Chapter 9.2 - The Blended World

There were so many people in the room! The warmth of the fireplace, the large gathering and the champagne rushed the blood to Claire’s cheeks, making her look a little less poised than her professional Claire persona would usually allow, and a lot more human. The crew had brought additional lighting to make up for the fact that the old house was a little dark during winter. The glimmer of the old crystal chandeliers, the clinking of glasses and the gentle hum of the conversation blended together into a pleasantly monotonous rhythm that soothed Claire into a sleepy state. 

If you turn on a light in a room full of mirrors after a while you get turned around and start wondering which one of the countless identical glows is the real one, but you got it all wrong: original or reflected, all light is real light. What you mean is which one is the lights’ original source.

All around the gathering the real protagonists of the story, Claire’s emotions, were on display. Every painting depicted a different state of mind but they all contained Claire’s soul, like every shard of a broken mirror reflects the whole image.

She stood there, in the middle of the crowd, a little taken aback by this strange collective self-portrait, and by the bewildered realization that there was another spirit in there too - the original light source, the soul of reality. 

The more she looked at this unexpected guest the more it became clear that there was no Claire, or wind, or stars, or feelings, just an endless series of reflections of this eternal soul in all the different mirrors of existence, in force, in matter and in spirit.  The reverberations of its original spark were still propagating in the mundane aspects of being, building creation out of nothing under her very eyes.

“That’s a very powerful image, Claire,” one of the guests approached her, pointing at the painting with the water lilies. “A little dark, perhaps,” she continued.

“You never mentioned us,” Grandmother whispered in her ear.

“You know, my grandmother used to say the same thing,” Claire smiled and guided her guest towards the painting to discuss it up close.

Claire had learned two things in art school, things which came in handy now and made her look cultured and profound without having to express any actually meaningful thought. The first thing she had learned was that if you’re able to describe your art in words you shouldn’t waste time and energy trying to produce it: the whole point of art is to express those things beyond the realm of normal communication for which there are no predefined concepts. The second thing she learned was that if one didn’t manage to articulate an intelligent description of what the artifact was supposedly about, one was usually relegated to the dust bin of aspiring wannabes not to be taken seriously. Her lack of verbal skills had plagued her through all her years in art school, so upon entering the grown up world she had made it her life’s purpose to learn this essential ingredient of social competence: the art of eloquent non-communication. After many years of practice she was finally fluent in its language of similes and metaphors which ran circles around themselves without relating to the subject at all and she could talk for hours about absolutely nothing without getting tired or being at a loss for words. Nobody in the room wanted to hear her talk about her feelings, she knew that, that’s why she had painted them in the first place, so she regaled her guest with a detailed conceptual analysis of the piece, reminiscent of the talks she used to give when she was working as a gallery curator.

The guest listened to the presentation graciously and with well crafted attention, thus revealing herself as a sophisticated conversation partner, and offered back intelligent comments about nothing which made perfect sense in context. 

“I’m just getting a feeling that you’re starting to enjoy this,” Grandfather whispered in her other ear.

“You know,” Claire continued talking to the guest, eager to keep her promise to her grandmother, “my grandfather was a passionate art collector.”

“I was what?” Grandfather frowned, puzzled.

“He encouraged me to pursue creative expression ever since I was a little child,” Claire continued.

“If by encouraging creative expression you mean teaching you how to grow a decent tomato, then yes,” Grandfather countered.

“So, you were raised by your grandparents?”

“Yes.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why was that?”

Claire hesitated trying to find an answer and decided to evade the question as it felt too personal.

“Families are different. I had an enchanted childhood growing up here, I am very blessed in that respect.” She smiled to the memories of her childhood, to her old friend, the oak tree, to her grandparents’ presence and to this land filled with the spirit of life.

“No doubt,” the guest responded politely, secretly wondering which part of this enchanted childhood had inspired the dark pool in the painting.

Claire was so absorbed in the excitement of the large social event that she barely felt the hand on her shoulder and was surprised when she turned around to find herself face to face with the tall man. He smiled and placed a weird piece of jewelry in her hair, something that didn’t look made by human hands at all and glowed with its own inner light. 

“Is that a family heirloom?” the guest brought Claire back to the room. She was staring at her hair. “It is very unusual.”

Claire instinctively reached to feel the metal of the hair pin with her fingers. It was still warm and responded to the touch of her fingers with something that felt like a kiss.

“A gift from my father,” she smiled, compelled to reach for the strange jewel again, but half way through the thought she remembered what her grandmother had taught her about preening in public and summoned all her self control to refrain from touching the pin again.

“So, you are still in touch with him then,” the guest couldn’t help her curiosity.

“We see each other on occasion,” Claire smiled and nodded, secretly dying to find out what the jewel looked like: with its rounded middle and pointy ends it felt very much like a mouth. She excused herself and worked her way towards the entrance alcove where another group of people was engaged in lively conversation. They didn’t seem bothered by the fact that they were standing in a doorway between worlds. 

“Of all the times to get trapped between mirrors!” Grandmother commented, appalled at the sight of Claire approaching the alcove. “Can’t it wait until your guests leave?”

“Claire, we were just talking about you,” a voice from the gathering encouraged her to approach. Somebody grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her closer to the group, just past the edge of the mirrors. A glance at their reflection brought a feeling of recognition and a broad smile relaxed Claire’s features.

“I’m so glad you could come, it means a lot to me,” she beamed at a young woman who was standing very close to her.

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t have missed it for the world!” the latter replied, smiling back. 

Living in two worlds was serious business, Claire waxed philosophical; one never knew what or who one was looking at, or was able to tell apart what was real from what was not. 

“It’s all real, my dear,” the young woman responded to her unasked question. “If you see it happen, it’s real.”

“You’re not getting away with this superficial take on the Cartesian argument,” another person in the group jumped into the conversation. A lengthy discussion on the problems of interaction and causal impossibility ensued, during which Claire was uncomfortably quiet, since she hadn’t the foggiest what they were all talking about and was trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible to avoid being asked for her opinion.

Absent anything better to do she glanced at the mirrors again,  curious to find out what the strange jewel looked like and she noticed very thin strands of light radiating from it and reaching out to everybody in the room.