"Still Life in Red" by Joyce Hinrichs and Jean Sweeney

Still Life in Red

A novel by

Joyce Hinrichs and Jean Sweeney

Still Life in Red

Copyright 2012 by Joyce Hinrichs and Jean Sweeney

All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover design by Matt Hinrichs

Smashwords Edition

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The authors dedicate Still Life in Red to

Our parents for letting us read as much as we wanted, even at bedtime

The serendipitous similarities between Sedona, Arizona, and the south of France

Arles, France for preserving the spirit of Vincent Van Gogh

Jean dedicates this book to her daughter, Jill, for her artistic spirit and intuition, which seem to skip a generation.

Joyce dedicates this book to her husband, Ron, who celebrated her writing with her even though he could not understand for a second its appeal.

Acknowledgements

The authors acknowledge the following sources for providing many hours of browsing: http://www.vggallery.com

This website is endorsed by the Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.

Pickvance, Ronald. Van Gogh in Arles. Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1984.

Chapter 1

Starry Night

Starry Night Over the Rhone

Oil on canvas

72.5 x 92.0 cm.

Arles: September 1888

Paris: Musée d'Orsay

Hope Bloom propped her fuzzy-slippered feet on the closest patio chair, sipped a steaming mug of coffee and waited for the sun to rise. Two swallows later she had her reward.

The sun peeked over the roof of the second-story condo and lit up the surrounding desert, famous for its red-rocked formations. The rock that always reminded her of a castle tower, complete with turrets, glowed scarlet as if illuminated from the coals of an interior bonfire. Each pinon pine and scrub juniper around the rock’s base stood out in stark contrast for a few fleeting minutes. Before long the desert simply looked dry and dusty, rocks paling to the rusty red that Sedona tourist brochures described in such gushing detail.

Hope, lounging back in the chair, closed her eyes as she waited for part two of her morning ritual. Her mind wandered, as it tended to do; disturbing images and chaotic emotions crowded her thoughts. Endless darkness, pain and terror. Suffocating red desert dust. Can’t breathe. Can’t move. Knife-edged rocks cutting into a still body. So much blackness. Cold. Very cold. Thunderous noise. A soaring wall of foaming water. Lifeless eyes staring into angry gray-edged clouds, the thud of horse’s hooves smashing directly overhead.

The sound of clattering hooves echoed in the still morning air and Hope’s eyes popped open. Hot coffee cascaded from her tilted mug and splashed down into the neckline of her robe. Dabbing madly at the spill with her robe sash, she shook her head, vowing never again to watch TV programs involving paranormal nightmares. At least not just before bedtime. She returned her attention to the wash.

Right on schedule, a tall man on horseback cantered through the dry wash below the castle rock, dust rising in his wake, to disappear through the pines and over a rise. Hope smiled to herself as she watched his tight little ass, in equally tight jeans, skimming the saddle of the milky white horse that gleamed like an opal. She sighed, fanning herself with a copy of morning edition of The Arizona Republic.

Hope had become a voyeur innocently, more or less. Several months earlier she’d had minor foot surgery, the result of dance injuries dating back to ballet company days. All dancers have gnarly feet and dance through the pain. Disfigured feet are part of the joy and day-to-day business that is dance. The shooting pains, constant throbbing and eventual limping, however, had persuaded Hope to schedule surgery. During weeks of enforced inactivity—arranged around spring break—she’d had time to actually stop and smell the coffee, on her own little deck, in view of some of the most breathtaking scenery the southwest had to offer.

That was when the Cantering Cowboy Guy had come into her life. He was now an everyday occurrence to be anticipated gleefully, fantasized over from the patio or, during the coldest mornings, from the living room window. He wore those tight jeans, scuffed boots, a grubby Stetson and, now that the weather had turned warm, a white t-shirt. Always white. When Hope had first seen him in March, he’d sported a red plaid flannel shirt and navy down vest. In Hope’s daydreams, however, whatever he was wearing was in a pile by her bed.

