Isaac Israels: Two Donkeys (1897 - 1901)

Gallery Notes:
Scheveningen’s donkeys were not just entertainment for seaside visitors; Israels made grateful use of them in his paintings. He portrayed them a few times, either with children riding or a boy leading, or as here, waiting for the next ride. Their keeper lies in the foreground, on the sand.

"I remember we'd once been Exiled before our Visitors found us home."

Visitors transformed our Exile. On our first days there, two old friends just happened to be passing through the area to visit relatives, and we spent two days easing into that terribly unfamiliar place together. It seemed much less foreboding with them there to distract us into entertaining. Something about visitors brings the host out in us. We might not usually take ourselves out to dinner, but when we have Visitors, we're much more likely to consent to the splurge and even try to find the best. I become tour guide-y, even when I'm unfamiliar with the territory. I have an almost uncanny ability to find interesting places, and our Visitors almost always appreciate my efforts. We wouldn't have visited half the tourist traps in DC had Visitors' presence not quietly goaded us into agreeing to go.

The GrandOtter was our most frequent Visitor after we were Exiled. Whether she agreed to visit to escape her home life or to see her grandparents didn't matter to us; we welcomed her presence, even though she'd often play out her adolescence before us in unsettling ways. We appreciated the opportunity to influence her maturing, even when our best attempts fell far short of our expectations. Old friends would be passing through town and come around for supper, sometimes even agreeing to stay over for a night or two. I never felt more alive than when the guest room was occupied. I'd rise early, mix up a batch of muffins, and ensure the coffee was ready the instant they awakened. I felt as if I was tending to legacy then, appreciating the past for stopping by to remind me who I'd once been.

Being Exiled separates one's past. When the last moving van is filled, there's never any excess space left to load in the legacy. That must remain behind, untended and decaying. Visitors revive that almost forgotten presence, the only one they ever knew between us. When they'd see me, their gaze seemed to cut right through whatever barrier had prevented me before from experiencing that essential connection. Past and present reestablish their once close relationship. I would pop a dimension. What had been two-dimensional immediately exploded into four or more, and all would be temporarily right again with a formerly severely wronged world. Even the most pedestrian activities, done together, took on magical properties. We made some fresh memories together, renewing those Exiles' lease on life.

Their presence substantiated our Exile house into a real place. It only really seemed like our home once someone else came visiting. Then it became The Villa Vatta Schmaltz again, albeit with a suffix: The Villa Vatta Schmaltz East or High. I became mine again in the company of a long-lost friend. Even strangers visiting had a curiously transforming effect, for they rarely knew whether they were visiting an old family place or something else. It didn't matter to them and little did they know that their mere presence transformed our rentals into old family places for the duration of their visits. They never witnessed the shift back just after they left. It would become a prison cell again, separated somehow by more than just space and time from before our Exile. It could become the stage upon which fresh futures would be played out, but it could also revert backward into a space where space and time both became irrelevant again.

One is always Exiled into nothingness. There is no presence there and no future, and also never even a convincing hint of any past. It lasts forever until it doesn't. The sole transforming agent was the Visitor. Unsuspecting of the nature of their extraordinary gift, they arrived as if they were merely arriving. Hugs exchanged at the door, an ushering into the guest room, the invitation to clean up and refresh. Then came the recounting and the accounting of what had happened since, leading into revisiting what we'd shared before. Most of the conversation would be deeply encoded. Any objective observer would have never understood the meanings being passed. We were revisiting what had already passed, though our revisiting would not last, either. It could only exist for those precious moments when we'd sit there like this, shooting the shit like only old friends ever can. Those transitory moments would always be eternal.

Our home remains our sanctuary now, even when we're returned from Exile. It can also become our prison, with walls too thick for much of the world to get in until Visitors somehow manage to bring that world inside. We remain consummate hosts. We crave guests. We maintain space for deep dialogues and only lack for people with which to engage in them. We create dinners and house concerts, discussion groups, and garden parties. We keep the garage beer fridge filled with libations in case some Visitors happen upon us. Sometimes, it seems as though we run a bed and breakfast, though I'd never agree to willingly assume that responsibility. Still, those mornings when I'm rooting around in the kitchen in predawn darkness, whipping up a batch of muffins, never fail to leave me feeling most like myself. I imagine our Visitors waking up in our cozy guest room to the scent of coffee, bacon, and muffins, and I remember we'd once been Exiled before our Visitors found us home.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Exiled, #PureSchmaltz