Losing Inspiration by By Ashliegh Gehl for the Herald de Paris September 3, 2012

Three years ago, I found a beautifully written tribute to Armand by Ashleigh Gehl. Both touched and intrigued, I reached out to Ms. Gehl to find out which painting inspired her eloquent article.

Today, it brings me great pleasure to share with you, both the tribute and the work of art behind the inspiration...

 

 

"By Herald de Paris Contributor's Bureau on September 3, 2012

By Ashliegh Gehl
 

BELLEVILLE (Herald de Paris) — The backdrop of my laptop is wallpapered with a photograph of Gabriel García Márquez. He’s looking dapper. Dressed in a white suit with shoes to match, the only splash of colour comes from a bright yellow shirt with a collar up to his ears. I imagine it cotton, light on the skin.

There’s a wave of calm on his face as he sits on the edge of a bed neatly made, marred by symmetry. The angle of light falling on his feet suggests he’s looking out a window. His hands, barely visible, are lost in his lap.

Márquez, at 82-years-old, is suffering from senile dementia. His condition forced him to retire his pen. The writer has surrendered. And yet, when I look at the image I see a man who lived a joyous, turbulent life, welcoming the solace of solitude.

Before Márquez, a painting by Armand Tatossian dominated the backdrop. It held steady as a source of inspiration for over three years. Last July, when the state of Márquez’s mind became a news flash, I decided to change it up.

A writer can live with many fears. There’s the fear of never being successful, of never writing well. I’ve always feared the day my well of ideas is no longer gushing. After all, selling those ideas is how a writer staves starvation.

Then there’s the unimaginable looming in the periphery of chance.

It’s the cognitive functions, the mechanics of the body dwindling with age that can sneak up like a battalion rushing over a hill. Personal independence is compromised.

Reading about Márquez came with a realization. All creative artists, if they live long enough to endure it, will have to surrender their craft. The idea of succumbing to a condition dictating the rest of your life and preventing you from your heart’s work, is painful. It’s an unfathomable break hard to bear.

When I write a story, I close every browser and unnecessary file on my laptop. Kind of like how I tidy the desk before sitting down to write by hand. And when I need room to think, no more than a splash of milk in a cup of coffee, I let the document fall to the dock and just stare at the image dominating the backdrop.

The image of Márquez reminds me of the inner self. I can’t see what’s happening beyond the photograph, outside the window where the sun is shining. I can only imagine it.

Tatossian’s painting is different.

A faceless woman holding a red umbrella in her right hand walks on a puddled path. Her long brown jacket rubs her kneecaps. Around her neck, a white scarf. To her left, a wooden fence easy to scale and to her right, a line of wet wooden benches. She’s surrounded by bursts of yellow. Deep shades as rich as mustard. Other strokes are as soft as light radiating from a shaded light bulb. The trees seem still with the canopy mingling above her. In the treetops, clusters of leaves hanging on as long as the season allows. Behind her, a line of stone buildings expected in an old city. It’s an image of bliss in autumn. A moment I can endlessly stare into.

I came across this painting before I learned Tatossian, who was living in Montreal, had a stroke in 2007. Much like Márquez, he was forced to surrender. The damage done to his right side, as a statement on his website explains, prevented him from caring for himself. In turn, he’s unable to paint.

Before knowing about Tatossian’s situation, I knew his paintings. Curiosity propelled me to learn about the man and his ability to bottle emotions in his city scapes. It’s said he described himself as an “abstract figurative artist.”

It’s not an understatement to say Tatossian’s talent is in his DNA. He’s named after his grandfather who was a painter and curator at the Alexandria Museum of Egypt. Tatossian was born in Alexandria in 1951. And in 1973 he became the youngest person to be accepted into the Royal Canadian Academy. He was a professor of art at Loyola College in Montreal and Concordia University.

It was a milky Sunday afternoon on Aug. 26. I had just finished work and on my way home started to scrolling through Facebook on my iPhone. I came across an image in French posted under Tatossian’s name. When I opened it, it blurred a bit. I couldn’t read all of the words, but from trying to make sense of it I learned he had died.