The mystery man had kept her occupied during the non-weight-bearing phase of convalescence. She felt a little like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, though, unlike Jimmy, she spied with binoculars only once.

All right, twice.

Hope! Want to split a bagel? The voice of her condo-mate reached her through the partly-open French doors.

Of course, she called back.

Dottie Stout nudged the door open with her hip and settled into the chair formerly occupied by Hope’s feet. Dottie was already showered and dressed for work in jeans and t-shirt, her short red curls still damp. The plate she placed on the table held a toasted sesame-seed bagel, cut in half and loaded with cream cheese. Hope helped herself to half.

Yummy, she said through a mouthful. Thanks.

Dottie nodded as she swallowed a bite. So, tell me, did dream boy gallop past today? Tip his hat to you? Decide to ride under our balcony and spirit you away?

Yes, my cowboy rode by as usual. I swear, some day I’m going to stay right here and keep watch until I see him come back.

Well, don’t drink coffee or you’ll have to take bathroom breaks. What does Officer Will think about his competition?

He’s offered to wear a Stetson and boots to bed, as if that would actually be exciting. Or possible. Will Brownley worked for the Sedona Police Department and he’d also suggested (in jest?) handcuffs and a badge (pinned where exactly?) in the bedroom. He was quite the accommodating boyfriend.

I envy your dilemma, Dottie smiled, thinking, no doubt, about her husband Marty, on a tour of duty in Afghanistan. Marty had about eight more months to serve overseas, hence the sharing of Hope’s condo, which was downright handy, considering the tourist-inflated cost of living in Sedona. Now Hope no longer needed to wait tables in her spare time to make ends meet. And Dottie had company while she worried about Marty.

I’d better jump in the shower, Hope said, tossing Dottie the newspaper. And then off to the salt mine. Dottie opened the paper with a slight scowl, attempting to ignore news of terrorists, car bombs and violence in far-off places. She settled on the arts and leisure section as Hope went inside.

The salt mine was actually Garnet Canyon School for the Arts, a private school where Hope taught dance, mostly ballet, and Dottie taught sculpture/mixed-media and served as Dean of Students. They had their share of spoiled rich kids, but also plenty of immensely talented scholarship students and townies. They worked with a veritable rainbow of colorful and memorable characters, young and old, so there was rarely a dull moment. Hope and Dottie thoroughly enjoyed working with the students, as well as the camaraderie they felt with the talented, but sometimes eccentric, artistic team that comprised the Garnet staff.

Although the regular school year—with a student body of several hundred—included both academic courses and art classes, now, during the Summer Intensive Workshops in June, a much smaller student body concentrated solely on producing a charity performance. The atmosphere was very laid back. On this first day of the session, Dottie and Hope were on the road early for a staff meeting, the topic of which was The Performance. Students would not be arriving until afternoon.

Where do all these people come from? Hope asked Dottie, beginning her usual traffic harangue. Hope’s vintage red Jeep joined the crush of traffic from West Sedona, a long queue waiting to turn from highway 89A onto route 179. For such a fancy place, home of celebrities past and present, the names of the main roads made you think you were in the cornfields.

They come from places real people can afford, Dottie reminded Hope. Misti has to trek in from Cottonwood. Tracy from the Village of Oak Creek. Plenty of people I know commute all the way from Flagstaff. We should be grateful. Take time to enjoy the scenery. She pantomimed an exaggerated gaze at the surrounding galleries, restaurants and shops.

And Hope was grateful, generally, because few thirty-something Sedona worker bees could afford to buy or rent in town. Her two-bedroom, second floor condo with its intermittent plumbing problems was possible only because she supplemented her teaching salary with a military widow’s pension, a roommate, and prior to Dottie’s residence, a second job. The friendship and emotional support they offered each other was an added benefit.

Might as well live in Phoenix, the commute is getting so long, Hope grumbled again, waiting to turn left into the tiny parking lot of Garnet Canyon School for the Arts. She was thankful that students at Garnet were not allowed to bring cars to campus.

