Silpa: the Art of Love

Chapter 8
Ephemeral Visions

I stride across Sanam Luang for Silpakorn, keen to begin the day early
even though I can’t do much until I see Silpa and his friend with the
contacts I need at lunch. The streets are already crammed with traffic
and full of people, and I watch as two women offer food and squat in
prayer at the bare feet of a bald, orange robe clad monk. It’s crossing
the park I connect the names Silpa and Silpakorn, making a mental note
to find out what they mean. I have in mind to mine my two chaperones
for as much information about their famous friend as possible, and for
that too I have no choice but to wait.

I drink coffee at the caf? under the tree by the faculty, basking in the
atmosphere of university life, watching the students arrive for their
lectures and workshops, soaking up the surroundings relaxed ambience.
It’s at this point of contemplation that a sudden sense of clarity
overcomes me about all things: my personal issues and the riddles of the
universe are abruptly plain and simple. I feel as though I’ve been lifted
outside of time and space in a way that can only be felt far from home’s
familiarity and am possessed by the wisdom of the ages, regardless of
the youthfulness still clutching at my bones.

My weaknesses are lain bare in this poignant moment of self-revelation,
as are my strengths, only both crumble and collapse along with my ego
as I realise their triviality compared to what is around me. The ghosts in
this place of history are brushing up against me, like the spirit who had
unexpectedly assumed Silpa’s solid form, like the spirit of the other Silpa
who is embodied in the bronze statue now staring down through history
at me from his perch; all appearing and disappearing from visible sight or
maybe it’s me capturing fleeting glimpses of their hidden world. Each step
I take follows in their footprints, everything I touch they have made for
me, and every breath I take is of the same air that once gave them life
and now contributes to the corrosion of everything they left behind.

What is the difference between life and death if a spirit can come, go,
and return again like any ship to port? And what frailty, when the ship,
having defied death and come home a thousand times, ultimately sinks
to the bottom with all hands and is forever lost at sea, all trace erased.
My racing thoughts are on their own expedition of discovery only, as
with so much, the tighter I try to grasp my line of thought the harder it
is to hold. The fleeting insights that had unexplainably floated around my
mind vanish as quickly as the ephemeral visions in my dreams, robbing
any hope of being allowed to keep a memory of them. I can only hope
that, as with my dreams, they will return in more physical form at
another time of their choosing.

Despite the disappointment at the moment’s passing, I’m glad it happened.
For the first time I’ve been visited in my waking state by what normally
only comes nocturnally – what is so often forgotten by dawn the following
day – as was the case this morning. That’s why I make myself draw in the
early hours, to capture these exquisite moments of intense rapture, this
distilled essence of life, before it returns into oblivion again, as all things
must. Reminded, I reach for my pencil to sketch what I’d seen, but it’s
too late. Whatever it was that struck and stunned me like a fallen star
has come and gone, leaving a contented void.

Charnwut arrives, orders a coffee for himself, another for me, and brings
them to the table. Looking fresh as the morning, shampooed, conditioned,
scrubbed and polished, he smiles and ignites a cigarette, considerately
blowing the smoke up and away from me.

“What happened to you yesterday, Anna? We thought we’d take you out
for dinner with some of the other ajarns.”

“Sorry, I went to the palace as you suggested, then to the Reclining
Buddha. Afterwards, I had to go back to the hotel for an early night. I’m
ready to work today.”

“Okay. Silpa has cleared out his show, and there’s nothing else booked
for that space. So, it’s all yours.”

“Great. Can you answer a question for me?”

“Sure, you must have plenty, fire away.”

“What does ‘Silpa’ mean?”

“Silpa means ‘art.’”

“So what does Silpakorn mean?”

“Korn means hand in old Sanskrit, so Silpakorn translates, more or less,
to art made by hand.”

“Then how did Silpa get his nickname?”

“Every Thai has a nickname. Mine is simply ‘Wut,’ an abbreviation of my
name.”

“Can I call you Wut?”

“Please.”

“And how did Silpa get such a grand nickname, Wut?”

“Silpa was a prodigy. He was born to be an artist. Let me try and tell you
his story from the beginning. He’s originally from a poor peasant family in
Ayuttaya Province north of here. Although poor, the monks recognised his
talent and picked him out to become a monk. It was the monks who first
called him Silpa. He grew up in a Buddhist monastery where he learned
traditional Thai art from the last of the old masters. They practiced
original Thai style painting and sculpture like the ones you saw yesterday
at the palace and temple. Then he left the monastery and came to study
modern art here. Now he’s an ajarn.”

“So he’s no longer a monk?”

“He hasn’t returned to being a monk as yet, and I doubt that he would
return to the monastery again, except perhaps after he retires. His path
is as an artist and teacher, and he got married. But he’s still a devout
Buddhist, that’s what his work is about.”

Of all Wut had told me one word stands out above the rest. “He’s
married?”

“Was married. His lovely wife regrettably passed away a couple of years
ago.”

