When The Scene is Set or The Space is Vacant

Hello Gentle Reader

My one grandmother was a great admirer of landscapes. She could often be found surveying and walk the landscape. When the weather proved to be uncooperative for a walk, she would nestle down by a window and gaze. When she gazed at the world outside she was completely absent from the present surroundings; from the daily tasks which she would afford to put off for the time being; from the daily distractions of life, which continually vies for attention and resolution. For these briefest of moments I remember her admiring and meditating—she contemplated and wondered. What exactly she contemplated and wondered about, I will never know. Yet, there was never a look of longing or resentment, just a sense of being at ease for a restful moment. After a while though the call of life would trumpet her back to the present and she would—as she often said: “carry on.”

As a child, I often found my grandmothers momentary reflective observations bewildering and even strange. I wondered when she sat at the window, if she was longing to get away or had a desire to travel or escape wherever she currently was. Her meditative silence and solemn posture, often struck me as sad and even alien. When my grandmother admired and meditated beyond the windowpane, or would slip out for morning, afternoon and evening walks—there was always a guarded sense of privacy, as if she were keeping a private and personal secret to herself. She only opened the clam now and then to admire the pearl and then snap it shut when trespassers grew near. When I viewed the same window, I only saw the same grass, the sky, the same hills, the same prairie twig trees, the same buildings, the same world. I had no patience to find the pearl in the ordinary and boring. When I accompanied her on a walk, it was trailed and shadowed by solemn silence and a reflective air. Neither of which my childhood constitution could tolerate. I often desired to break the awkward silence; but never dared to open my mouth or make a move to betray my position or presence. All the while, my grandmother would continue on her walk taking step by step, pace by pace, and moving her head in all conceivable directions as if she were looking for something or someone, and never quite finding them. Now and then, though, she would stop here and there, and just observe with casual triumph, then continue on her wandering. Yet to me, at the time, these ritual of silence, observation, reflection and meditation where beyond my comprehension and were more frightening and awkward, then they were poetically or philosophically rewarding.

Age, however, has a way of smoothing out the roughness of youth, and polishing the lens for a slightly enhanced bit of vision. The peripheral vision grows more vibrant and there is less tunnel vision. Now that I am older I finally understand my grandmother’s silent love affair with observing landscapes. The revelation, however, was not strikingly clear as an epiphany—no rather it was a slightly more gradual understanding, which took place over time. At first it made its presence subtly known through novels, especially with authors who have a certain love affair with digressions in which they offer commentary on architecture and landscape. These authors are always Intune to set the scene, and often do so, with lovingly gentle care. These same authors, however, are capable of drawing parallels between the external landscape and the internal world of the characters, using one as a symbolic external depiction of the interior world of the other.

When I try to recall these scenes now, they come up as fragmentary and misplaced, whereupon they only hint at the grander landscape now slipping into the oblivion of memory. Often, they melt and weld themselves together, creating a patchwork and surreal landscape. One moment there is the empty train tracks covered in the rose tint of a blushing evening sunset in summer, on the other side of the tracks is a white painted barbwire fence, oxidizing over time, beyond the fence is a barren field of dried and dead grass, with billboards set up for passengers to look out. There’s a sign for a cosmetic fad another one for a dental clinic and another for a gynecologists office. Past the field of dead and dried up grass jailed by barbwire and oxidizing posts, overseen by commercial billboards which no one pays any mind—is an abandoned field of appliances: washers, dryers, refrigerators, and freezers. Just beyond the hill which hides this surreal landscape from site, one can hear the rush and call of a motorway in the evening rush hour. A few years ago, the newspapers ran an article about the graveyard of appliances and the gruesome discovery of a little boy who had curled up in a refrigerator and suffocated to death. There was no explanation as to why the child did what he did. Now, as one passes this sole rusted washing machine, the entire scene shifts away from the dimming blue twilight, to an overcast day, complete with a thick fog which has settled over like a shawl. There are little shadows systemically lining the area in rows and columns—every now and then a statue or a monument appears. It is then one realizes: this is a cemetery. In the distance, in solitary ratification, a lone man stands and turns something over on a headstone. He stops and stares—engulfed in his own thoughts of the moment, before wandering off. When one approaches the headstone, they see it was a penny flipped over to heads, and just left there casually. As if playing a game of existential mystery, you turn it to tails and move in your own direction. The fog clears gradually, and when you turn around to inspect where it has gone, you find only the autumnal forest closing up for the winter. In the peripheral is a gardener in his cottage, who patiently watches, tends, and waits for his harvest to show. He suppresses his urges to dig and uproot anything, by checking progress and admiring the rewards of hard work. He’s painfully shy and even on the border of recluse. Yet he admires his hard work, and secretly wishes to talk to his cottage neighbor, whose flowers and a glorious testament to beauty. Much like his garden, this gardener understands the importance of waiting, in order to enjoy the succulent delights of his rewards. The light darkens and dims, and the landscape shifts and bellows like ink in water. Before long you find yourself seated at night in some late night diner, where coffee is brewing, truckers are eating, and the rain is splattering the window. The light bulb above is dim and on the booth table is a cup of black coffee. The waitress is young but uninterested in her job; she’s behind the counter absent mindedly reading a magazine. Across the way in another book is a young woman studying and drinking coffee. The midnight oil is burned by all.

