Garúa is the Argentine word for a fine drizzle/

Chipi-chipi is the Mexican term.

Today I managed to take Niño for a walk and it began to drizzle in the last part of the walk. Niño, a smart cat, ran ahead of me home. Below is today’s blog which is all about the usual, my missing my Rosemary.

I am almost sure that if anybody even begins to read any of my blogs of late they must think I am a one trick pony that can only write melancholic stuff about his Rosemary that he lost on December 8 2020.

My response to anybody who might communicate, via phone or email, is that I write the blog for me and that I take Joan Didion’s cue that I write in order to find out what I am thinking.

And what do I think about when I wake up?  During the whole day even if I have distraction, and when I get into bed and turn of the lights its Rosemary. I think of Rosemary and that I no longer share my life with her.

A bright moment every day, weather permitting is my walk around the block with my male cat Niño. It was Rosemary who taught him to walk without a leash. I feel I have the obligation to continue her routine. It is pleasant but sad because I take the same route and I can sense that absent presence of Rosemary.

Today I walked Niño. I felt satisfied that I had performed an important obligation (one of the few that I now have).

But as pleasant as it was to see him walk with me as it started to rain I thought of going home to lie by Rosemary and tell her, “It began to rain but Niño and I managed just fine.” She would have smiled.

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I have written about this before. Today I can add an interesting variation on the subject.

The other side of two dimensions

For close to 10 years I was friends with a Vancouver couple of Argentine artists, Nora Patrich and Juan Manuel Sánchez. I met them at tango classes. Sánchez was a worse dancer than I was but he became my mentor in art and we did many colaboraciones where we mixed his drawings with my photographs on one paper.

Juan Manuel Sánchez in his studio in Vancouver

I had no idea who the Mannerists (Manieristas) were until Sánchez gave me a friendly art education. I found out that El Greco was a Mannerist as was my fave Bronzino.

Sánchez was born in 1930 and he died in 2016. I went to visit him at his studio in Buenos Aires a few months before he died. After our chat we went for coffee. I began the conversation with, “The next time I come…” He did not let me finish. He said, “I will not be here.”

Corvus Cuervo - colaboración

 

In his studio I noticed that his memory was spotty. I presented him with a sheet of cardboard (one side was shiny silver) and asked him to draw me one of his trademark nudes. He looked at the sheet and said, “But it has two sides.” I then said, “Da Vinci.” That was all he needed as he had a memory of the da Vinci painting at the National Gallery in Washington DC that has two sides.

I noticed that instead of dating his work 2016 he wrote 916. I was not going to correct him.

For me it is special to have his two nudes framed in one frame. It has this side and an obverse side.

How lucky I was to have met and loved this man!

Rosemary Elizabeth Healey

While I cannot speak for others, one of the tragedies of my life, is that when I became curious to ask the question, the person that could give me the answer was dead.

I never did ask my father how it was that in 1950 a frequent visitor was his friend Julio Cortázar. Why were they friends?

This photograph of Rosemary is a scan (amazing but almost forgotten technology of the last century) of a little picture from our family album that I never noticed as it was too small. Was it taken in her high school graduation? Could it have been in college?  I will never know.

Because I first photographed Rosemary when we met in 1967, this photograph represents almost the idea of meeting somebody for the first time. It was until now an undiscovered picture of her.

When she died in December 9, 2020 I was 78. A quotient of the two numbers means that at that point our life together had been 66% of my existence. At that time I had never lived alone. I have now lived alone for three years.

I cannot adjust. My two daughters often call me. My granddaughters do not. Up until Rosemary died we had contact with those granddaughters. I miss them.

Since then, a great majority of the friends and writers I worked with have died. Isolation since the pandemic began is now routine. The phone almost never rings.

I have a former editor friend who told me, “I never answer emails as I get too many of them. I never answer my land line. If you want to contact me I must tell you that I have my cell phone ringer on off so you must first text me that you want to talk.”

Of course I do not communicate with him. He does not communicate with me as (my opinion) I have lost my usefulness as a photographer or writer. He no longer edits any magazine or newspaper.

My isolation is thus compounded by the idea that I have lost my utility to anybody with what I know how to do.

What saves me from a desire for a rapid oblivion are my two cats Niño and Niña. I have found out that cats learn. When Rosemary and I brought Niño and his sister Niña from the SPCA 6 years ago, Niña was a scaredy cat. She would hide in the closet when people came. She rapidly adopted Rosemary and was with her all the time. I felt a tad miffed.

Niña

I can report that since Rosemary died, Niña is by my side or on top of me on the bed whenever possible. She competes for my attention with the cat that was always my cat, Niño.

I wonder if they are aware of my isolation? I wonder if they miss Rosemary?

I have since learned that for a cat to want affection is to be affectionate. They are affectionate.

Rosemary was affectionate in a different way. She always made sure I had extra razors and shaving cream. She planned our trips abroad all with her iPhone on the bed. I complained to my daughters that Rosemary spent too much time on or in the bed. That is precisely what I do now.

Nobody can understand what happens when you suddenly do not share a bed, or have a joint tub bath (we did this frequently) or watch Noir Alley on TV with your wife.

I have no idea exactly what the term “not to have the heart to” means. But I have ceased watching TV, going to the theatre and most concerts. I lie on the bed with my two cats and read books in Spanish. I don’t know anybody in Vancouver who might be interested in the importance of Ernesto Sábato’s Sobre Héroes y Tumbas or any of the short stories of Borges or Cortázar.

I could have discussed all that with Rosemary. We often read the same author on duplicate books.

Only lately have I come to understand that a moment in time becomes a memory.

With spring around the corner, I will be working in the garden again. Even though I do not believe in ghosts I will sense Rosemary’s presence and when I smell my roses it will be like smelling Rosemary behind the ear.