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112 pages, Paperback
Published February 16, 2023
Il Mondo Nuovo di Giandomenico Tiepolo
The New World - Alan Smith
https://alansmithartist.com/
He nodded to his wife and made some noise in the back of his throat, a noise that might have been in agreement of what his wife had said about the walk doing him some good, but might just as easily have been something else altogether. She was always so cheery and so positive. It was her strength and she showed him the angels in the world, the angels that he might not have noticed without her.



You have to spend time with a painting to really understand it. That’s also what the old artist thinks. People in galleries – watch them flitting from one picture to the next. They confuse looking with seeing, spending so little time on any individual picture that they miss what the artist wanted to show them. Sometimes there are benches arranged in the centre of the gallery floor. Old men sit there waiting patiently for their wives to be done with looking; or women by themselves sit there, clasping their gallery guides in one hand, pens poised over notebooks filled with small spidery writing and their eyes fixed on one work only, and they are at least trying to see.
Once there was a young woman there, sitting on one of the wooden benches, small and pretty and the sun in her hair. He sat down beside her, close enough he could breathe in the scent of her. He looked to where she looked. If he remembers right it was a blue painting by Yves Klein, a piece of something eternal, and she was lost in the looking, as though she was in the blue or the blue was in her. He took her hand in his – or he imagined he did, for these things are never so simple or so easy. And like that they were adrift. She smelled of patchouli – did I say that already?
Her name is Olive – Livvy to her friends. He notices the slim long fingers of her hands. And the sun in her hair – didn’t his wife have hair like that once? – and the blue in her eyes. The eternal is never really eternal. It is a failure of language.
She was gone for longer than he thought it would take and he missed her, felt suddenly how alone he was in the busy station. Maybe it was his wife he missed, then. He looked up and saw Livvy from a distance and he knew she did not feel watched. She had her hair loose and she took one finger and caught a wisp of her hair and tucked it behind one ear. He snatched for breath, tucked the memory of that moment into his waistcoat pocket.
Sometimes, it is true, a wife thinks she knows her husband, even though he is taciturn and keeps his thoughts wrapped up like doves in a conjuror’s cloths and only sets them free when he is sure he is not watched or when he has practiced the trick enough for it to be easy.
What he does not say is that it is something his wife does sometimes when her hair is not pinned up from her face, something he saw her do when she was just a girl sitting on a bench in a gallery staring into the blue – looking for meaning or hope or love. It was what caught his eye and he snatched for breath then and sat down beside her wanting to put into words what he had just seen her do, for he knew she had done it unawares, as Livvy had; unaware of how small but exquisitely beautiful a thing it was.
“Like this,’ she says and does it for him.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘but far off and not as though you are seen.’
Maybe it is not so beautiful when given as a performance but must be something done unawares. Or it must be something illicit and stolen.
He marks the days off on his calendar. Two more before Livvy is to visit. From his studio window he sees a bird at the feeder in the garden. Then two, then five. Squabbling with each other. Starlings, he thinks. Ugly and beautiful in equal measure, the sleek pugilists of the bird feeder, their feathers all oil-slick blue and rainbows.