Free The Underpainter by Jane Urquhart Page A

undulating water as I knew Constable had done. I was capable at that time of becoming overwhelmingly sad for no reason, or of experiencing a surge of pleasure so great I would have to run on the beach for an hour in order to return to a state of calm. I was certain I was learning my own heart, my own senses, and perhaps I was. The walls of the house were lined with cedar. There was the fragrance of that and the feel of polished pine boards beneath my bare feet. A trail of sand from the beach followed me everywhere, as if I were shedding exhausted cells and replacing them with new ones, electric with sensitivity. In the mornings a breeze from the lake and a rectangle of sun moved through the window and crossed the floor towards my bed to wake me. The first thing I heard was the long exhalation of the breakers as they touched the offshore sandbars then crawled up the beach.
    I remember quite clearly how I would lay out my paper and sketchbooks on the table of a room overlooking the lake, how I would gather my pencils and brushes like bouquets in my fists and place them in jars all over the window sills. The sound of the lake was always in the rooms I walked through, and sun andthe trembling shadows of poplar leaves. There was still a child in me who appeared only when I was alone, and often I found myself playing in the sand below the verandah steps or collecting interesting pebbles near a shelf of limestone at the east end of our lakefront property.
    I was almost happy.
    I must have spent some time examining my body in mirrors because I can recollect it distinctly, the long, tight arms and legs, the smooth, browned skin, and the dark mass of hair on my head and at my groin.
    It is the memory of that previous, younger body that causes the shock in me now, each night when I undress for bed.
    Despite my commitment to seclusion, I visited the China Hall one day shortly after our arrival. I was anxious to see George, eager to describe my time in New York to one who I knew would be a receptive audience. It was early evening; the store had just closed for the day.
    I stood outside the large window and for a moment looked through the glass. How inflated the term “China Hall” seemed now that I was gazing into its interior. It was not much wider than the cigar store farther down the street and only half again as long. The shelves that covered the walls from floor to ceiling were crammed with every kind of imported and domestic china; tea sets, dinner sets, chamber pots, foot baths, pitchers, spittoons, ornamental figures, basins, vases, jardinieres, and bowls. Here and there amidst the painted china I noticed the dull sheen of a silver-plated serving tray or candlestick, as George had decided to sell these items as well. The whole effect was rather like a busier than usual impressionist painting, but one executedin richer, more vivid hues than the customary pastels. In retrospect, I would say that Vuillard’s wine and mauve colours might have accurately caught the atmosphere of the place. I can imagine that particular French painter adding the figure of a china merchant to his rendering of the interior, that and the collection of shadows that gathered at the back in the spot behind the counter where George often sat at his turntable, one small lamp illuminating a piece of china he was decorating.
    I watched my summer friend for a moment or two before knocking on the door to get his attention. He was sitting on a tall stool, cradling a large piece of china in his lap — a compote or covered dish of some kind. On the counter in front of him I could see little pots of enamel paint and three or four delicate brushes. He was alternating between running his hands over the shape of the compote and reaching tentatively for a brush that he would then hold in his fingers for a few moments before returning it to the counter. A book and a magazine lay open to the left of the brushes. Behind him, on a shelf, were several large pieces of white