Songs without Words (34 page)

“If the variation is so slight that we can’t see it,” she heard herself ask on the video, “then why make it at all?”

“Because on some level, perhaps subconsciously, your brain detects the imperfection. Like everything in nature, your brain also strives toward symmetry. So when it senses a small enough wobble, it can correct it. Nevertheless, it has detected it, and that creates tension. It creates interest, gets the emotions stirred up.”

“Like in music,” Harper said. “Tension is created by dissonance.”

“Exactly,” Sophie replied. “It’s the same in all art forms. Writing as well. That uneasy juxtaposition creates tension. Without tension, a work of art is flat. It doesn’t engage you.”

Harper remembered that during the interview she had been struck with how thoroughly the two disciplines, math and sculpture, had been fused together in Sophie’s work. It reminded her of comments her father had made while talking of quantum mechanics or higher math where comparisons with ballet, for instance, or music would have been entirely appropriate. Listening to Sophie, it was clear that her art was founded on math and that math was founded on nature and that it all tied together in some mysterious relationship that Harper’s father would have called the Theory of Everything. The Theory of Everything, Harper knew, was a physicist’s pie in the sky.

Another thing Harper had learned from her father was that the laws of physics, as determined by science, were approximations, not the precisions generally assumed by the layperson. The more complex the problem being investigated, the more one had to allow for a wiggle factor. She had always liked the idea that these “laws” and “theories” had problems. They were flawed. Sophie’s sculptures were flawed as well, intentionally, representing the idea that although nature strives toward symmetry, it doesn’t always succeed. Sophie’s work also highlighted the companion idea that the human psyche, when it detects a flaw, if the flaw is not too obvious, converts it to perfection. That was a scary idea. It meant your brain was capable of “seeing” something that wasn’t there or removing something that was there. Visual input, filtered through the mind, was potentially as far removed from reality as something that was simply imagined. This made Harper think of Wilona’s blind grandson and his mind images, about how they might be just as valid as her own images based on sight.

Hilda Perry had once reminded Harper that art was artifice, a trick played on the mind. It was a representation of reality, but it wasn’t reality. Sophie Janssen couldn’t have demonstrated that any clearer. Her intention was to play an eye-mind game with the viewer.

So what is the point of art
, Harper asked herself,
if it is unable to represent reality?

Truth couldn’t be found in art, Harper concluded. Or religion. Or even science. Truth could only be found in nature. And Harper, who had always trusted her heart more than her mind anyway, felt somewhat justified in that.

She gazed at Chelsea, who was watching the television.
I love this woman
, she thought.
I love her absolutely with the truth of nature, and I don’t know what art or science or even language can tell me about that.

“The point of my art,” Sophie Janssen was saying on the monitor, “is to reflect reality as in a distorted mirror, in a way that encourages us to look back from the reflection to the real thing with a renewed sense of curiosity and a keener vision.”

The video ended. Harper couldn’t remember if she had asked Sophie that question, what was the point of art, but thought she probably had. It was a question she had always asked, at least in her mind.

“Wow,” Sarah said. “Who knew there was so much to say about a giant pear? Maybe I should be a sculptor.” Chelsea laughed. “Last week you wanted Mary to teach you to paint.”

“And before that,” Harper said, “you wanted me to teach you to play the piano.”

“So what’s wrong with being good at everything?” Sarah said smugly. “Oh, that reminds me, I have to go.” Sarah leapt out of her chair and headed toward her room. “I’m going to wear that new dress you bought me, Aunt Harper. Mary’s taking me to a gallery tonight. We’re going to a Joan Miró exhibit. He was one of our preeminent surrealists, you know.”

Sarah said this with exaggerated aplomb. Harper assumed she was quoting Mary.

“I wonder what she will end up doing,” Chelsea said when Sarah was gone from the room.

“I don’t know. Something she feels a real passion for, I hope.”

Chelsea took hold of Harper’s foot and massaged her toes. “That film was gorgeous,” she said. “As usual, so beautifully constructed.”

“Thank you. I think she was happy with the way it turned out.”

As Harper laid her head back against the arm of the couch, enjoying the foot massage, the phone rang. She was about to reluctantly pull her foot away from Chelsea to answer when Sarah streaked into the room wearing only a towel and snatched it up. After saying hello, she frowned and then handed the phone to Harper, saying, “It’s for you.”

Harper wondered who Sarah had been expecting as she disappeared into the bathroom.

“Hello?” she said into the receiver, offering up her other foot to Chelsea.

A youthful-sounding man introduced himself as Tom Janssen, the nephew of Sophie Janssen. As soon as Harper heard this, she extricated her foot from Chelsea and sat up.

“I’ve been contacted by a producer at PBS,” Tom said, “about a retrospective of my aunt’s life and work. Your documentary is one of the few video interviews that we’re aware of. And it’s fairly current. I was hoping you might want to collaborate on this project and let them use your footage.”

“Oh, uh,” Harper said, “I’d be honored to do it.”

“That would be great. They’re sort of in a hurry, as you can imagine. They’re going to want to get this on air within the week. I can give the guy your name and number. He’s in San Francisco. You can work out the details with him.”

