Study in Red and Black

Inspired by Ancient Greek pottery



I don’t remember my mother. I remember neither her face nor her voice. The only image I have of her had stuck in the head of the toddler I used to be so long ago:
I hesitantly make one stumbling step after another, my chubby legs unstable. I am thrown left and right like a ship in the heaving seas heading for the shelter of the harbor, and her white chiton shines like a beacon in front of my eyes.
 
I see the white linen of her garment with an amazing clarity, as if every silken thread has been woven through my memory back and forth a thousand times to form a strong net that would safely hold this image for as long as I live.

I reach out for her with stark desperation of a drowning sailor and finally - safe at last - grab her knees and cling onto her, imbuing the sun-drenched aroma of the white linen, while her laughter is ringing above my dark curly head promising safety and warmth and protection. She did not keep the promise; she has been wandering in the gloomy plains of Hades for over twenty five years now.

Sometimes I am not even sure that I remember the real moment that came to pass; often it seems only a fleeting dream or something a motherless child would console herself into believing. But that image has stayed with me intact in its startling lucidity through all these years, and it comes to me as a recurring dream at a pre-dawn hour, like today.

I lay in the darkness half-awake, feeling my mother’s spirit slipping away, the sound of her laughter growing fainter. I don’t know what my dream means and I never could tie it down to a sad or happy occurrence that it might have heralded. If I had extra money to spend, I would probably have asked the oracle to interpret it, but this is a luxury that we cannot afford. A humorless chuckle escapes me – everything is a luxury these days. The intrusion of reality abruptly severs the tiny thread of white linen that is still holding my mother’s image in my mind, and her lingering presence disappears. Reluctantly, I let it go – hers is a shy spirit and it never stays with me in my waking hours.

The room is dark and quite. My ear catches the sounds of the night fading away outside my window; unlike my mother’s spirit, the night lingers on with cold perseverance of winter, loath to go. As all the potters in Athens we live in Kerameikos, close to the cemetery. The dead are quiet neighbors and do not bother the living. But Kerameikos also has a lot of bawdy houses, and sometimes the noise and drunken laughter wakes me up early. Today is quiet though.  I am waiting to hear the shuffling steps of our slave Fedora in the courtyard: she is old, way over forty, and her aching bones drive her out of bed early, especially this coldest month of Hecatombion.

Across the room my daughter turns in her sleep and sighs lightly. Her name is Ariantha and he has turned fourteen last Thargelion.  Just sensing her presence in the dark fills me with such a powerful surge of love – almost always followed by fear - that I feel my eyes welling up.  I have never told anybody, but strong feelings always come to me in color, and for a minute I allow myself to lay awash in the silvery opalescent light that I bask in whenever I think of my daughter or watch her unawares. But fear and concern are by now knocking on the doors of my waking mind, and I quickly say a prayer to Artemis asking her to protect my firstborn, watch over her and save her from so many heartbreaks that life has in store for women. Please, Virgin Huntress, heed my plea: let my gentle girl be spared…

Ariantha is my only natural child.  After her birth I was eager to give my husband a son but it was not meant to be. Over the years I had several miscarriages and gave birth to two stillborn baby boys. Every time part of me died with my babies, so I hope that a fraction of my spirit followed them to Hades and is watching over them in that shadowy world. My poor little darlings, they never even saw what sunlight was… But maybe they will not feel as bad in the underworld not knowing what they have lost? That is what I am always asking the gods to spare my daughter of.  I have suffered for both of us, so let her have healthy happy children.

Seven years ago, when it was finally clear that the gods will not grant us another child, my husband and I adopted a son of his distant relative. Her own husband died recently and she was left with seven children – all boys.  She seemed happy to let the baby go to our family where she knew he would be always fed, clothed and loved. As I took the three months old Damian into my arms he looked me right into the eye, very seriously for a minute – and then smiled. I smiled back, and then started crying and laughing at the same time and urgently whispered to my husband “Let’s leave now before she changes her mind!” My husband proudly carried the baby into our house through the door finally decorated with an olive garland, and since that day my heart felt whole again, miraculously cured by my new son’s smile.   

