Curating Memories: My Lemon Fantasy, Sans Sunshine

Should I be alarmed that my younger me, escapist fantasy has morphed into something that would be unrecognisable to my twenty-something year old self? Back then, my parents’ marriage was coming apart at the seams and I was also at the dawn of realising that my chosen profession, one for which I had trained a  difficult 7 ½ years, was probably not the one for me. I dreamt of a simpler life, often musing and occasionally saying out loud to my female friends, “maybe I should just throw it all in and move to Turkey. I could marry a Turkish fisherman and live in a small fishing village.” My inspiration? I had traveled to Turkey a few summers before and met a woman from California, a few older than me, who had done just that. In my head, I had written a romantic narrative for her, which most certainly did not include the reality of watching her running around the one bus-a-day village, frantically seeking medical help for her baby son’s high fever. I am sure the sub-adult GF’s will be appalled to read that my great escape fantasy at their age now was more Cinderella than Mulan; with a prince aka Turkish fisherman as the lynchpin — not me.

These days my fantasy is not quite as dramatic or escapist. It involves living closer to home about sixty miles up the M11 in Cambridge.  More realistic because it’s not as far as Turkey but possibly more of a reach because it is attached to a very specific job, of which there is only one in the entire universe. The last time I checked, about four years ago, an elderly woman had the job and I would be loathe to have to knock her off her bicycle to claim it.

The job is not high paying; in fact, it’s a volunteer position. Its challenges are interesting and valued. The other volunteers told me that they stepped into the job when the woman was on holiday, surprised to discover that it was more difficult than they realised. In my recent reading, the role is now shared amongst the volunteers, who view it as a ritual.

In my fantasy, the position is still held by a mature woman; i.e. me. I wonder how the job advertisement might read.

Mature woman wanted for important role in gallery. You will appreciate and understand how art enhances life. You will understand the importance of balance and appreciate beauty. You will have a “good eye” and be able to work independently. Two mornings a week. Benefits include living in a beautiful historical city, where breathing in the surrounding architecture and gardens nurtures the soul on a daily basis. Bicycle owner and rider preferred. 

If you have never had the delight of visiting Kettle’s Yard Gallery in Cambridge, can I suggest you do so to fully appreciate my fantasy job? Kettle’s Yard was originally the home of Jim Ede, artist and curator of the Tate Gallery when it was known as The National Gallery of Brittish Art. In 1956, Jim and his wife Helen converted four cottages in Cambridge into one house, their home. One they created to display his collection of early twentieth century art, gathered through his time at the Tate when he forged friendships with avant-garde artists whose fame was yet to come. 

The couple maintained an open house every afternoon when Ede would give tours of his beloved collection; the artwork was displayed all throughout their home, even in the bathrooms. All visitors were welcome, Cambridge students especially.  Art, he believed, was to be shared in a relaxed environment and he wanted the students to learn to live with art. He even allowed them to bring their lessons home by encouraging the students to borrow paintings from the collection to hang in their rooms during term time.

Upon entry into the cottage, there is a painting by the Spanish surrealist painter, Joan Miró, titled Tic Tic, which Ede of used as a first lesson for his visitors. He writes about it in “A Way of Life” his book about Kettle’s Yard, “The Miró was to me an opportunity to show undergraduates the importance of balance. If I put my finger over the spot at the top right, all the rest of the picture slid into the left-hand bottom corner. If I covered the one at the bottom, horizontal lines appeared, and if somehow I could take out the tiny red spot in the middle everything flew to the edges. This gave me a much needed chance to mention god, and by saying that if I had another name for god, I think it would be balance, for with perfect balance, all would be well.”  By extension, a single lemon placed on a sixteenth century pewter dish in the same room, titled “Instant Still Life with Lemon”, echoes the yellow dot in Miro’s painting; achieving Ede’s sacred and sublime balance in the third dimension of the spaces in his home.

I dream I am riding my bicycle up Trumpington Street and King’s Parade in the early morning mist that rolls off the River Cam. As I pass the university’s colleges, Peterhouse, St. Catharine’s, Kings, Trinity, St John’s, the mist lifts slowly, revealing centuries of architectural splendour. Spoiled, I am to be surrounded by such earthly delights, as I ponder which evensong I might drop into when day fades into night. First things first though, an important task awaits. I make my way to the market. The selection is particularly good at this time of year when they are brought in from Sicily. Bigger, more full, more plump, more scent; wonderful to grasp and squeeze in the palm of my hand. After selecting the perfect lemon to place on the pewter plate, I ride on to Kettle’s Yard. In a few days, I will do it again and again and again, co-creating Instant Still Life with Lemon and continuing a ritual which began before I was born and will continue long after I have gone. 

There you have it, my Lemon Lady fantasy. 

As I have grown into myself, I realise with relief that my fantasy now is no longer so much about escape but more about an extension of whom I have become. Wherever I am and whenever it is, I know I will always aspire to surround myself with the sacred and sublime. And this is achieved only by recognising, acknowledging and gently integrating what is meaningful to me. More often than not, these are small things; the fact that the sun is shining and the air is crisp after days of grey gloom and rain, a ten minute walk in the park drinking in gloriously oxygenated air, the smell of clean sheets, knowing how good they will feel on my skin, discovering that a good friend and I are reading and loving the same book (Olive Again, if you must know), the nourishing smell of chicken broth simmering away on a chilly Sunday morning, extending the giggles had over lunch with friends via post-prandial group chats, a happy text from one of my children, a good laugh with my husband — just some of the many daily accretions of life’s many layers. The ones that hold us up when times are tough.

Riding a bicycle and picking out lemons in a country that rains more often than not. Yes, I think the twenty-something me would have been very alarmed with this fantasy. I also thinks she’s happy to know though that in this version with the help of some lemons, we have become our own lynchpin.