This new information, revealed so casually, goes off like a bombshell inside
me, forcing my mouth and eyes closed, as flashes of the woman’s face in
my dream flicker like the black and white images of a classic silent movie
on the back of my eyelids, until I can force them open again. Not knowing
what else to say, but feeling the compelling need to say something, I
utter automatically, “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Actually, his wife was about your age, too young to die from cancer.”
Having finished his coffee and apparently unaware of the whirlpool his
comments had thrown my emotions spiralling into, Charnwut stands and
scans the faces on the far side of the courtyard. “The dean’s here.
Excuse me, Anna, I have to go speak with him.”

“Thanks, Wut.”

Alone, I take out the drawings I’d made of the woman. Now I know who
she is, I can still only clutch at the straws connecting us, unable to
grasp whatever message or meaning she has for me, if indeed there is
one. Thinking it over, my logical mind can’t accept the idea, and I dismiss
it entirely as being totally irrational. No dead people visit the living and
my dreams are definitely only dreams, even if I can’t explain them logically.

At ten to twelve I go to Ming Lee, impatient to see Silpa. The Jay that
comes out of the kitchen must remember me because, as I stand by the
reserved table, she pulls out a chair at another nearer the kitchen for me
to sit. At least she doesn’t shoo me back out the door. I sit down and ask
her for a glass of water in English, only she walks away to serve another
customer. Without speaking Thai, I have no choice but to sit and wait. I
feel conspicuous and a little guilty about taking up an entire table by
myself without even a glass of water to stake my claim to it.

I look around, watching how the Thais relate to each other, noticing they
nearly always wai in greeting and only shake hands when invited to by
foreigners. The restaurant fills up and the Jays are starting to look at me
more sourly. As I’m about to give up and leave, Silpa arrives accompanied
by a younger artist, who both wai me, and I wai them in return.

Silpa’s pleased, exclaiming, “Ah, you’ve learned how to wai! And the Jay
didn’t kick you out either!” he laughs.

“Not yet,” I reply lightly, playing along with the joke.

“Anna, this is Sittichoke. He’s the artist I was telling you about,” says
Silpa, and we wai each other.

The Jay takes Silpa’s order, and people at the next table lean over to
question him at length. With Silpa temporarily out of our conversation, I
speak with Sittichoke about my plans regarding my involvement of bar
girls in my exhibition.

“Do you think you can help me?”

“Ajarn Silpa told me what you want, and I can make the arrangements
anytime. If you want to see the girls I know in the bars, I can take you
to them. Or, if you don’t want to go there, I’ll bring them to you.”

“You know them that well?”

“Yes, I worked with them last year. I did a painting exhibition with them as my subjects at The National Gallery. They trust me.”

“This sounds almost too good to be true.”

“Well,” says Sittichoke, “I trust Ajarn Silpa and he trusts you, so I will
help you anyway I can.”

“Thanks. I think it best I see the women in these infamous Bangkok bars
I’ve heard so much about, and then bring them into the gallery.”

“When?”

“Would tonight be too soon? I don’t have much time.”

“Sure, I’ll pick you up from your hotel at nine.”

The people at the other table let Silpa return to our conversation and he
asks, “Have you made an arrangement yet?”

“Yes, Sittichoke has offered to take me to the bars tonight and introduce
me to some young women. Would you like to join us?”

“Hmm. I think it best if I meet your artists when you bring them here.”

Over the meal I give Silpa my entire attention. I’ve never met anyone like
him. His face overtakes the natural light striking him, making the viewer
think they’re looking at a portrait by the Dutch master Johannes Vermer,
who was able to create an internal radiance that didn’t exist in the
subject. Only in Silpa’s case it’s real. I don’t have to reach out and touch
it: it touches me.

And it’s as though there’s an imperceptible cord linking us, a beam that
although invisible I can feel burning as it strikes my heart. My only
concern is if he feels the ray of energy firing between us as I do. Surely
he must, even if only as a glimmer, otherwise why would he come to visit
me so often in a way that beggars belief, and why would we be drawn to
each other from so far apart in the physical world?

As I watch him sipping water and talking easily about small subjects it
dawns on me that, although I’ve never been in love and have no idea
what love could be except as an impossible ideal or in terms of gender
power structures, that I am in love. I realise I’ve loved this man the
instant my eyes fell into his. No, it was before that, when he touched me.
Or it was before that, when he visited my dreams. I have an boundless
imagination, yet I can’t possibly imagine him, the most kind-hearted
person I’ve ever met – either man or woman – repressing me.

We stroll back to the faculty and, standing beneath the bronze statue
of Silpa Bhirasri, part ways, giving each other a wai. I don’t want to be
separated from him, and want to share with him about my dreams as
well as ask him about his wife. Instead, I let my last words catch up to
him from behind as he’s walking away, “Lunch tomorrow?”

He stops, swivels on a heel, and smiles as he bows. “Lunch tomorrow.”