The screech of the well wheel outside brings me out of my reverie - Fedora is drawing the water. We are lucky to have our own well in the courtyard. Making a mental note to remind Spyridon to oil the wheel, I jump out of bed and as my feet touch the floor I involuntarily take in a breath through my teeth - the tiles feel like ice. Quickly strapping my sandals on I grab my blanket made of soft fleece and cross the room to Ariantha’s bed. The girl is curled under her covers in a tight ball, poor thing. I drape the silky fleece over her sleeping form and decide to let her sleep a while longer.  The room is getting lighter now with a timid gray light of a winter morning.  I put on my peplos of dark green wool and start brushing my hair – a truly Herculean labor. If I could pile together all the wooden combs I broke trying to disentangle my tight curls it would have most likely provided enough firewood for us for a whole year. Done with combing, I quickly arrange my hair in a habitual bun, secure it with a headband and go outside.

The morning air is crisp and has a tangy smell of damp earth and fallen leaves underplayed with smoke. I stop in the doorway, take a deep breath and suddenly laugh out loud, so invigorating this clean new day is.

In the corner of the courtyard under the old cherry tree, bare and bleak this time of year Fedora is making the new bread of the day. She lifts her head and smiles at me, and her darling old face breaks into thousands of fine happy wrinkles.

“Good morning, child. Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby, Grandma. How are your legs this morning?”
“Not too bad, my dear”.

Although Fedora is a slave and I am the mistress, she calls me her daughter or child. I, on the other hand, address her as Grandma – an endearing nickname my children gave her. Over the years she has become a part of our family and has always been a comforting shoulder to cry on for all of us at one time or another. She is a true treasure.

A door closes with a soft thud and yet another treasure walks into the courtyard – our second and the only male slave Spyridon. He is a war captive from Sparta, and his face and hands look as if they had been roughly cleaved out of old weathered oak. And like an old oak, he has this unyielding quality about him, and no matter how menial his daily tasks are, he performs them with a quiet dignity. I used to be vaguely uneasy about him, but years – and especially my husband’s sickness - have brought us close. I like his quite solidity and suspect that under the coarse appearance and gruff manners he has a soft spot. I know for sure he loves my children to death, and that alone is enough to win him a permanent place at my hearth and in my heart.

“Greetings, mistress Damaris”, his voice booms over the courtyard.

For some reason he insists on calling me that, and in spite of my numerous requests to drop the mistress part, he obstinately sticks to his way.

“Good morning to you, Spyridon. Is my husband up?”
“No, no yet, mistress Damaris”.

This is the game we have been playing for almost a year now. We both know that the master of the house will never be up and around again, but we still cling to this morning exchange with the stubbornness of little children. We seem to think that if we could only stick to our routine long enough and pretend well enough, we might will his illness away and wish him back into health. Over the last two years as my husband’s health has been slowly deteriorating, I gradually came to terms with our new existence and my new role. I have a family to take care of and I don’t allow myself the luxury of giving in to black despair, but it is always there, at the edge of my mind, beckoning its ugly crooked finger. Sometimes it seems so tempting to just drop whatever I am doing, plop down on the ground and start bawling… but I am afraid that once I started I would never stop, so I just do not cry at all.  What’s the point anyway? I know that my friend and neighbor Larissa covertly disapproves of my behavior and calls me a stone heart behind my back.  I don’t really care.

A door shuts with a loud bang and my son Damian flies into the courtyard with the sound of his laughter preceding him. He is eight years old now, and has the energy of ten boys his age locked in his sturdy little frame. In five seconds he has hugged me, Spyridon and Fedora, splashed cold water into his face and over the better part of his chiton, started telling us about the dream he had, then grabbed a pear and sat down at the table, chewing away and finally silent. But everything about him - his fresh round face with a sprinkle of freckles, apple-red cheeks, bright brown eyes and copper curls - shine with a barely contained vigor, and our gloomy wintry courtyard seems instantly brighter. To myself I always call him a sunny boy just like I think of Ariantha as my moon girl.

