The Past Tense Of Youth: Another life in a painting

idyll LeightonThe Hydro Majestic had been a haven for our love. A palace in the wilderness where we could explore the wonders of nature much like he had done with Rana in the blue splendour of  the Caucasus. It had been no coincidence that we two thirty years into the future would find ourselves leading parallel lives.  Had he known of this other life when fate brought us together on that divine evening whilst dining on the terrace?  There he was with his peers.  Some very dignified looking gentlemen somewhat older than he.  Yet he had seemed happy in their company. They conversed with animated expressions over their after dinner  wine and appeared to be going over some plans drawn up on paper.  Was he some sort of spy?  He was no Englishman of that I was sure and he certainly wasn’t from Australia. I couldn’t help but stare as I found myself drawn into the vacuous social banter of other hotel guests who had joined my parents and me for supper.  The mysterious young man  at the next table had intrigued me.  There was an air of mystery about him yet somehow I knew him.  Suddenly he had caught my gaze and he smiled across at me with a smile so dazzling that it almost blinded me.  One of the older men looked across at me and came over to our table and introduced himself .

Professor Humphries , it turned out was both an art curator and a professor of architecture and design.  He had come with his colleagues via Turkey where they had been investigating the possibilities of  consulting on the design of a new museum of art and sculpture for Istanbul. They had brought with them a young Turkish architectural student, whose parents  the professor had stayed with while lecturing on modernism at Istanbul university. It turned out that the parents had  asked the professor to take their son, who showed great promise and had just won an award for academic excellence, under his tutelage on his next project which was to be in Australia. The professor had been commissioned by Mark Foy, the owner of ‘The Hydro Majestic’, to consult on the rebuilding of the ‘Belgravia’ wing which had burnt down in 1922.  The work had stalled and some important finishing touches needed to be added.  The young Turk with whom I was enamoured had been chosen from hundreds of others around Europe, due to his award winning designs, to work on the wing supervised by the experts.  There was also a painting that the professor wished to buy from Mr Foy which was in the hotels picture gallery known as ‘ The Long Hall’.  My parents were fascinated by the professor but I heard only the name of the young Turk ‘Gurel’ repeating over and over in my head.  All the while the professor was speaking he and I had remained fixed in each other’s gaze.  After what had seemed an eternity he rose from his seat and came over to our table.  Professor Humphries introduced him and I was at once transported into a world of exotic splendours.

” I am very pleased to meet you” he said in a cheery voice quite devoid of any accent. ” Just call me Gerald if you find my name difficult.  It’s a very English name and probably much easier for you to remember”.

” Alright if you prefer but I assure you my memory for names that may sound a little foreign is completely in tact”

That he spoke English perfectly did not deter me one bit from my creative visualisations.  It turned out that he was half English as his father, also an architect,  had met and married his mother whilst on a field trip to Istanbul.  He had returned to London only briefly with his lovely Turkish bride but  soon tired of the normalities of English life and made the decision to live permanently in the country that had given him the great love of his life.  Not long after setting up their home in this exotic land their son was born.

After that first evening wondering through the lush green valley and traversing crooked mountain paths not too far from the hotel we realised that for some reason the universe had meant for us to be together.  We laughed and whispered of secret longings. I was of his world and he was of mine. There would be no need for explanations and no need to rush things.

The next morning at breakfast had not been stilted by the kind of long awkward silence young lovers feel when they don’t know if things will progress any further but was filled with the joy of true belonging. Afterwards we had visited ‘The Long Hall’ with the professor to view the painting  he wished to purchase for his museum in Istanbul.  And there it was. A masterpiece by English artist Frederick Leighton.  A young man who looked remarkably like Gurel and I like his muse.  The resemblance was unmistakable.  There we were the two of us very much in love concentrating on  what seemed to be an architects drawing.   No wonder we had felt as one from the moment our eyes met.  We had been so throughout the ages and it would not be long before I would come to understand the significance of our union.

© Renee Dallow ( Hybiscus Bloom ) 22/11/2014 

1940s Pin-up Girls

negligee and gardenias

Remembrance day is coming soon

But who remembers us?

The women who marched to the battle tunes

Women you could trust.

Marching wandas

But wait of course you’d remember me

If I had looked like this

pin-up girl  on plane wing1940s

Conforming to your ideal was key

Made me hard to resist

You turned me into a pin up girl

There to strut my stuff

Tokyo flight

You’ be glad to give me a whirl

If I were not so tough

Well let me tell you soldier boy

I’ve got brains and brass

vintage_ww_ii_navy_nurse

I’m so much more than a pretty  toy

With boobs and shapely arse

Ladder to success?

I mattered to the world back then

And I worked it out  alone

I stood tall in the absence of men

And still maintained the home.

1Vintage Promotionals

So there!