I ran down my long winding driveway, threw open the heavy door and ran downstairs to my office. Word for word, I retyped the message into Google’s translator to make sure what I was reading was true. That my poor French didn’t make me believe my inspiration was dead. Tatossian had died Aug. 23. He was young. Only 61.

There are moments in life when you truly feel like you’ve lost your breath. My idols, the ones I rarely speak of and keep personal, have never been flashy or giants in their field. Tatossian was passionate, a painter’s painter and a world traveler. He held a love for his craft in the palm of his hand.

The most rewarding part about journalism is being able sit with someone, actively listening as they tell their life story. I had always hoped Tatossian would be one of those people I’d spend a moment with, learning his story.

I’ve since changed the image on my backdrop back to Tatossian. Back to the painting I’ve enjoy looking at. I’ve accepted that it’s the closest I’ll ever come to the source of so many stories. It’s a daily reminder of the life that lived behind the paint, behind the thick brushstrokes, behind the essence of a moment seen in a man’s eye.

- See more at: http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:vAGu-rTH-scJ:www.heralddeparis.com/losing-inspiration/187822+&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us#sthash.mYLVIXV3.dpuf

Source of Original Text For "Losing Inspiration" by Ashliegh Gehl copied from Herald de Paris website: http://www.heralddeparis.com/losing-inspiration/187822 

By Herald de Paris Contributor's Bureau on September 3, 2012

By Ashliegh Gehl
BELLEVILLE (Herald de Paris) — The backdrop of my laptop is wallpapered with a photograph of Gabriel García Márquez. He’s looking dapper. Dressed in a white suit with shoes to match, the only splash of colour comes from a bright yellow shirt with a collar up to his ears. I imagine it cotton, light on the skin.
There’s a wave of calm on his face as he sits on the edge of a bed neatly made, marred by symmetry. The angle of light falling on his feet suggests he’s looking out a window. His hands, barely visible, are lost in his lap
Márquez, at 82-years-old, is suffering from senile dementia. His condition forced him to retire his pen. The writer has surrendered. And yet, when I look at the image I see a man who lived a joyous, turbulent life, welcoming the solace of solitude.
Before Márquez, a painting by Armand Tatossian dominated the backdrop. It held steady as a source of inspiration for over three years. Last July, when the state of Márquez’s mind became a news flash, I decided to change it up.
A writer can live with many fears. There’s the fear of never being successful, of never writing well. I’ve always feared the day my well of ideas is no longer gushing. After all, selling those ideas is how a writer staves starvation.
Then there’s the unimaginable looming in the periphery of chance.
It’s the cognitive functions, the mechanics of the body dwindling with age that can sneak up like a battalion rushing over a hill. Personal independence is compromised.
Reading about Márquez came with a realization. All creative artists, if they live long enough to endure it, will have to surrender their craft. The idea of succumbing to a condition dictating the rest of your life and preventing you from your heart’s work, is painful. It’s an unfathomable break hard to bear.
When I write a story, I close every browser and unnecessary file on my laptop. Kind of like how I tidy the desk before sitting down to write by hand. And when I need room to think, no more than a splash of milk in a cup of coffee, I let the document fall to the dock and just stare at the image dominating the backdrop.