It was during this time I discovered the contemporary French artist: Claude Lazar. Claude Lazars paintings are most famous for depicting common place but menacingly urban landscapes. The menace comes from the lack of population and people found within these landscapes. Instead the subject is object and silence. One is then left wondering when reviewing and admiring a Claude Lazar painting: is the scene set for drama and action, or, is the space vacant and abandoned?

His paintings are detailed and realistic and always give off inclinations of the inhabitants who are only eluded to inhabiting these derelict and abandoned spaces. In one painting, we see the work room of a seamstress or costume designer. To the left is the bust mannequin bare and naked, waiting to model and be sheathed in fabric—be it velvet or silk. The desk is fit with a sewing machine, in front of a window, which overlooks the Parisian streets below. On the right are boxes of fabrics and materials, threads and spindles of string which tie the masterpiece in a web of intricate bondage. On the wall, sketches and designs of dresses are pinned. Each one is elaborate and elegant waiting to be fashioned from pencil, paper, and the imaginary; whereupon they will be stitched and sewn into reality. In another painting we are offered the perspective and glimpse of an artistic studio, fit with garret style studio windows. The place looks a bit musty and disheveled and disorganized, but who are we to judge the artistic process. Outside an open window pane, the buildings across the street are tinted in the blue twilight of an early morning. The work counter is cloaked in shadow and guarded private secrecy—no one can see the work halfway through completion, and that is if it will make completion. If one wishes to see the work of this imaginary artist at work, they need to look to the right wall—but alas the paintings are facing away, their backs turned in bashful prudence and modesty, reflecting the artist’s personality. After all, not all art must be exhibitionist in nature. Sometimes it’s the quiet and the subdued which will always win the heart, over the blatant and obnoxious clichés of nudity and shock value.

In another painting we move from the intimate and interior to the external world. A blackened sky rolls through the cityscape. The scene is set in the back alley of the city, as if we were casually observing the private nature of the backside of buildings. We observe the fire exits, zip up and down, zig and zag down the exterior of the building. The windows are dark or the curtains pulled. On top of the buildings sit old water towers lonely and sentinel. The buildings are only light up by an elusive and unknown source of light, which fends off the incoming storm, but is destined to loose. One can feel the moisture in the air, like the whimper before a wail.

In order to escape the storm we are hurried inside. We find ourselves in an unknown and unassuming kitchen. The floor is checked blue and white, the walls a neutral earthen brown. With great relief we are thankful the door was left open for us, as we find ourselves curiously observing the kitchen. The stove has a kettle on for tea, but no fire has been lit within the old wood burner. The dishes have been recently washed, as the plates sit neatly stacked next to the sink, dry but not put away. The kitchen table with its sole chair is left abandoned, with no hint of its occupant. The copper pots and pans are hanging in their rightful place; and the shelves above the sink are populated by well-organized spices and ingredients. Everything has its place, yet someone is missing. As casual intruders we carry on as the storm has blackened and cut off the outside world. In the sitting room we find a sole lamp sitting on a fireplace mantel, turned on. The curtains for the window are pulled back but there is nothing to be seen outside. The room is warm and painted in the same earthen womb like burrow of the kitchen. Next to the window sits a comfy brown (or orange) armchair. Perhaps the resident in the evening settles down for the night and reads a book by the lamp, while a small fire crackles and snarls in the fireplace. Now would be the most opportune time for a book, as the rain sloshes and smashes against the window, and any outdoor activity is now rendered unadvisable. Yet still there is no sign or inclination of the resident. The light is on, the doors are open, the home is welcoming, but in this menacing silence, the fear of trespassing and being: alone, is unbearable.

I love the detailed Claude Lazar puts into his paintings, every object is painted and depicted with accuracy and loving personal attention. The light filters through—sometimes through windows, sometimes through open doors, sometimes endless down halls. But the menace persists as one feels they are voyeuristically invading the private lives of the absent inhabitants. Yet we explore the nonetheless. Sometimes the scenes are derelict, expressing a character in the wings getting prepared to leave or runaway. A half made bed makes one wonder of a lover sneaking off in the shameful hours of the morning. A shower curtain pulled back and a dripping shower head only eludes the man who had just walked out and returns to his half made bed empty, with no trace of his lover. The beauty of Claude Lazars paintings is we are able to create and draft the narrative, imagine the lives of the people who inhabit these spaces. We imagine the modest painter who hides his work from prying eyes; we can see the seamstress with gnarled knuckles and veiny hands expertly pin and stich the material into something wonderful; her thin lips holding onto the pins with expert care, and professional habit. We can imagine a business man strip his tie and trousers and finally relax in his arm chair in the evening, free from the yoke and calling of business and commerce. We can imagine the kettle whistle and cry with attentive desire as the water is ready and it’s time for tea and everyone always visits the kitchen at that time, as it’s the hearth and heart of the home. The joy is the fact the scene is set or vacant, and we are offered the liberty to narrate and create the story.

Now older I’ve learned to find and enjoy the meditative silence of admiring landscapes. Autumnal landscapes are my favorite, how everything is closing up shop and leaving, and the fiery copper of autumn burning all around. Everything is ripened and harvested, and the fires of autumn nights cannot be compared. To admire the landscape is to look out beyond in the internal and the self-absorbed interior and to admire the external world one has the ability to interact with. No one could ask for much more, and what a pleasure and a joy it is to observe, to walk through, and to admire. If my grandmother taught me one thing: it was to find peace in those meditative moments, when you have the time.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

For more information on Claude Lazar please visit his website: 

http://www.claudelazar.com/