And here she comes, my beautiful daughter looking so fresh and pretty with her dark hair like a cloud around her pale matte face. She has a pair of most amazing eyes – they are the exact color of the storm clouds when they gather over Acropolis and the sun fiercely pours over them with the last desperate white light. I often think – sacrilegiously perhaps – that Athena the Wise must have eyes like that. Ariantha gives me a quick hug, tousles her brother’s tight curls unruffled by his indignant “Hey!” and sits down to have breakfast with the rest of the family. We are having fragrant bread, fresh out of the oven, washing it down with generously watered warm wine mullioned with spices and a little honey. Over the meal we are discussing what is needed to be done today. I mention the well wheel project and get a curt nod from Spyridon – he’ll get onto it after he has brought Damian back home from school. Fedora is going to the market right after breakfast, and Ariantha will be working on the cloak she is weaving. As for me – everybody knows what I will do.

Breakfast finished, I kiss Damian good-bye and he rolls out into the street like a little ball of sunshine, Spyridon towering over him with an unconscious smile playing about his hard lips. Fedora leaves soon after. She is looking forward to seeing her market cronies and collecting some new gossip in addition to a daily supply of vegetables and fish. Ariantha is cleaning the table, and I go in to see my husband, feeling her concerned glance on my back as I cross the courtyard.

 His room is full of shadows. They are swirling in the dark corners and clinging to his bed as if they know that soon they will claim him forever. The strong aroma of mint and other medicinal herbs cannot entirely mask the smell of sickness. His drawn face looks as gray as the old linen pillow his head is resting on. Spyridon knows his duties well, and my husband is cleanly shaven and the sheets covering his emaciated body are fresh. I lean over him, put my head on his pallid forehead and whisper:

“How are you today, Leonidas? Are you hurting? Do you want some water?”

He lifts his eyelids so slowly as if they are made of stone and tries to smile, but even this effort is too much for him. His eyes close again and he whispers back almost inaudibly:

“I am comfortable, thank you, dear. I just want to sleep”.

Sleep, my poor husband. I sit at the edge of his bed and watch as his narrow chest barely rises and falls. Apart from his name there is nothing lion-like about Leonidas, and never has been. He has always been a shy private person with a kindest heart you have ever known. From that faraway day – when was it? fourteen years ago? – when I came into his house as a young bride, frightened and bewildered, he comforted me like a good friend, cried with me over the babies that did not live, spoiled me with little gifts and was a patient loving father for our children. He first got sick almost two years ago when he suddenly lost his sight in one eye. For a pottery painter it was a heavy blow, but he managed to still do his job for a long time until finally he just had to give it up.  I don’t know what’s ailing him. The doctors say that he has a worm in his heart that is sucking his life force away, and the priests say we must have done something to anger the gods.

What could have my husband done to deserve such a terrible punishment? He has never hurt a fly, and has always performed all the right rituals as suited the man of the house, with libations and sacrifices. Sometimes I think that gods are just like my late mother-in-law. There was no pleasing that woman no matter how hard I tried. Everything about me caused a disapproving smirk and a verbal thrashing – my weaving, my cooking, my manners, even the color of my hazel eyes which she called “bog-water”. Although much older than I, Leonidas seemed to be as in awe of his mother as I was, and like two naughty children, we used to hide from her and laugh together, save the house was huge with lots of out-of-the way corners. I guess that was how our love first started to grow… and after a while she died, grudgingly leaving behind her son with me.  We had some happy years together. He always stood by me, and now it is my turn to be there for him.

Leonidas used to work for master Andokides, who also was a close friend of the family. My husband’s hydrias and kraters were in great demand, because the scenes he painted were always “tongue-in-cheek” funny and amusing. He was – no, what am I thinking?! He still is - a very talented draftsman and a patient teacher. I know it firsthand. A year back when it became clear that Leonidas would not be able to work for much longer, I decided to pick up where he left off, since I was not entirely unfamiliar with the trade after all these years. At first my decision was met with disapproval of the whole family, including Fedora and Spyridon. Good women do not work outside of the house! And I did not – Spyridon would bring the pots to me in a cart, and take them back when I was finished.  This way we managed to buy food, wool and flax for weaving, and medicine for Leonidas.