Garnet Canyon was a sprawling Southwestern-style gem on the banks of burbling Oak Creek, surrounded by ancient sycamores in twisted sculptural shapes, huge trunks peeling strips of creamy white bark. The building itself had started as a large private residence and had been added onto several times over the past fifty years or so to better serve the needs of its students. The main beige stucco building housed offices and classrooms, with two small dance/drama studios and numerous practice rooms for vocal and instrumental music. Dorms were in a separate block-and-glass building, painted Sedona red in a misguided attempt to blend in. The art annex was actually a large cottage that had served as a guesthouse back in the day. Now it was quite tumbledown, and the painters, sculptors and potters were free to madly paint, sculpt and potter to their heart’s content, with a minimum of cleanup. The school’s stage space resided in a building that housed summer stock performances in a former life, the Garnet Playhouse, little more than a barn. But Hope and Dottie loved the whole grubby place, leaky roof and all.

Want to take bets on the performance theme? Dottie asked. I’m thinking Geraldo will insist on something Native American, as he usually does.

I was thinking that, too, Hope admitted. But if the theme was urban-related, your kids could weld up a storm.

"Wouldn’t that be great? Something like Cats. Dogs, maybe!"

"Let’s make it southwestern—Javelinas, perhaps. Or Gila Monsters! The possibilities are endless!"

Hope parked her Jeep in the meager shade of a sycamore and they clambered out, laughing their way through the side door and going directly to the conference room where two summer compatriots were already deep in discussion, huddled over a notepad. Two more diverse partners in crime could not have been imagined.

Misti Simon was a tall, cool blond of indeterminate age, possibly late forties. Her gleaming pale hair was caught into a long braid over one shoulder. She tended towards gauzy skirts and skimpy t-shirts, today’s being a sort of ochre color, probably dyed by hand with native flora. A heavy necklace of amber and turquoise hung around her neck and drippy matching earrings fell almost to her shoulders. Whatever her age, the woman was beautiful in that striking, confident way of blonds. And this one was no over-age Barbie doll; she was quite brilliant, both as an academic and as a painter. As usual, Hope felt like a small brown sparrow in Misti’s presence. With her own mousy brown hair pulled straight back into a ponytail, Hope again thought about having highlights added. She never seemed to get around to it.

On the other side of the table was Geraldo Reyes, who was in charge of theatre arts (British spelling preferred) and voice. Short, slender, he carried himself with the excessive dignity he wanted people to attribute to an aristocratic Spaniard. Call him Gerry and you’d be bitch-slapped. Hope had glimpsed a piece of his mail once, addressed to an Irving Shapiro. In show business secrets were plentiful; Geraldo was full of great Broadway and Hollywood stories, all based on other folk’s secrets.

What are you two up to? Dottie asked, suspicious. Talking Misti into your latest indigenous peoples performance theme? When we staged your ‘Big Rez Lament’ last year, it was a hell of a time constructing a decent hogan. She reddened behind her many freckles, reminding Hope of Pippi Longstocking, minus the pigtails.

Not up to a thing.

No, nothing. Misti flipped her notebook over and placed her folded hands on top of a blank page.

Coffee’s ready. Everyone want some? Hope grabbed several mugs.

Herbal tea for me, Misti said, bringing forth an anonymous-looking teabag.

Drinks poured, they settled around the old oak conference table, talking about the unnaturally dry weather and which talented spring semester students had signed up for the summer session. The appointed meeting hour came and went. Dottie glanced at her watch.

Let’s start brainstorming already, and get this meeting over and done with, Hope proposed, just as the final member of the committee breezed through the door, preceded by the faint aroma of Chanel infused with cigarette smoke.

Dahlings, you will please forgive the lateness of myself. My little Ziggy was not well this morning and required the long walk.

Good morning, Madame, they chorused. Every art academy had a Madame, pronounced mah-dahm. Sofia Anastasia Chekhov was a piano and instrumental music diva of advanced years, with wild hair dyed a lackluster black and clothes tending toward equally wild jungle prints. Today, a few crumbs of toast—scone?—decorated her ample bosom.