The image of Márquez reminds me of the inner self. I can’t see what’s happening beyond the photograph, outside the window where the sun is shining. I can only imagine it.
Tatossian’s painting is different.
A faceless woman holding a red umbrella in her right hand walks on a puddled path. Her long brown jacket rubs her kneecaps. Around her neck, a white scarf. To her left, a wooden fence easy to scale and to her right, a line of wet wooden benches. She’s surrounded by bursts of yellow. Deep shades as rich as mustard. Other strokes are as soft as light radiating from a shaded light bulb. The trees seem still with the canopy mingling above her. In the treetops, clusters of leaves hanging on as long as the season allows. Behind her, a line of stone buildings expected in an old city. It’s an image of bliss in autumn. A moment I can endlessly stare into.
I came across this painting before I learned Tatossian, who was living in Montreal, had a stroke in 2007. Much like Márquez, he was forced to surrender. The damage done to his right side, as a statement on his website explains, prevented him from caring for himself. In turn, he’s unable to paint.
Before knowing about Tatossian’s situation, I knew his paintings. Curiosity propelled me to learn about the man and his ability to bottle emotions in his cityscapes. It’s said he described himself as an “abstract figurative artist.”
It’s not an understatement to say Tatossian’s talent is in his DNA. He’s named after his grandfather who was a painter and curator at the Alexandria Museum of Egypt. Tatossian was born in Alexandria in 1951. And in 1973 he became the youngest person to be accepted into the Royal Canadian Academy. He was a professor of art at Loyola College in Montreal and Concordia University.
It was a milky Sunday afternoon on Aug. 26. I had just finished work and on my way home started to scrolling through Facebook on my iPhone. I came across an image in French posted under Tatossian’s name. When I opened it, it blurred a bit. I couldn’t read all of the words, but from trying to make sense of it I learned he had died.
I ran down my long winding driveway, threw open the heavy door and ran downstairs to my office. Word for word, I retyped the message into Google’s translator to make sure what I was reading was true. That my poor French didn’t make me believe my inspiration was dead. Tatossian had died Aug. 23. He was young. Only 61.
There are moments in life when you truly feel like you’ve lost your breath. My idols, the ones I rarely speak of and keep personal, have never been flashy or giants in their field. Tatossian was passionate, a painter’s painter and a world traveler. He held a love for his craft in the palm of his hand.
The most rewarding part about journalism is being able sit with someone, actively listening as they tell their life story. I had always hoped Tatossian would be one of those people I’d spend a moment with, learning his story.
I’ve since changed the image on my backdrop back to Tatossian. Back to the painting I’ve enjoy looking at. I’ve accepted that it’s the closest I’ll ever come to the source of so many stories. It’s a daily reminder of the life that lived behind the paint, behind the thick brushstrokes, behind the essence of a moment seen in a man’s eye.
- See more at: http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:vAGu-rTH-scJ:www.heralddeparis.com/losing-inspiration/187822+&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us#sthash.mYLVIXV3.dpuf