Master Andokides was sad to part with my husband, but to give him credit, did not recoil from the idea of dealing with a woman instead. He even said that I was not the first and would not be the last to do what I had set my heart to do. Of course, I was not nearly as good as my husband, but I had come a long way since then. After several terribly frustrating months when the though that I had bitten off more than I could chew often kept me awake at night, I seemed to have found my way: I started drawing women. They were weaving, getting water from the well, tending the garden, playing with children. This was something fresh and new and buyers seemed to like my work; as for myself, I felt I had never been this happy in my life. The special pride of a craftsman when his skills are recognized by others was something I have never experienced before and I was amazed how much it affected me. It even put a new confident spring in my walk.  Master Andokides sometimes would sign my vases with his name, and I took it as a testimony of the highest recognition.

Leonidas’ body twitches involuntarily and a quite plaintive moan escapes him. His pains must have started again. I get up to get his medicine, but he sighs and seems to go back to sleep. Thank you, mighty Hera, give him some restful sleep. It is time for me to go, and I quietly leave the room trying not to disturb him.

Back in the courtyard Ariantha’s troubled silvery glance hits me with a physical force:

“How is he, mother?” she asks, clinging to me like a little frightened child.
“He is asleep, dear. He seems content for now.”

She sighs and hides her face in my hair. Yes, my daughter is taller than I am. She is slender, long and lithe of limb and moves with a grace of a young doe. I am amazed how Leonidas and I could have produced such a miracle.

“Al right, child, keep an eye on him, please. I need to think”.

She lifts her head and smiles at me through the unspilled tears. She knows what my thinking routine involves. “Don’t worry, mother. I will call you if we need you. Go think in peace”. She turns and hands me what we refer to as my thinking himation – a rather ugly creation of coarse wool of an indistinguishable color. But I insist that it is the warmest garment I own, because it is a gift from Ariantha and the first piece of cloth that she has ever woven by herself. She often begs me to throw it away, so disturbing she – an accomplished weaver now - finds a testimony of her childish shortcomings. But I always tell her that I cherish her gift and that we all need to be reminded sometimes where we have come from and what a long distance we have covered. She likes my philosophy, as she calls it.

Draping the himation around me, I walk through the door in the rear wall of the courtyard into the abandoned pottery workshop with the huge kiln dominating it. The room still vaguely smells of smoke. When I first married Leonidas and came to live here, the house was alive with noise and laughter, with dozens of slaves and apprentices running back and forth while the thunderous voice of master Prokopios was easily rising over the din. He was my father-in-law and ran a very successful pottery shop of his own, where Leonidas was a master painter. After Prokopios passed away the business somehow died too. Leonidas had neither the energy of his father nor, in all honesty, the head for numbers. The only thing that he could do best was drawing, and among those black figures on the red clay background he was the master and creator. He acted out his own plays on numerous vases. Now the shop is empty and dark, filled with ghosts of life that once has been. Just like my life with my poor husband.

I pull the himation tighter around my shoulders and unbolt the door in the back wall of the shop. It opens onto a narrow rocky ledge over a deep cleft in the ground. I chuckle, remembering how infuriated Prokopios used to hurl vases that did not come out to his liking into the stony vale below, cursing his lot and his trade and stupid apprentices and just about everybody who happened to be in his way. Nobody was overly concerned though; that giant of a man had a heart of a lamb.

I find my favorite “thinking rock” and sit down. To my right there is the crest of Acropolis, and in the slanting rays of the morning sun it looks misty and dreamy. The hillside outcrops of the white marble with lilac veins have earned it the nickname of “the violet wreath of Athens”. Right in front of me I see the hills covered with olive groves rolling down to Piraeus and the sea, hardly visible from my spot and blending into the bluish-purple haze of the sky. To the left all of Athens spread over the hills with countless temples, houses, markets and gymnasiums. I let my eyes take in all the beauty of my native city and my mind – drift freely.

I suddenly remember that when I first moved back to Athens I always felt suffocated, as if the air was too thick for me to breath. Now I know it was because I could not see the open vista I was so used to as a girl. Although an Athenian by birth, I was raised up north in beautiful Beotia. After my mother’s death my father sold all his property in Athens and hastily moved house to the farm he owned in the country, as if he was running away from something. Whether he succeeded in escaping his pain or not, I would never know, but he never remarried. Since I was still very young he brought his distant relative along to be my nanny.

