Strawberry Shortcake... And Souls

by Amy

“Peter handed Gamache a shortcake, which he cut in half, and Peter piled sliced ripe strawberries in their own brilliant red juice on top of it.

Gamache noticed Clara getting up and Myrna going with her. Olivier came over and put the coffee on to perk.

“Can I help?” asked Gabri.

“Here, put cream on. The cake, Gabri,” said Peter as Gabri approached Olivier with a spoonful of whipped cream. Soon a small conga line of men assembling strawberry shortcakes was formed. When they’d finished they turned around to take the desserts to the table but stopped dead.”

I’ve always loved this image of a conga line of men assembling strawberry shortcakes. It makes me smile every time.

“There, lit only by candles, was Clara’s art. Or at least three large canvases, propped on easels. Gamache felt suddenly light-headed, as though he’d traveled back to the time of Rembrandt, da Vinci, Titian. Where art was viewed either by daylight or candlelight. Was this how the Mona Lisa was first seen? The Sistine Chapel? By firelight? Like cave drawings.”

I’m jealous.

I know I’m confessing to an ugly sentiment, but I really am jealous of Clara and her art.

“He looked at it closely. Clara painted people’s souls, and he wanted to know what this soul held.”

That is an amazing concept. Can you imagine having the ability to paint, sculpt, dance, sing, play, or write a person’s soul? To be able to express that which cannot be said? To see beyond the surface, explore the depths, and to turn it into art?

That is probably where the magic is. The ability to convey feeling and emotion beyond words. Even when the medium involves words – as is the case in literature, poetry, even dramatic arts – the words go beyond their quotidian use.

“Clara Morrow had painted Ruth as the elderly, forgotten Virgin Mary. Angry, demented, the Ruth in the portrait was full of despair, of bitterness. Of a life left behind, of opportunities squandered, of loss and betrayals real and imagined and created and caused. She clutched at a rough blue shawl with emaciated hands. The shawl had slipped off one bony shoulder and the skin was sagging, like something nailed up and empty.
“And yet the portrait was radiant, filling the room from one tiny point of light. In her eyes. Embittered, mad Ruth stared into the distance, at something very far off, approaching. More imagined than real.”
“Hope.”
“Clara had captured the moment despair turned to hope. The moment life began. She’d somehow captured Grace.”

And there you go. Since I’m confessing, I suppose I should be completely honest.

I said before that I’m jealous of Clara’s art. I’m probably more realistically jealous of Louise Penny’s talent. She, after all, is the one who wrote the character – and described the image – that captured Grace and Hope. Her books see the soul and her words evoke an entire world that we fell in love with.

I can understand Peter’s feelings. They aren’t really nice feelings. In fact, they are nothing to be proud of. What they are is understandable. And, like Peter, it isn’t only the end product that I am jealous of. It is the fearlessness and dedication that Clara – and Penny – are willing to invest in their work.

“It took Gamache’s breath away and he could feel a burning in his eyes. He blinked and turned from it, as though from something so brilliant it blinded. He saw everyone else in the room also staring, their faces soft in the candlelight.”

We are attracted to raw honesty. Penny has not shied away from tough issues. Her characters aren’t picture perfect, nor are they typical models of success. Clara paints the elderly, the flawed, and even the ugly. The beauty in their art lies not in the perfection of its subjects, but in the cracks that let the light in, in the promise of redemption, in the hope found even in the darkest places, and in grace.

Both the author and her character are willing to explore their own souls, explore the souls of their subjects, and, through their art, encourage us to hold up our own souls to scrutiny.

“They’re brilliant, you know. You have nothing to be afraid of.”
“If that was true I’d have no art.”

I used the word fearless before, but I was wrong. There is fear. If there weren’t, the art probably wouldn’t be half as good. They carry on regardless.

I know for a fact that there is fear. Not only has Louise Penny mentioned it more than once in social media and in her newsletters, but when I first thought of writing this blog, I wrote to her and asked for permission. If there ever was a gracious writer, it is she. Her answer, among other things, was “Noli timere.”

Noli timere. Do not fear.

Just the fact that she recognizes that fear is a factor when you bare your soul is proof (at least it is to me) that she is not immune to such fear, but has chosen to face it. I often think of the process or production art and of an artist’s courage when I read the Gamache books.

The Brutal Telling is a book about secrets and lies. It is also the book where Clara’s art is revealed as brilliant. Unquestionably brilliant. We knew before. Now everyone knows. Everyone who matters to Clara, that is. Soon the whole world will know.

Clara’s art is the opposite of Olivier’s lies. The light to his darkness. Clara has spent a lifetime digging deep within and exposing her soul. She isn’t always understood. In fact, she usually isn’t comprehended by those who likely matter most to her. She is open, though. She is willing to look and explore and to try to understand…

“Nay, be a Columbus to whole new continents and worlds within you, opening new channels, not of trade, but of thought.” (Walden, Thoreau)

As I read, I am challenged to explore these depths within myself. Not infrequently do I wonder where I stand, what I think, who I am. It’s easy to get so caught up in the hectic rhythm of daily life that we forget to ask ourselves questions that pertain to our individuality, our identity, our core beliefs.

What makes me me? What are the things only I can say? When I leave this world, what will I have left behind of myself? Have I made a difference in someone’s life? What motivates me to get up in the morning? What makes me feel like I’ve had a good day? When people think of me, how do they see my soul?

Olivier hid under so many layers and so many lies that he no longer felt like he could be himself and be loved. In a way, the character he created was larger than the scared soul that lived inside. Clara, on the other hand, had very little polish and was apparently a wreck. But that is only because she let the whole world see the FINE (Ruth’s FINE: Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Egotistical) soul she was. Clara had no veneer. No pretense. She was who she was.

I’m still jealous of her art. I will never be able to paint a person’s soul. I highly doubt that I could ever develop any art to the point that it spoke more than words. I’ll have to stick to words. And maybe hugs.

"Language is a finer medium. 'Yes, for those who can't paint.'" (Middlemarch - George Eliot)

I do not need to be jealous of Clara’s fearlessness, though. While the results of my own forays will not lead to world-class art, I can learn to look into the soul. I can try to understand myself more elementally, and to try to look at others and see beyond the surface. I can recognize the shortcomings and failures that make me fallible and learn to love myself (and allow others to love me) in spite of them. I can see the cracks in the veneer of those around me and learn to offer grace and unconditional love.

I’d never eaten Strawberry Shortcake. Unlike Clara’s paintings and Louise Penny’s books, mine was not a masterpiece. Two attempts at making perfect homemade whipped cream failed. The first failed miserably (it was a very hot day and I probably should have let the cream freeze a bit instead of just refrigerating it). The second was better. The cake itself wasn’t anything special. They’re a good base for the strawberry and sugar mixture. I’m a chocolate kind of girl, so I think it would be perfect with brownies instead of shortcake. Is that sacrilegious?

I did like the lemon added to the whipped cream. That was perfect. I have a friend who gave me a few tips on the perfect whipped cream so I kept trying. I tried refrigerated cream. I tried it slightly frozen. I tried adding the sugar way after or soon after. I tried... Of course, the third time - when I DIDN'T have any strawberries - it worked. But then I don't know exactly what it as that I did differently. So what's your secret? If it is that you make awesome whipped cream, that is...

Here’s the recipe I used (with some few modifications): http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/strawberry-shortcake-recipe3.html

Unless otherwise specified, all quotes are from The Brutal Telling. The shortcake dessert scene.