You have to work at the romance of it all. Loving, sure, but for living as well. Even the most beautiful of places can dim when you’re not looking for the best croissant, but instead going to your dentist appointment.
Maybe it’s too literal, but yesterday, to improve the view, I started washing windows. Will that guarantee a rainy day today, even in one of the most sunny places on earth? Most probably. But I would do it again. And will. Because that moment of clarity in which I see it — really see it — the beauty all around me, without the dust of ordinary, this view is priceless. So I make the effort.
That is not to say that it doesn’t often come with condition and complaint. I’m not proud of it, but it does happen. But if I’m going see the beauty through the imperfections of a streaked window, then I have to allow the same for myself. Because these “streaks of imperfection” show the work put in, the effort made. And there is beauty in this. Perhaps even me.
So I ask of those around me, near and far, when I make the smudged attempts at beautiful living, even when I fail, perhaps, fingers crossed, heart hopeful, you will see the love in it all. Through the streaks of romance, beyond the damage and the dust, we all, I suppose, await the sun.
“Slug bug, no backs!” We shouted it as kids, upon seeing a Volkswagen Beetle, playfully punching the person next to us. And it’s funny, we abided by the rules of this simple game. If the person said “no backs,” well, then that was it. Forward we went.
Maybe that was the romance of it all. The simplicity. The playful trust in what was. I remember hearing over and over through the years, when asking life questions about finding a career, doing what you love, following your dream, or falling in love… , the answer was inevitably, “you’ll just know.”
And I did, for the most part. Sure, I stumbled, faltered, in all of it. But I knew I was an artist. And I got there. True love took a little longer.
I must have walked by, biked by, drove by the VW bug for sale on the side of the road on Hopkins Boulevard. There was a romance to it, I suppose. Maybe it was the artist in me, the hopeful heart waiting, but it always made me smile — slug bug!, I said, and kept on dreaming.
Maybe it isn’t obvious, but perhaps the most romantic painting I have done is of the blue Volkswagen. It is entitled, “Something in my heart told me to wait for you.” When I fell in love and moved to France, it was indeed because “I just knew.” My playful heart said go — and forward I went. Forward we continue. Joyfully, no backs!
I see her most mornings now at the top of the hill. I don’t know how else to say it, but I’m joyfully aware that the same sun bouncing off of my shoulders is warming hers, as she steps gingerly behind her gated yard. And I’m happy for her that she seems more secure in this new season — secure enough to go from house to garage without looking down at her cane. Is it a flower bed she’s tending? I can’t really see. The house door creaks as it opens and I notice that she looks back. I’m happy she’s not alone. The moment passes as I descend the slope.
The song rings in my ear with each step. Nina Simone sings “The folks who live on the hill.” I wonder if their lives felt as fast as the lyrics, as they “added a thing or two, a wing or two.” Verse jumping into verse.
Just as it was a jazz standard, it was also, I suppose, a life standard — these folks who lived on the hill. A less complicated, more romantic version of Instagram. But the songs that imagined these lives weren’t intrusive or invasive. I like that. This warmth of not really needing to know the exact details, just imagining the best for them — hoping for it.
I can tell you that I carried that warmth all day. I could feel it especially walking to my studio — that same romance of my own life. What a glorious and rare thing to see.
As we jump to the next verse in our own songs, it’s so easy to miss the magic, the beauty. But I don’t want to do that. So I hum along, and climb. I hope for it. For all. Because I am, we are, the folks who live on the hill.
We had just finished watching the Days of our LIves episode, or “the Hortons,” as my grandma called it. It wasn’t educational television in the traditional sense, but I certainly did learn a lot. During this particular episode, they used the word “romantic,” several times. My five or six year old brain wasn’t familiar. “What is romantic?” I asked my grandma. “Lots of things are romantic,” she said. “No, but what does it mean?” I continued. “You know when your heart feels all a flutter?” she asked. “Oh, jimbly…yes…” I said. “Sure,” she said, “jimbly…” “So Uncle Ron is romantic?” I asked. “Why do you say Uncle Ron?” “Well, yesterday, when I crawled inside the closet of the upstairs room with the loom inside, there were uniforms, and they were so crisp and beautiful, and something made me want to hug them, and you said they were Uncle Ron’s service uniforms and my heart felt funny inside the closet so…” “It’s not just people. You were feeling a different time and place. And that can be romantic. In the past, or the future even. I feel it when I turn your old clothes into quilts. It’s magic. It’s experience. It’s life. And that can be very romantic.”
I annoyingly spent the rest of the day picking up items like perfume bottles and canned pears. Overalls hanging on the wall. Photographs and rugs made by hand. “Is this romantic? What about this?”
When I think about the real magic of the day, it wasn’t in each of the items discovered, but in the time spent with my grandma. The time she answered yes to all of my questions, again and again, with patience and love. Pure romance.
So maybe you won’t find it surprising when I tell you that I think one of my most romantic paintings is the one of the Volkswagon sitting in this European street. Maybe it’s the color palette. The small route that will only allow a one-way passage — a love that knows there is no turning back, this is it. A calm that doesn’t judge how you got here, simply welcomes you in. The name of the piece is “Something in my heart told me to wait for you.”
I’d like to think that journey began at noon, in front of the television, with my grandma, on a farm just outside of Alexandria, Minnesota — and somehow, led by a trail of “yes” after “yes,” continued to the south of France. Even as I type the words, I can’t help but think, “Isn’t it romantic?!”
