When I left Europe to come here, I had already been seduced.
I had read tons of books about the South Seas, Stevenson, Melville and Gauguin. I had studied the latter’s paintings in France and from costly replica prints. I had dreamed awake my will to paint and to learn to see the elements.
I first visited Tahiti and Hiva Oi, paid my tribute to the French painter, by visiting his tomb. Then, I sailed away to Maupiti, “the Untouched Island,” where the local families offer hospitality quite apart from the hotels.
Some still come here on holiday looking for a lost Paradise, enticed by the clever and glittering copy of the marketers. For myself, I came here to learn to see: the intense blue of the sky, the green of the volcanic island, the turquoise of the atholl bay all around, the coral reef, the coloured fish, people fishing, and cutting coconut.
In Tahiti, Paul Gauguin made himself known for his non-conformist lifestyle. Romantic times, cruel times: missionaries, colonialists, adventurers, all mingled here, trying to leave their marks on these green islands floating in the blue. Artists came to leave all behind, and get lost in elemental beauty.
I am content with being here, and breathing, looking until the secrets of nature allow me in.
Every morning, I get up before sunrise and head to the highest point of the island. From there, I see the huts, cabins and low constructions where locals live. I see the bay and its dappled cloak of green, turquoise, azure, blue. The clouds above are quick to shift, to scatter around or to gather. They range from strings of gauze to dark heaps that bring about the tempest on the island.
In France, this island is called a “territoire d’outre-mer.” Once here, you realize it is replete with spells and magic of its own, even if modernity hasn't left the place completely untouched. Yet, the ocean is still the great mother Faumea, origin of all pleasure and life.
***
This morning the son of my hostess, a twelve-year-old boy, lingered on, as his mother asked me if I was willing to teach him to paint.
We hopped uphill with easel, canvases and brushes; he was much quicker and nimble than me. From there we surveyed the lay of the land, the range of blues. I taught Alika to distinguish them by nuance and name. He listened and repeated. Then, when instructed, he lay them on the canvas with a spatula. He looked intently at the horizon and produced accurate gradations of colour.
As the sun grew big and powerful in the sky, its light streaming onto the ocean, Alika and I were absorbed in our painting. We painted on for a long stretch, when suddenly, we heard somebody cry. Alika dropped his brush and looked around. I put all the equipment in its case.
“Enough for today.”
As soon as I pronounced the words, a woman in her forties came striding towards us, her arms outstretched, her face a mask of sorrow.
Alika asked her what the matter was. She ignored him and turned to me. “Can the white woman help me?”
“It depends.” I said and waited for an explanation.
“The wind has taken my flower. It carried it far away.”
I stared at her in confusion.
“Pardon?”
“The big wind was jealous.”
I looked at Alika for help.
He winked at me and said: “We shall give you a new flower, one the wind can’t take away.” I looked from one to the other.
Alika had the woman sit down on the rock and told me to take out my brushes again. I complied. The woman, whose name was Hoku, sat in silence, with folded arms, sighing. “She needs a painting of a big, beautiful flower. If we give her that, she will be all right,” Alika said.
I asked her what her flower looked like.
She thought for a while, then she said: “Orange, with long petals like hearts.” I set out to work. From time to time, she peeped at the work in progress and suggested corrections. I did as she asked. She kept on adding new details.
“There are birds and butterflies in its petals, like a big nest for everybody,” she said. In the meanwhile, Alika mixed my colours and cleaned the brushes.
“It’s a night flower,” the woman said. “It opens up at moonlight.”
I added a big moon in the right upper corner of the canvas.
“Here,” she said, pointing to the spot behind the flower, “there is the ocean with a sailing boat.” I added the sailing boat on the ocean waves.
“And up there, there’s a star.”
I added that too.
When she said it was all, the woman had a look and chuckled to herself in visible pleasure. I explained it took a while for the paint to dry up. She nodded and waited, humming a tune to herself.
Alika asked her how her sons were. She said they were away. Then he offered her some coconut.
Now I could see her beautiful black eyes shine in the noon light and her smooth brow. She was relaxed and even joked with Alika.
I watched her depart with her wrapped up canvas under her arm, smiling. She turned twice and waved. I watched her irregular gait until she grew smaller and disappeared down below the hilltop.
“Does she really have sons?” I asked Alika.
“She had two. She left us when her sons and husband died out at sea.”
“You did well, you knew what to do,” I said.
“I just know she needs her dreams,” Alika said.
“We all do,” I said.
Alika nodded.
We then walked down hill to the beach and swam into the crystal sea.