Between my father and old Kynthia I received a very unorthodox upbringing. My father was to put it mildly an eccentric man and I suspect that he tried to overlook the fact that I was born a girl. I was allowed to roam the meadows and forests freely with the peasant boys. He taught me to read and write just out of boredom and to Kynthia’s dismay let me practice with the bow and arrows and ride horses. My athletic abilities seemed to amuse him and he used to encourage me in a condescending manner. Likewise out of boredom he liked to discuss poetry, politics and philosophy with me and challenged me to argue with him to which I took rather enthusiastically. We played chess, too.  Kynthia was trying to do her best to tame me, but when she was explaining the mysteries of weaving to me, I was much more interested in the mechanics of the loom. I am still a lousy weaver. But not such a bad draftsman or rather a draftswoman!

My childhood years went by fast, and Kynthia finally drew my father’s attention to the fact that not only had I dedicated all my toys to Artemis several months back but also had grown breasts. He looked me over with a stern frown as if realizing for the first time that I was definitely not the son he wanted me to be and dismissed me with a nod. Three months later he brought me back to Athens for what turned out to be my wedding.

Nothing and nobody in my life prior to that night prepared me for the moment when I was left standing in the middle of the courtyard of the unfamiliar house among strange people. I felt like a little cornered animal and all I could think of was escape. Only the patience and kindness of my new husband helped me to gradually to adapt to my drastically changed life, and once Ariantha was born I felt like I finally found my way. And a steady hand of an accomplished archer served me well in drawing - we never know what fate has in store for us, and I have come to realize that no knowledge, however useless it seems at first, is wasted.

I pull myself out of my reverie. I came here not to chew over the past, but to think about today and tomorrow. I really need to start making more money for the family! I feel so inadequate sometimes… Damian needs new sandals again – Fedora says he is growing like weed - and I would love Ariantha to have that saffron yellow chiton she was admiring on her girlfriend next door. My work so far gave us means to survive, but I want my family to be more secure.

I simply need to come up with a new and attractive way to paint my pottery. It will also be great to think of something that would make the whole process easier and faster. Through hard work and perseverance I have perfected my drawings, although I did hurl several pots into the cleft following Prokopios’ lead, which surprisingly helped a lot. Now I sometimes feel I can draw with my eyes closed. With confidence came a certain uneasiness that has been gnawing at my mind for some time. Everybody in the trade is pretty much doing the same. Is there a way to distinguish my little input? I lower my head on my hands clasping my knees, turn my eyes toward Acropolis and start thinking in earnest.

“Damaris! Where are you? Are you out back there again, daydreaming?”

The loud female voice belongs to my neighbor Larissa. Her husband is a potter just like almost everybody in Kerameikos, and they are a family of rather prosperous metics from Macedonia. They live next door, and they are the friendliest and the noisiest crowd you’ve ever encountered. Larissa and Kirkor have six children, and all of them are healthy, robust and loud. They never talk but always yell, not because they are angry, but just out of natural exuberance. Their three dogs are always barking and engaging in playful fights. Everything about Larissa herself is loud and overdone: her voice, her mass of bright red curly hair, ample quivering bosom, and famously bright clothes. I love her dearly, and I suspect Ariantha is very interested in one of Larissa’s sons, fifteen-year old Demetrious who reciprocates with all the natural ardor of Larissa’s offspring.

Larissa bursts through the door onto the narrow ledge which instantly seems even smaller and starts to reprimand me in her strong musical voice. Her words carry over the cleft and are amplified by the rocky sides. Thrilled by the unusual sound effect I don’t even grasp the meaning of her admonishments at first. She sits down next to me with an indignant puff.
 
Still looking into hazy vistas I ask her leisurely: “What have I done wrong now?”
Larissa seems to inflate with a new surge of righteous anger: “What do you mean? You have been sitting here in this icy wind on the cold stone for an hour! Do you want to catch yourself a death of cold? Is it not enough that your unfortunate husband is on his deathbed?!”

Larissa stops as if she has stumbled over her own words. She tries to avoid bringing Leonidas’ illness up out of friendly concern for my feelings and now thinks that she has hurt me by her awkwardness. Without turning my head I feel that she is trying to contain the tears that I know are now welling up in her anxious round honey-colored eyes. I want to say “Calm down, my dear flame-hared, big-boned and warm-hearted friend. I know that my husband is dying, and he knows it, and whether you keep silent or yell about it, it does not matter”. I turn around with a smile so she won’t feel too bad and feast my eyes on her. She looks like an exotic bird that merchants from faraway barbarian lands carry on their shoulders around Agora. Today she is wearing a black peplos with a blood-red design on the shoulders and the hem – a strangely becoming outfit for a woman with the unruly mane of red hair and milky white skin.