By Herald de Paris Contributor's Bureau on September 3, 2012

By Ashliegh Gehl
BELLEVILLE (Herald de Paris) — The backdrop of my laptop is wallpapered with a photograph of Gabriel García Márquez. He’s looking dapper. Dressed in a white suit with shoes to match, the only splash of colour comes from a bright yellow shirt with a collar up to his ears. I imagine it cotton, light on the skin.
There’s a wave of calm on his face as he sits on the edge of a bed neatly made, marred by symmetry. The angle of light falling on his feet suggests he’s looking out a window. His hands, barely visible, are lost in his lap
Márquez, at 82-years-old, is suffering from senile dementia. His condition forced him to retire his pen. The writer has surrendered. And yet, when I look at the image I see a man who lived a joyous, turbulent life, welcoming the solace of solitude.
Before Márquez, a painting by Armand Tatossian dominated the backdrop. It held steady as a source of inspiration for over three years. Last July, when the state of Márquez’s mind became a news flash, I decided to change it up.
A writer can live with many fears. There’s the fear of never being successful, of never writing well. I’ve always feared the day my well of ideas is no longer gushing. After all, selling those ideas is how a writer staves starvation.
Then there’s the unimaginable looming in the periphery of chance.
It’s the cognitive functions, the mechanics of the body dwindling with age that can sneak up like a battalion rushing over a hill. Personal independence is compromised.
Reading about Márquez came with a realization. All creative artists, if they live long enough to endure it, will have to surrender their craft. The idea of succumbing to a condition dictating the rest of your life and preventing you from your heart’s work, is painful. It’s an unfathomable break hard to bear.
When I write a story, I close every browser and unnecessary file on my laptop. Kind of like how I tidy the desk before sitting down to write by hand. And when I need room to think, no more than a splash of milk in a cup of coffee, I let the document fall to the dock and just stare at the image dominating the backdrop.
The image of Márquez reminds me of the inner self. I can’t see what’s happening beyond the photograph, outside the window where the sun is shining. I can only imagine it.
Tatossian’s painting is different.
A faceless woman holding a red umbrella in her right hand walks on a puddled path. Her long brown jacket rubs her kneecaps. Around her neck, a white scarf. To her left, a wooden fence easy to scale and to her right, a line of wet wooden benches. She’s surrounded by bursts of yellow. Deep shades as rich as mustard. Other strokes are as soft as light radiating from a shaded light bulb. The trees seem still with the canopy mingling above her. In the treetops, clusters of leaves hanging on as long as the season allows. Behind her, a line of stone buildings expected in an old city. It’s an image of bliss in autumn. A moment I can endlessly stare into.
I came across this painting before I learned Tatossian, who was living in Montreal, had a stroke in 2007. Much like Márquez, he was forced to surrender. The damage done to his right side, as a statement on his website explains, prevented him from caring for himself. In turn, he’s unable to paint.
Before knowing about Tatossian’s situation, I knew his paintings. Curiosity propelled me to learn about the man and his ability to bottle emotions in his cityscapes. It’s said he described himself as an “abstract figurative artist.”
It’s not an understatement to say Tatossian’s talent is in his DNA. He’s named after his grandfather who was a painter and curator at the Alexandria Museum of Egypt. Tatossian was born in Alexandria in 1951. And in 1973 he became the youngest person to be accepted into the Royal Canadian Academy. He was a professor of art at Loyola College in Montreal and Concordia University.
It was a milky Sunday afternoon on Aug. 26. I had just finished work and on my way home started to scrolling through Facebook on my iPhone. I came across an image in French posted under Tatossian’s name. When I opened it, it blurred a bit. I couldn’t read all of the words, but from trying to make sense of it I learned he had died.
I ran down my long winding driveway, threw open the heavy door and ran downstairs to my office. Word for word, I retyped the message into Google’s translator to make sure what I was reading was true. That my poor French didn’t make me believe my inspiration was dead. Tatossian had died Aug. 23. He was young. Only 61.
There are moments in life when you truly feel like you’ve lost your breath. My idols, the ones I rarely speak of and keep personal, have never been flashy or giants in their field. Tatossian was passionate, a painter’s painter and a world traveler. He held a love for his craft in the palm of his hand.
The most rewarding part about journalism is being able sit with someone, actively listening as they tell their life story. I had always hoped Tatossian would be one of those people I’d spend a moment with, learning his story.
I’ve since changed the image on my backdrop back to Tatossian. Back to the painting I’ve enjoy looking at. I’ve accepted that it’s the closest I’ll ever come to the source of so many stories. It’s a daily reminder of the life that lived behind the paint, behind the thick brushstrokes, behind the essence of a moment seen in a man’s eye.
- See more at: http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:vAGu-rTH-scJ:www.heralddeparis.com/losing-inspiration/187822+&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us#sthash.mYLVIXV3.dpuf

