Please note: this piece contains content that some readers may find upsetting.
‘She doesn’t look terribly hopeful,’ said my neighbour.
I was showing her the reproduction of a George Frederick Watts painting entitled Hope, which I was planning to hang in my bedroom. I inclined my head and looked again at the picture of the girl in the green robe. With eyes covered, she was lying on an orange globe, holding a frayed lyre which only had one string. I wasn’t surprised by the comment; I knew that art critics who had seen the original painting had regarded the portrait as depicting despair rather than hope.
‘Sometimes hope is strongest when everything looks and feels hopeless,’ I said. ‘I think the artist was showing the juxtaposition between hope and hopelessness. Despite her pose, suggesting isolation, being shut off from the world, I see her strength and determination. She’s leaning into the lyre because she wants to hear music and believes that it will speak to her, even though the instrument only offers a single string.’
My neighbour looked at me, then back at the painting. ‘The way you’re talking about the girl in the picture, it sounds like you have experienced something similar, or been where she is,’ she said.
She was right. I needed a distraction; I hadn’t realised until that moment quite how raw the feelings and the memory of that night from over a quarter of a century ago still was. I noticed our almost empty glasses and held up the bottle of wine. ‘More?’
She leaned forward and nodded.
I poured the yellow amber liquid slowly, and we both sipped on the wine.
‘Do you want to tell me about it,’ she said.
I knew her well enough to recognise her question was sincere, not idle curiosity. I wondered, if I told her what had happened, whether it would change our relationship. I took a breath and decided to tell her anyway.
‘It was in Canada. My husband threatened to burn our house down, with me and our two children inside,’ I stated the truth calmly, defying the burning anxiety in the pit of my stomach.
She opened her mouth, closed her eyes and visibly shuddered. ‘What a monster.’
I raised my eyebrows and looked out of the window, into the night, behind where she was sitting. The inky black sky was cloud covered, no stars were visible. ‘Like many abusers he was good at disguise. When I met him he was charming, funny and kind.’
She picked up the picture from the coffee table and studied it again. ‘If this painting reminds you of that night, why do you want to hang it in your home?’
‘It’s a reminder of my strength. That night, I had to gather all my inner resources, not fall apart or allow him to see how vulnerable I felt. It was hope that got me through it. I needed to protect our two babies. My oldest in the bed with me, my youngest, who was just six months old, sleeping in the Moses basket next to me. That single string in the lyre represents how limited my options were. I had to choose my words carefully, to convince him he was better than the act he was threatening. I was literally clinging on for dear life, for scraps of inspiration. Like the model in the painting, holding onto the globe, she’s straining to listen to music from the lyre, hoping and believing it will restore her equilibrium.’
‘And he did hear you. Thank goodness. After you talked him out of his plan, what happened? Is that when you left him?’
We sat silently for a moment, empathy shining from her eyes as she waited for me to answer.
The proverb, hope springs eternal, had never felt more relevant. ‘Sadly not, although I did reach out for help. It’s a funny thing, hope isn’t it?’
‘How?’
‘Sometimes we hope for things that are unrealistic. I knew deep down he wasn’t going to change, yet I still hoped he would. Even after I eventually left, for the sake of the girls, that hope continued.’ I smiled and took another sip of wine. ‘Here’s to hope,’ I said, and raised my glass.
I traced the image of the girl in the painting with my fingers. ‘Watts painted this second version without the star, after his daughter died. I don’t know if I would have wanted to continue living if the girls had died and I’d survived that night. For me, losing my children might have been the end of hope.’
She wrinkled her forehead. ‘Do you think that’s what happens to people who give up after a tragedy, that they have lost all hope?’ she said.
I nodded. ‘I think without hope a part of us dies. Sorry this is getting rather maudlin, which wasn’t what I’d intended when I showed you the picture.’
‘The power of art, ay,’ she grinned and raised her glass. ‘Let’s return to your toast. Here’s to hope,’ she said.
I smiled and touched my glass against hers. ‘And to the power of that single string. That the teeniest slither can inspire hope in all of us.’
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