I open my mouth to say how glad I am to see her and how nice she looks… and close it with an embarrassingly loud snap. Like a mad woman I grab the hem of her peplos and stare at it. Totally taken aback, Larissa – for the first time in years I have known her – has nothing to say. I jump up, nearly toppling her over, give her an exuberant hug and – for the first time in years she has known me – scream: “Thank you, oh thank you so much!”

Leaving her sitting on the rock - and almost turned to rock herself - I rush through the abandoned shop that surprisingly does not seem an abode of ghosts any more. In the courtyard Ariantha stands in bewilderment not knowing what the entire clamor is about. She is still clutching the weaving shuttle in her hand, a red thread dragging into the doorway behind her. Somehow even the color of the thread seems a good omen and I give my daughter an impulsive hug and shout: “Thank you, darling, thank you!” Brushing past her and stunned Larissa who managed to make it back into the courtyard I ran into my painting room laughing like a deranged maenad, because everything seems so funny – and so clear at last. I slam the door into their bewildered faces and yell – for the third time today (Larissa’s dogs must be keeping a confused count) – “Don’t worry, I am fine! Oh, you don’t even know how fine I am!”

Two weeks later I am walking home from master Andokides’ shop. It is a fine sunny day; the air smells of the nearby sea and the salty breeze is rocking the screeching seagulls on its invisible waves. I am properly veiled like a good woman should be in the streets. Although I am trying to walk in a dignified matronly manner, what I really want to do is to hop on one foot all the way home. Spyridon is striding beside me, proudly carrying a heavy clay pot filled to the brim with copper coins. My heart is singing and my mind is in a swirl.

“We can easily get the shop going again. Maybe even join forces with Kirkor – he needs more space and is a great potter. In a year Ariantha and Demetrious can get married – he is a metic, he does not have to serve in the army.  Their children will be Athenians because Ariantha is. If it is not too late I am going to hire the best doctors for Leonidas, and even if it is too late, I will still fight and encourage him to fight, too. And I will buy Fedora a silver necklace that she said she wanted so much when she was a girl.”

We reach our house and as I pull the heavy door open to let Spyridon pass with his precious cargo, I catch sight of the old cherry tree in the corner, whose gnarled bows, awakened by the ever returning miracle of spring, are now covered with green buds ready to open into leaf and bloom.  As I walk towards the tree, I take in the little group sitting around the table.

Larissa, resplendent in a bright turquoise peplos, is wedged between a bear of a man Kirkor and tall and lanky Demetrious, who does not take his eyes off Ariantha.  My daughter turns her divine eyes on me and smiles a glorious shy smile of first love. A barely contained excitement emanates from her, as if she, just like our cherry tree, is ready to burst into bloom. Damian – always hungry - is covertly chewing on a piece of cheese he sneaked from the table.  My sunny boy meets my eyes and beams, all his freckles spluttering away. Fedora, very serious and strangely young looking, is standing at the head of the table behind the master’s chair.

And sitting in the chair is my husband, the spring breeze gently tousling his silvery hair that has grown long during his illness. Fedora is supporting him by the shoulders, so weak he is. But he smiles his elusive smile that I love so much and mouths a barely audible: “I am so proud of you”.

 Spyridon puts the pot in the middle of the table. On the pot – terracotta red on black background – are my family and friends shown going about their everyday business (Damian whispers: “Demetrious, look, here is your dog!”) – yes, even one of Larissa’s dogs is there.

All the people I love are moving around the vase in a magical dance, never stopping, never breaking the circle of love, trust and hope.

The figures suddenly seem blurry. I realize that I am about to cry – I, who never cries. Trying to hold the hot tears stinging my eyes I tilt my head back – and there right in front of my eyes sways the first tender green leave. Through my tears I smile at it as I would at a member of the secret sisterhood – I know how much courage it takes to be the first.    



 


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