After hanging up, Harper explained the project to Chelsea, who said, “You’re going to be on PBS! Fantastic.”

“If they like the material,” Harper said cautiously.

“What’s not to like?” Chelsea jumped off the sofa. “I have a feeling, Harper. Once they see this video, they’re going to want to see all of them. Maybe this series you’ve been putting together is destined for PBS, after all. It always did seem like the right place to me.”

“Oh, come on,” Harper said dismissively.

“No, no, seriously. This is your opportunity knocking, Harper!”

Chelsea took Harper’s hand and twirled her around as Sarah emerged in a sleeveless navy blue dress and stockings, looking mature and sophisticated.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“We’re celebrating,” Chelsea said. “The film we just watched, or at least parts of it, are going to be in a PBS special.”

“Oh, wow, that’s wicked awesome! Congratulations.” Sarah hugged her, then headed for the door. “I’m going to wait for Mary outside. See you guys later.”

When Harper turned to look back at Chelsea, she saw that there was a grin on her face.

“We’re alone,” Chelsea said in a whisper.

“So how are we going to finish our game of Clue? We’ve lost our third player.”

“No problem. I can tell you who dunnit.”

“Really?”

Chelsea nodded, looking pleased with herself.“It was Chelsea in the bedroom with a silk scarf.”

Chapter 28

SUMMER, SEVEN YEARS AGO

Eliot reached down to take Harper’s hand and heave her up to the next granite boulder. Her legs were getting tired. A rigorous climb like this would have been a challenge even in her twenties, so she was satisfied with her progress. They were going to make it to the top of Mt. Dana, there was no doubt, and it was going to be exhilarating.

“Only a little further,” Eliot said, consulting his GPS receiver. He sounded breathless. At this elevation, the air was thin. They had always been lowlanders, so they were both struggling. Eliot, tall, lean, a little gaunt, led the way, his boots carefully picking footholds. Harper followed, wiping perspiration from her forehead, admiring the view, which was getting better and better the higher they climbed. Here above the tree line there was still patchy snow in July. The higher they went, the colder it got. If she hadn’t been working so hard, she would definitely have needed a jacket. They were both silent for the remainder of the hike, moving steadily in single file up to the high point of the mountain. When they arrived, they sloughed off their daypacks and surveyed the staggering view of Yosemite stretching out to the west with its smooth granite shoulders and deep-forested crevices.

“This has to be one of the most beautiful places in the world,” Eliot remarked, running a hand through his floppy mop of brown hair.

They were alone at the peak and had passed only one other group on the way up, one of the advantages of hiking here midweek.

“How about lunch?” Harper asked.

They sat on a flat slab of light gray stone with a view of the world stretching out before them and ate their sandwiches. A chilly but welcome wind slowly dried the perspiration on Harper’s neck.
This is magnificent
, she thought, feeling happy and peaceful. When she had finished eating, she stretched out prone, resting her chin on her arms, gazing out across the landscape to the east, down to Highway 395 and Mono Lake, a round splotch of turquoise on a bare volcanic landscape. The only sound was the faint whistle of the wind between boulders. In between gusts of wind, the sun’s heat intensified on the bare skin of her arms and legs, hovering on the edge of burning.

This was their second day at Yosemite. The weather had been perfect for hiking, warm, but not too hot.

Eliot lay nearby on his side, supporting his head with his hand. “There’s an opening in the science department at Chabot College in Hayward,” he said. “I’m thinking of applying.”

Harper, startled, said, “Why? I mean, that would be a step backward, wouldn’t it? From a state university to a city college?”

“Well, obviously, Harper, the point would be to move here, to be with you full time.” He rolled over on his stomach so he could look at her directly. “I think it’s time we built a life together. We should get married.” “Married?” Harper replied, astonished. “Since when do you want to get married? And why? What’s wrong with things the way they are?”

He frowned. “This is no kind of relationship. It was okay for a while, but we’re not kids anymore. Didn’t you always figure that we’d get married someday?”

“No, I didn’t. That’s so conventional. You’re getting old, apparently, Eliot. This is a great thing we have. It’s our thing. It’s what we do. We’re free spirits.”

“Yeah, but you can’t be a free spirit all your life.”

“Why not?”

“A person gets tired. And sentimental and nostalgic. A person wants to put down roots, have some solid footing. Maybe a person wants kids.”

“Kids!” She leapt to her feet. “Eliot, we are definitely not on the same wavelength here. What the hell has happened to you?”

“Conventionality isn’t inherently bad,” he said. “If you think about everybody we were in college with, they’re all married and have kids now. And some of them are actually happy.”

“I can’t believe this,” Harper said.

“I don’t know why you’re surprised. We’ve talked about this before.”

“Yes, in theory. But you’re not talking theory now. You’re talking about moving.”

He sat up, looking disappointed. “So you don’t want me to move?”

To have him always around, to have him there all year long, have to arrange her life around him...The idea horrified her. She wanted her freedom. That was the reason this arrangement had worked for so long. And now he wanted to mess it up. Get married and have kids! She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.