She snapped open her tiger-decorated tote bag and removed a long rhinestone-studded cigarette holder, inquiring with raised eyebrows, You will mind smoking?

Yes, we mind!

No smoking!

Please Madame, have an herbal tea instead.

They went through the same routine before every meeting. Hope and Dottie had once made up a hilarious secret background for Madame, starting with her birth in Omaha as Maisie Pulaski, daughter of the town baker, who ran away at age fourteen to become a vaudevillian. They’d polished off a bottle of the local red wine that particular evening.

Madame flared her nostrils in feigned disgust, but accepted a cup of steaming peppermint tea from Misti, giving her cheek a little pat in thanks. "Merci beaucoup." Madame’s accent, which came and went, was somewhat Russian with an occasional slide into semi-French.

Dottie, as acting summer session director, cleared her throat and announced, Let’s each write down one theme idea and discuss from there. Hope nodded in agreement.

Madame tapped her empty cigarette holder on the scarred wooden table and declared, I feel that a European theme is in order. She glared at Geraldo, never happy with his Native American penchant. Perhaps from the glory days of St. Petersburg. Her eyes were unfocused, on a point over the doorway.

Europe. Brilliant idea, Geraldo exclaimed, seeming terribly sincere.

Hope and Dottie stared at him in utter surprise, waiting for the punch line.

No, really, he continued. Misti and I were talking earlier . . .

Ahh, Hope said. The plot thickens.

Anyway, Geraldo gave Hope a sweet smile, as you know, Misti’s master’s thesis involved Van Gogh and she’s quite the authority. Let’s theme the performance around Van Gogh’s time in Arles, France. This is a school for the arts, you know. He looked down his long nose at Hope. She poked him with her pen.

Misti? What do you have in mind exactly? Dottie was quickly sketching sunflowers and bendy cypress trees on her notepad.

Misti ran her fingers over the amber and turquoise at her throat and hesitated before answering. As you know, Van Gogh was a genius with quite a tortured soul. The works he produced during his months in Arles are unsurpassed, despite being unappreciated at the time.

Like the sunflowers? Hope offered. I don’t know much more than that about Van Gogh.

The sunflowers were the least of it. They were painted merely to decorate his home in anticipation of Gauguin’s visit. But yes, the sunflowers. Also, many portraits, landscapes, and quite a few still lifes. He’d always wanted to work in the South of France, specifically Arles in Provence.

And how do you see this idea adapted to our summer workshop stage? Dottie asked, her fingers flying over the notepad, adding waving fields of wheat and what looked suspiciously like a severed ear.

In our small space and short time we can focus on Van Gogh himself. The drama students will appreciate the violence and the strong emotions involved in being away from familiar surroundings, trying to express oneself through art. Misti’s fingers never left the amber and turquoise beads.

Dottie’s doodles were looking more and more like a stage set, with sunflowers near the bottom, stratifying upwards into wheat fields and shrubbery, ending in a whirl of stars. Hope was always impressed with Dottie’s spontaneous creativity. Geraldo? Is this stage-able?

But of course. And I’ve been thinking about tunes. He started belting out his own version of Everything’s Coming up Sunflowers. Picture poor Vincent turning away from his easel to wow the audience with this showstopper. I see Kevin McCabe in the role. Kevin was a darling curly-haired blond junior with a huge voice. I think Ethel Merman would approve. I worked with her once, you know. I was very young.

We know, they all said in unison.

But a musical spoof? Dottie wanted to know, putting her pencil down.

Misti agreed that I could have fun with the vocals if I supported her idea. Come on, everyone will love it. Geraldo flapped his hands in a rare show of swish.

Hope? All eyes turned toward her.

Drawn into the idea in spite of herself, Hope enthused, "Now I’m imagining a kind of Martha Graham-esque piece, like Appalachian Spring, only south-of-France peasant style. With the same type of costume, but much more balletic choreography."

You ain’t no Martha Graham, Geraldo quipped.

She ignored the comment. Lindsay and Meesha would love a crack at helping to choreograph. Lindsay and Meesha were her dependable workaholic seniors. Hope could see whole sections of movement in her mind, and she shook her head to make them stop. Madame? Any feeling for the music?

