#Once upon a time - Alchemy. Part Two.

Once upon a time .....

I followed him up the stairs. He didn't smell too good, smelt of fags and ash; over his top lip, strands from his moustache - a fat wiry brush - hung, curling, tinted in a colour swatch of nicotine yellow. A long term smoker. Forty a day probably. Every other step, a cough and a wheeze, an asthmatic rattle all the way to the top. I remember only counting twelve steps.

'So this is it, ' he said, clearing his throat in the ball of his fist, 'take a look around.'

First a bed room, strange angles. Then the bath room, nice size, loving the position of the window. Another bedroom, this will be the master. And through a final door into a vacuum of space and light. That's when I knew, decided right there on the spot. Why wasn't Younger Partner with me?  The roof had been scooped out like a pumpkin; wooden beams crossed the ceiling and where suitcases and roof racks and boxes of bric-a-brac would once have been stored was a mezzanine kitchen. An eat-in kitchen in the roof? Now I loved that idea...  

A first property bought together. The first night; glasses of champagne, fish and chips out of the paper, a gift of chocolate cake from the neighbours downstairs. The joy of discovering a new area; Chiswick, Shepherds Bush, Turnham Green. The best Thai restaurant on Askew Road.

We lived here for seven years.

This wasn't any ordinary flat, this was a crucible made of magical stuff; where gold was fashioned from waste basket junk, where sapphires poured from the bathroom tap, where dreams bubbled in fairy wisps of kettle steam...

I shed my skin a dozen times. I ditched the DJ'ing, spent five years retraining as a psychotherapist. I never worked so hard; the late nights at college, weekend workshops, seminars, clients, personal therapy, essays, case studies; all juggled with full time jobs, those soul sucking rent payers. I found myself under proposition one warm July evening. A Friday. 'Would you marry me?' Younger Partner asked, propped on the edge of the chair opposite; his expression earnest, puppy dog eyed, a tad nervous. 'Pardon?' I replied, 'could you say that again?' 'Will you marry me?' he repeated, this time his cheeks burning lanterns, 'Er... er... yes, yes of course I will marry you.' I exchanged Ms for Mrs. Under the living room beams, early March gliding through the panes, my best lady and I were plucked, pruned, kneaded and painted; two wedding dollies immaculately sculptured for a big big day. I grew a bump, solid with fluctuation and hard movement. The day I carried her over the threshold, into the living room, it was if she'd always been with us; right from the very beginning. I battled the closing walls of post natal illness; our home a muted sunken place; my life pre-baby, a flaky shadow, alien, a distant memory. I began writing. This. A blog. A new existence; words, words, words... and I bade farewell to my thirties; hello to middledom and swathes of silver hair. (and cake).

There were parties; Younger Dad's infamous thirtieth. The beer stains. The bass. A five course New Years bash. A first birthday, a second...

And almost a year ago, after the sign said sold and the paperwork cleared, we moved.

So much change, different people.

If you like my writing, you could do two wonderful things for me (pretty please);
1. Vote for me in the MADS (best writer). 2. Preorder my anthology, Seasons Of Motherhood (published in March). Thank you.

#Art I Heart - Black

Mark Rothko - Black Form Painting

Apart from a very handy black dress that hangs under used in my wardrobe, I tend to view black as a heavy, burdensome colour. A colour associated with the unknown, depression and a threatening emptiness. Worn at funerals and revered as a symbol of angst and introspection by Goths and Emos. A colour identified with distortion and negativity; black and white thinking, the shadow of the yin and yang.

Yet my perception was altered upon experiencing Mark Rothko's Black Form paintings.

During the Summer of 2008 a rather jittery Younger Dad proposed to me in the familiar comfort of our living room. I promptly accepted his hand in marriage. Actually, I asked him to repeat his proposal again. I wanted to savour the moment. Poor Younger Dad. Asking once was nerve wrackingly bad enough. But twice? I was an exceptionally lucky girl. We had the engagement ring made; it has a diamond flanked by two sea green sapphires. Green is my favourite colour.

So I wanted to give Younger Dad something special in return. As part of my engagement present I bought two tickets to a Mark Rothko retrospective at the Tate Modern followed by a sumptuous dinner at the Oxo Tower restaurant.

On a Saturday afternoon in October I surprised Younger Dad with two tickets to the exhibition. He was over joyed as he really appreciates Rothko's work. So that evening we made our way to the Embankment. I remember the sunset well. Looking out of the upper deck window of the packed bus it was as if a bottle of claret had been nonchalantly poured over the heavens; a glowing mosaic of ruby splats and splodges staining the Autumn sky. What a visually vibrant start to a special occasion.

We spent at least an hour at the retrospective. I found myself drawn to a smaller room that housed a selection of Mark Rothko's Black Form paintings. The space was busy; full of post work chatter and the sharp clinking of wine glasses. I sat in front of one of the pieces and found myself seduced into stillness and quietude. The painting lured me into its darkness and invited an uncertain plunge into the deep space that dwells within my inner core. A starless night is what I discovered within. Not to sound too pretentious I touched upon an existential void; an empty nothingness. An abyss. And in this blackness I felt comforted and calmed. A serene blanket wrapped around me that drowned out the external hubbub. And I felt reassured, bolstered by the solidity of Rothko's Black.

Visually Rothko's Black may seem uninteresting, even bland. What's there to actually look at? But emotionally it had such a profound impact on my senses. I could have meditated in front of Black for hours. But with a soft tap on my shoulder Younger Dad distracted me from my reverie and off we strolled to satiate ourselves with a four course meal at the Oxo Tower.

Black isn't actually a colour; its the absence of all colours.  In a positive light, it represents an emptiness in which anything can disappear an re-emerge anew imbued with potential and possibility.

Mark Rothkos's Black paintings hang in the Mark Rothko Chapel, a tranquil environment that offers an 'intimate sanctuary to people of every belief'. I think I'm going to add the Chapel to my bucket list of essential places to visit before I'm paying for an annual subscription to readers digest and sucking on humbugs.   

Mark Rothko Chapel

I never realised that black could be so spiritually renewing and transformative.

I am linking up this post with Midlife Single Mum's very imaginative Art I Heart meme. The idea is that you choose one piece of art you feel drawn to and write a short story about it.