دانلود رمان انگلیسی “هنر نگاه به گذشته” – یک نقاش، یک دغدغه، و بازپس‌گیری نگاه

Every morning I descend the stairs from my bedroom and there she is: me, at twenty-three. She has dark hair, strewn with flowers. She is wearing a blue woollen waistcoat with wooden buttons, the one I sewed from fabric bought at Capital Iron. Even if you didn’t know me then, you’d suspect I was a poet. I remember the mornings I’d begin the descent to the kitchen and stop after two stairs, sitting heavily in front of the portrait, too tired to proceed. In those years, with three small children, I was always tired. I didn’t sleep well and often I’d lie awake for hours, thinking about the day ahead, the days past. I thought a lot about the painter who brought the portrait as a gift to my daughter when she was born. I remembered vividly the first time we met. There was a gallery on East Saanich Road, off McTavish Road, Utley’s Gallery, and I’d been invited to an opening of a Limners exhibition. The Limners were a group of Victoria artists, brought together in the 1960s with shared interests and aspirations; some of them were close friends, working in collaboration. I knew a couple of the artists through my friendship with Robin and Sylvia Skelton. The Skeltons hosted parties at their big house on Victoria Avenue and I remember a few of the Limners in regular attendance. For the Utley’s opening, I asked a friend if he’d like to join me for the evening and we drove farther out the peninsula for the reception. I wore my black skirt with peacocks appliquéd around the hem, a black leotard, and my brother’s faded Levi’s jacket. I was finishing my degree at the University of Victoria and I was planning to travel to Ireland once classes finished. When we entered the gallery, a ramshackle building with rooms on two levels, the first person I encountered was Sylvia Skelton. She took my hand and said, “You must come and see your portrait!” My portrait? No Limner had painted me, not that I knew of, but Sylvia had my hand and was leading me down some stairs to a room hung with many paintings and drawings by Myfanwy Pavelic of an elegant young woman, long-limbed, both naked and clothed; I knew that wasn’t me. For a time I’d lived on Ardmore Drive, sharing a friend’s family summer home, and at night we’d walk by Myfanwy’s studio, lit up, and we knew she was working. Tall trees surrounded her house and studio, making things even darker; the glow from her windows in the night sky was entrancing. An artist at work! Maybe she was working on these, which were beautiful. (Her iconic portrait of Pierre Trudeau was still in the future.) “There,” said Sylvia, “there you are.” And on the wall was a small painting of a girl in a hat. In my memory the hat was green. Or maybe it was red. It wasn’t me and yet it was, in a way; it was my head, my hair, my face. Someone gave me a glass of wine and I stood close to the painting, looking at it in wonder. “Meet the painter,” Sylvia was saying, and I turned to see Jack. I turned to see Jack. I turn now to see Jack in almost every room of my house. Others might note his paintings on the walls, but I see his eyes, fierce in their observation. I see his grey hair smoothed back, his beard, his sturdy build. I am looking out from the canvas, the paper, the places where he drew me, painted me, and I see him taking me in. Was I taken in? I was.