Madame sipped her tea, not noticing the dribble off the lip of the mug, a dribble that now joined the breakfast crumbs on her monkey-and-rainforest patterned blouse. She gestured again with the cigarette holder. I hear . . . she paused dramatically. I hear music in a minor key, very full of passion. Is not a problem. Not for my students.

Then I think we have a framework for our workshop performance, Dottie said, slapping her notepad shut. Misti, I know you’ve been quite obsessed—I mean knowledgeable—about Van Gogh’s life for quite a while, but why suggest turning it into a drama at this point in time?

Misti smiled, again reaching for her necklace. A very interesting question, especially the way you’ve worded it, Dottie. I’ve been rather taken lately with parallels between Arles of the late 19th century and present-day Sedona. It’s been preoccupying my thoughts and my art.

"Huh?" Hope thought to herself. What parallels? she said aloud. Again Misti was making her feel like an art klutz.

Oh . . . starry skies . . . irises . . . the wind . . . If only you make yourself aware, the connections are all around us. Misti got up to leave.

The wind! Oh, my heavenly days, we can finally use the freaking wind machine! My students will weep for joy! Geraldo grinned as he leaned back in his chair and then peered down the hall. He continued to look and smile.

They all leaned to see what he was peering at. At the end of the hallway was Garnet’s maintenance man, Tracy, changing a light bulb from atop a stepladder.

You naughty boy, Geraldo, Madame pursed her lips and shook her finger playfully. But that is a very nice view of the young man, is it not? I would not mind that man and his tools in my bed, no, not at all.

Madame, you are quite the senior-citizen slut, countered Geraldo.

You could also be fired for your comments, Dottie reminded her.

Young people today are such prudes, Madame sniffed, tossing her unused cigarette holder in her tote as she pushed herself to her feet. Always worrying about the harassment. Why, in my day, on the Left Bank in Paris, we made love and then we made art, washed down with cheap champagne. And then we made more love. Sometimes we were naked all day. One time I will tell you about being painted by a famous artist. I do not mean on canvas. She ran her hands suggestively down her hips and swept out the door in a cloud of Chanel.

The afternoon had been a hectic one, checking new students into dorms, issuing workshop schedules and laying down the law to couples in love. They hadn’t had a campus pregnancy in several years and planned to keep it that way. Hope shuddered to think what would happen if Madame’s Left Bank morality was customary. They’d explained the following day’s activities, assigned assistant roles to returning seniors—breaking up a few disagreements along the way—and left the little dears in the custody of their house parents.

Dottie and Hope were now back on the deck, diving into a veggie pizza and a bottle of the local red, which was darn close to Chianti. The blazing sun had retreated behind the rocks, leaving the air cool enough to lounge in comfort.

What do you think about the Van Gogh theme? Hope ventured. I knew Misti was a big fan, but this was totally unexpected.

"Maybe we should read her thesis. I believe it was entitled something like The Psyche of Van Gogh or Vincent: Nut Case or Simply Hypoglycemic?"

Hope laughed and choked on a piece of olive, necessitating a large gulp of wine. I liked your scenery sketches. Misti will be in Van Gogh heaven, having her students paint all those gigantic sunflowers and so forth. You could fabricate huge metal trees. Metal sculpture is your specialty, after all.

Well, I considered that, but I’m afraid that the dancers and actors might impale themselves on the leaves.

Good point. More wine? Hope topped off their glasses. I keep vaguely remembering some Provencal artist who sketched folk dancers of that era. At least I hope it was of that era. I’m going to Google him tonight and check it out. The images were wonderful, as I recall, and will inspire my choreography, such as it is.

Your choreography will be terrific, once you go through your self-doubt stage.

God willing, Hope said. The sun had set completely, a cool wind was whispering through the pines and stars had begun to appear. OK, now I see one of Misti’s Arles-Sedona parallels. Just look at those stars. She could actually envision how Van Gogh’s Starry Night had come about. Or maybe