that ‘je ne sais quoi’, as he called it. They first met in an illicit bar in London. He was a sallow, slender young man, with charming dark eyes and an endless supply of impeccably tailored suits. He was French, and a playwright, rarely seen without a cigarette perched between his lips. He was visiting London to stage his first play in a small theatre later that week. They were inseparable instantly, George finding immediate and absolute comfort in Auguste’s confident and protective nature.

After a lengthy discussion one night on the topic of George’s art, he invited Auguste to look at his pieces. Moments after laying eyes on the artwork, Auguste smiled, “Ahh George, this is too simple, can you not see what you are missing?” seeing George’s anger bubble, Auguste quickly continued. “It is you, mon chéri, what you are missing from these paintings is you, where is your identity, the things you believe in, are you afraid to tell the world who you are?”

George stared, lightbulb flickering in his mind. He had always viewed his sexuality as no more than a blot on his escutcheon, a genetic mishap, something that could not be denied, yet caused him great shame. He couldn’t imagine relinquishing his secret for public consumption. Yet, as Auguste elaborated, he began to see the necessity in doing so. “Is art not expression, beau George? What will you say with your pieces, if you cannot say who you are?”

“But how can I do that, risk my career, no one will want my work!” George exclaimed, but Auguste only laughed.

“There are places in this world screaming for your honesty George, entire communities that are no longer willing to hide, people that will inspire you to paint with a vulnerability that few ever have. And in turn your art will inspire them, giving them a mirror to look into, to see themselves more clearly.”

George knew he could not undergo this chrysalis in England. Even in London, where he had found underground spaces he could peacefully inhabit, homosexuality was a criminal offence, far from tolerated publicly. Hearing Auguste speak of great freedoms in Paris, and the opportunity for a receptive audience for his work, combined with his growing love for the warm-hearted Frenchman, George, with little hesitation, followed him to France.

George was instantaneously entranced with Paris. During the 1960s, the prominence of art and diversity, of culture and openness, was more than he ever hoped could exist. Laughter and smoke perpetually filled their apartment, a messy space characterised by its artistic tenants. Where there weren’t piles of colored canvases, there were stacks of disordered papers with illegible scribbles. Chaotic as it seemed, the greatest works of their careers were born of that little studio. They expended their youth in full with little regard for the future, and with each passing moment spent with Auguste, George was healed of the pain of his youth.

But what had sold? Dumbfounded, he retrieved the greetings letter and scanned the ceremonious writing, stopping cold when he read the name of the single art piece listed:

'Auguste on Rue du Mont-Cenis 1963'……………………………….$20,000

A tear fell as the memory - hazy at first - came into sharp focus. He was surprised the tear was accompanied by a smile, and even more so by the warmth spreading in his chest at recalling such a time in their lives. The painting, a silhouette of Auguste wandering peacefully through a Parisienne Street, one steeped in history for a gay man, was undoubtedly a tremendous piece, but a personal one; George had never intended to display it. The entirety of their time in Paris was somehow captured within ‘Auguste on Rue du Mont-Cenis’; young men, free to love, and create, and express, and emote, liberated from fear, cocooned in the neighbourhoods built by their community, their brothers and sisters, estranged uncles, runaway daughters, the colourful men and powerful women. All in search of a place they could be free.

George was overcome with the emotions bubbling to the surface, emotions he had refused to permit since Auguste’s passing, afeard the memories of their once beautiful life would be twisted with pain and loss beyond recognition. Yet there they were, clear as the hour they were formed, and George couldn’t but laugh through his tears at the revelation. His conservatory coming back into focus, he gazed around at his cold, dull surroundings; that which moments ago had been a perfectly satisfactory residence now looked overwhelmingly grey and melancholy. He had regressed, from the vibrant Parisienne existence that had once inspired him, to the shadows in which he had unhappily dwelled before meeting Auguste. He knew logistically how he had come to reside in this space, but as for why he had stayed he could no longer fathom.

He had been summoned from Paris two decades earlier to settle his late father’s affairs, George being the only surviving family. This was significant news to him, having never been informed of the deaths of his mother or brother. Upon their arrival, they were tied up with several unsettled debts and legal disputes, and months turned to years as they occupied George’s childhood house. During those years Auguste’s health declined considerably, and a return to their beloved Paris became impossible.

Auguste penned countless beautiful letters to their closest friends in France in the years preceding his death, a ritual George promised to continue, but ashamedly hadn’t. He remembered the notebooks Auguste used to craft those letters; they never left his side. He smiled once more, recalling Auguste’s excitement when he first discovered the notebooks in his favourite ‘Librairie Delamain’ in Paris. “Regarde! George! The craftsmanship, the quality, the romance of a simple black notebook! This is the notebook of a true artist, a creative, I must have it, my voice will henceforth sing only from these beautiful pages!” he proclaimed.

“Well, let’s be sure we have enough pages to withhold all the workings of that brilliant mind,” George had laughed, picking as many of the notebooks as he could carry from the stand.

Se réveiller n'est plus le plaisir qu'il était. Waking is no longer the pleasure it was.

Auguste’s final entry in those little books. Returning once again from his memories to the silent room, George was shocked to find himself resonating with the grim verse, and knew at once what he must do.

He rose from his chair with renewed energy. Pocketing the cheque, he exited the conservatory and shuffled down the stone path to the shed, forcing open the rusted door and stepping inside. Slowly bending, he picked up a canvas resting to his right. He gazed at it, fingers tracing the urgent strokes depicting a cyclist on a cobbled Parisienne street.

He carefully placed the canvas in one of the several empty boxes, before retrieving another. He packed steadily his most precious works, slowly clearing the shed of its contents. Now visible in one corner, he lifted his hard-shell suitcase and inspected it, excitement bubbling in his chest, before turning slowly, and returning once more up the garden path to the home which had never truly been his.