Chapter 10.3 - The Interview

“Careful with the wires!” the interviewer cautioned one of the movers who was carrying a box so big he couldn’t see anything in front of his face and was about to trip on a cable. “This goes in the other room. Claire?” she turned to the host who was standing in the middle of this chaotic work in progress with a helpless and completely inept look on her face. She stared back in lieu of an answer.

“You are going to be sitting in this chair, by the fireplace, we should light a fire in it, by the way, get a warmer feeling in here, it’s a bit dark as it is. What are you going to wear?”

Claire stared back at her in a panic, because she hadn’t given any thought to the wardrobe.

“Never mind, we’ll find you something. Can you sit in the chair, please, so we can get the lighting right? Jack, get the filters!”

Several giant white umbrellas filled all the space in the room, surrounding the chair in which Claire sat obediently. She experienced this surprise reshaping of her familiar surroundings like a close encounter of the third kind.

“Ok, don’t mind them, let’s get back to your part,” the interviewer tried to pull her focus back to the task and away from the constant shuffling inside the room which Claire’s distracted mind found almost impossible to ignore. “So, we’re going to go over your early childhood to get some context for your concepts, explain why you’re living here, the mansion is impressive, by the way, it’s going to look great on camera.” She looked at Claire to see if the latter had any comments and was met by the blank stare of a person who seemed hopelessly lost. “Don’t worry about all of this, you get used to it,” she smiled encouragingly, deploring her luck for getting stuck with what shaped up to be the dullest interview in the history of broadcasting.

“What in the name of God happened in here?” Grandfather stepped in the doorway and looked around the room in disbelief. 

“Told you I didn’t fit in,” Claire commented inside her head.

“You can say that again,” he started laughing and left, to her great dismay, just when she was hoping for a little homeroom support.

“So, why here?” the interviewer gestured towards the old fashioned room filled with antique furniture which didn’t jibe with Claire’s artwork, dark as it may have been, at all. What could possibly persuade a young person to renounce living in the world and take up what looked like homesteading in the middle of nowhere, all alone. At least that had some potential to be interesting, she let out a resigned sigh.

“This is where I grew up, I find I can focus better with fewer distractions,” she said as she watched Grandmother carry a plate of cookies to the kitchen, at the same time gesturing towards Claire that she should offer some refreshments to her guests. The latter was just about to follow up on that, but realized the timing was completely absurd and reconsidered.

“This looks like a lot of work, who’s taking care of all of this, I mean the grounds alone! Do you actually grow food here? When do you find the time?”

“I don’t do it by myself, of course, people are coming to help out with working the soil in spring, sowing, harvest, fall clean up,” Claire started to explain.

“So then, why get involved with it at all if you already farmed out the work to somebody else?”

“I enjoy it,” Claire uttered, desperately hoping her grandfather would return to throw her a lifeline, but sadly that didn’t happen.

“Is this an additional source of income for you?” the interviewer tried another approach. 

“No,” Claire replied.

“Then why do it? I’m trying to understand why you would split your focus instead of dedicating yourself entirely to your art. It’s usually an all consuming endeavor, being in the art world, you can’t afford to get distracted.”

In all honesty Claire wanted to explain her reasons, but after she went over her non-human kin, talking to the land, the constant company of the departed and the time shifts she simply didn’t know how to spin a believable story out of her life.

“Unless you consider art more of a hobby than a calling, and your true love is really agriculture,” the interviewer offered the unlikely possibility, just to check it off the list. “Do you plan to make painting your life’s work or is it just something you will be involved with occasionally?”

“No, I’m pretty committed to it,” Claire defended her dedication to her craft.

“It must be hard to focus on your art while living on a farmer’s schedule, is it not? Oftentimes the workday spans from sunrise to sunset, one barely has time to catch one’s breath,” the interviewer decided to work her way back to the fork in the road where Claire’s mind had split and couldn’t get itself back together again.

“It’s not that hard, it helps with the way I see the world,” Artist Claire finally managed to put words together in a sentence that sounded both true and sane.

“Not to mention allows you to honor the vow our family has sworn to this land,” Grandfather commented from behind one of the filters, upset that he couldn’t offer an opinion himself. “Whatever happened to keeping one’s word?”

“That was your word, papa, not mine,” she couldn’t help herself, despite the unfortunate timing. 

“Oh, yeah? Why do you have dirt fused into your palms then, if you don’t care? I’m not the one talking to trees around here.”

Claire abandoned the futile squabble.

“It would seem to me that you’re at an impasse. Do you think you might come to a decision, sometimes in the near future, about which one of these callings is going to take priority in your life?”

“I’m not sure how to answer that, why do you see this as a problem?” Claire smiled and avoided the question, trying to buy herself some time in order to find an acceptable answer.

“So you’re planning to live like this indefinitely?” the interviewer asked incredulous, trying to get some clarity on the subject.

“Claire, don’t forget to tell your guests there’s lemonade in the fridge,” Grandmother raised her voice from the kitchen. “Claire?” she insisted to make sure her granddaughter had heard her.

“Yes!” the latter uttered loudly, forgetting for a moment that they were not alone.

“I have to say, I really admire your commitment,” the interviewer didn’t know how to react to this pathos filled pronouncement of faith. “I wish you nothing but the best, I truly hope things work out for you.”

They settled the last few details about what they were going to cover in the interview the following morning and after that the crew set everything in place and departed, leaving behind a muddled Claire at a loss for words. How does one present the personal perspective that shaped one’s life choices without the latitude to discuss any of the things that made it possible? 

Claire had just discovered the limitations of eloquent non-communication: it didn’t work when one actually wanted to communicate something. She was about to start crying as she was sitting in her chair inside this weird umbrella pit when the strong scent of violets filled the room. She lifted her eyes and noticed a thick bunch of white, blue and purple flowers stuffed in a pickle jar on the coffee table in front of her. She didn’t have to ask herself where did one get sweet violets in February. She already knew they were most likely brought in from June.