Wanda Wey Awrf

© Renee Dallow ( Hybiscus Bloom )  9/11/2013

pinup wings

The Past Tense Of Youth: Mountain Memoires

aivazovskiy_the_caucasus_1868Rana and I became confidantes following her conversion to Odalisque.   She had meant for me to open her diary and had somehow known that I had an important part to play in her life.  As she told me of her love for Gurel and his for her I knew that I would be the one to bring them back into each other’s arms.  My life with Gurel was of another time and place and yet had  also begun in the beauty of the mountains. Theirs  had been a wild untamed love there in the blue haze of the Caucasus.  She the daughter of Roma gypsies and he the son of a Georgian landlord .   During the Russo/Turk wars in 1877  Gurel’s parents who had settled in Circassia near the black sea , had fled back to Turkey fearing an imminent Russian attack on their land holdings.  They had left their five year old son with his Georgian grandfather vowing to return for him once they had settled. They never returned.   The child’s skin was not the pale skin of the Georgians but was instead of an olive comlexion like that of  his Turkish father.  His hair was thick , dark and wavy even at birth and his eyes a sapphire blue  like those of his  Georgian mother.    For most of his youth Georgia was at peace with the Russians ,who had made reparations,  and Gurel was sent to  school in St Petersburg.  It was in the streets of St Petersburg at the age of fourteen that he had first laid eyes on a dark gypsy girl playing a tamborine.  He had been so entranced by her that he had lost his way and seemed quite unable to move in any other direction except for the spot where he now stood.  There were others dancing with her but he could see only her.

Rana’s parents had come to Georgia from Romania .  They were part of a performing troupe and planned to dance for their money along with trading horses and  breeding chickens.  They made their camp in the Caucasus near the foot of Mt Elbrus and journeyed often to St Petersburg where they would perform for whoever had enough money to pay their worth.  They danced for the villagers in their mountain haven and for the nobility in the cities sometimes even in the palaces.  oliver dennett grover - harem sceneTheir youngest daughter, Rana, was a true Circassian beauty with raven hair down to her waist and wild eyes the colour of an emerald green forest.  By the age of fourteen she was aware of her powers over men and knew how to play them.    That first day he had followed her back to the camp site where she lived with her family and had dined with them under the stars.  He was in awe of the gypsy life and wanted to become one of them if only to be close to Rana.  She taught him to dance while he taught her to read and write.  It was a fair exchange and bound them ever closer.  Gurel was a brilliant student who excelled in the arts of writing and poetry.  He was also a skilled horseman and took his military training very seriously.  Every spare moment he would spend with Rana in the mountains where he was as free as she was to breathe out and experience the wonders of nature all around them.  A gentle world where there was harmony and balance in the order of things.

Theirs was a peaceful tranquil way of being far away from the needs and wants of others who would try to tame  or to separate them.  They made a troth there in the blue of the mountain mists to remain together as they were then in each other’s hearts for all time and entwined their bodies as one to seal their truth.  Only the soft folds of evening grace and the strange whispers of the forest could disturb them from their embrace.  A white horse waited patiently nearby for it’s young master to lead home over the mountain pass.  Soon with his arms wrapped around his gypsy love and the reins gripped tight in his strong, capable hands he and Rana would return to their waiting families.

And so their love would continue until the day Gurel was sent to university in the year of 1904.   His grandfather had previously tried to keep them apart but had been unsuccessful.  This time he hoped Gurel would find comfort in being with others who were of the same status.  Before long  he became so involved in the politics of youth that he grew more and more distant from Rana with each new dawn.  Gurel joined the social democrats and was determined to play an important part in the modernisation of his beloved Georgia.  Little did he know that the land he returned to would be no longer his, that his grandfather would be slain and that Rana would become a slave of the Ottoman Empire.  Dragged from her campsite and locked up in the harem she would no more be his alone.

On the day Gurel returned and all that had happened during his absence became clear to him he knew that he must find her. The villagers had told him of her parents dealings with Russian soldiers and of their intent to sell her.  A circassian of such dark exotic beauty would fetch a high price.  They had hoped to marry her off to the young Georgian landlord who would have looked after her family but he had abandoned them and gone off to Saint Petersberg.  They had to survive and selling their beautiful daughter would be for the good of all.

revolutionGurel had immediately departed for Constantinople joined by other young men from the village who thought they would fare better under Ottoman rule.  They could join the guards or become janissaries.  Gurel had heard of a group who called themselves ‘ The Young Turks’ who were trying to achieve the same ends as those of the social democrats of Russia . Maybe he could join them and in so doing commandeer their help in saving his beloved gypsy girl.

That day at the slave market when I had seen him ride toward her on his white horse with his eyes piercing a hole in my heart had been the first day of a life fulfilled.  Or was it simply fate that had  brought all three of us to the same place at the same time?  For what end and for what purpose?  I would soon grow to love them both more than I ever thought possible. Our lives would evolve and change over …. time … so …. much ….. time.

© Renee Dallow ( Hybiscus Bloom ) 30/!0/2013

 

Coffee Bean Spoils

 

cafe de matinThe long lunch is back in style

For the lucky federal M.P.

He can afford to chill out a while

He get’s his coffee for free

He loiters round for hours on end

As the humble waiter toils

cafe deflores

Knowing he can safely depend

On tasty coffee bean spoils

He flies a la carte in a chartered plane

And often dines at the Ritz

What can a coffee bean hope to gain

From life out in the pits?

Euro Bites

Beans are just numbers to add and subtract

When all the votes are counted

Always there to trample the welcome mat

Or have their objections mounted

 

What a trial they are to the wealthy few

Better keep them out of sight

Too many joining the lengthy queue

The coffers are sealed up tight

But the M.P. goes on his merry way

With his coffee freshly brewed

cafe elektric

He mutters along with nothing to say

While humble beans get screwed.


© Renee Dallow ( Hybiscus Bloom ) 17/10/2013