By Herald de Paris Contributor's Bureau on September 3, 2012

By Ashliegh Gehl
BELLEVILLE (Herald de Paris) — The backdrop of my laptop is wallpapered with a photograph of Gabriel García Márquez. He’s looking dapper. Dressed in a white suit with shoes to match, the only splash of colour comes from a bright yellow shirt with a collar up to his ears. I imagine it cotton, light on the skin.
There’s a wave of calm on his face as he sits on the edge of a bed neatly made, marred by symmetry. The angle of light falling on his feet suggests he’s looking out a window. His hands, barely visible, are lost in his lap
Márquez, at 82-years-old, is suffering from senile dementia. His condition forced him to retire his pen. The writer has surrendered. And yet, when I look at the image I see a man who lived a joyous, turbulent life, welcoming the solace of solitude.
Before Márquez, a painting by Armand Tatossian dominated the backdrop. It held steady as a source of inspiration for over three years. Last July, when the state of Márquez’s mind became a news flash, I decided to change it up.
A writer can live with many fears. There’s the fear of never being successful, of never writing well. I’ve always feared the day my well of ideas is no longer gushing. After all, selling those ideas is how a writer staves starvation.
Then there’s the unimaginable looming in the periphery of chance.
It’s the cognitive functions, the mechanics of the body dwindling with age that can sneak up like a battalion rushing over a hill. Personal independence is compromised.
Reading about Márquez came with a realization. All creative artists, if they live long enough to endure it, will have to surrender their craft. The idea of succumbing to a condition dictating the rest of your life and preventing you from your heart’s work, is painful. It’s an unfathomable break hard to bear.
When I write a story, I close every browser and unnecessary file on my laptop. Kind of like how I tidy the desk before sitting down to write by hand. And when I need room to think, no more than a splash of milk in a cup of coffee, I let the document fall to the dock and just stare at the image dominating the backdrop.
The image of Márquez reminds me of the inner self. I can’t see what’s happening beyond the photograph, outside the window where the sun is shining. I can only imagine it.
Tatossian’s painting is different.
A faceless woman holding a red umbrella in her right hand walks on a puddled path. Her long brown jacket rubs her kneecaps. Around her neck, a white scarf. To her left, a wooden fence easy to scale and to her right, a line of wet wooden benches. She’s surrounded by bursts of yellow. Deep shades as rich as mustard. Other strokes are as soft as light radiating from a shaded light bulb. The trees seem still with the canopy mingling above her. In the treetops, clusters of leaves hanging on as long as the season allows. Behind her, a line of stone buildings expected in an old city. It’s an image of bliss in autumn. A moment I can endlessly stare into.
I came across this painting before I learned Tatossian, who was living in Montreal, had a stroke in 2007. Much like Márquez, he was forced to surrender. The damage done to his right side, as a statement on his website explains, prevented him from caring for himself. In turn, he’s unable to paint.
Before knowing about Tatossian’s situation, I knew his paintings. Curiosity propelled me to learn about the man and his ability to bottle emotions in his cityscapes. It’s said he described himself as an “abstract figurative artist.”
It’s not an understatement to say Tatossian’s talent is in his DNA. He’s named after his grandfather who was a painter and curator at the Alexandria Museum of Egypt. Tatossian was born in Alexandria in 1951. And in 1973 he became the youngest person to be accepted into the Royal Canadian Academy. He was a professor of art at Loyola College in Montreal and Concordia University.
It was a milky Sunday afternoon on Aug. 26. I had just finished work and on my way home started to scrolling through Facebook on my iPhone. I came across an image in French posted under Tatossian’s name. When I opened it, it blurred a bit. I couldn’t read all of the words, but from trying to make sense of it I learned he had died.
I ran down my long winding driveway, threw open the heavy door and ran downstairs to my office. Word for word, I retyped the message into Google’s translator to make sure what I was reading was true. That my poor French didn’t make me believe my inspiration was dead. Tatossian had died Aug. 23. He was young. Only 61.
There are moments in life when you truly feel like you’ve lost your breath. My idols, the ones I rarely speak of and keep personal, have never been flashy or giants in their field. Tatossian was passionate, a painter’s painter and a world traveler. He held a love for his craft in the palm of his hand.
The most rewarding part about journalism is being able sit with someone, actively listening as they tell their life story. I had always hoped Tatossian would be one of those people I’d spend a moment with, learning his story.
I’ve since changed the image on my backdrop back to Tatossian. Back to the painting I’ve enjoy looking at. I’ve accepted that it’s the closest I’ll ever come to the source of so many stories. It’s a daily reminder of the life that lived behind the paint, behind the thick brushstrokes, behind the essence of a moment seen in a man’s eye.
- See more at: http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:vAGu-rTH-scJ:www.heralddeparis.com/losing-inspiration/187822+&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us#sthash.mYLVIXV3.dpuf

By Herald de Paris Contributor's Bureau on September 3, 2012

By Ashliegh Gehl
BELLEVILLE (Herald de Paris) — The backdrop of my laptop is wallpapered with a photograph of Gabriel García Márquez. He’s looking dapper. Dressed in a white suit with shoes to match, the only splash of colour comes from a bright yellow shirt with a collar up to his ears. I imagine it cotton, light on the skin.
There’s a wave of calm on his face as he sits on the edge of a bed neatly made, marred by symmetry. The angle of light falling on his feet suggests he’s looking out a window. His hands, barely visible, are lost in his lap
Márquez, at 82-years-old, is suffering from senile dementia. His condition forced him to retire his pen. The writer has surrendered. And yet, when I look at the image I see a man who lived a joyous, turbulent life, welcoming the solace of solitude.
Before Márquez, a painting by Armand Tatossian dominated the backdrop. It held steady as a source of inspiration for over three years. Last July, when the state of Márquez’s mind became a news flash, I decided to change it up.
A writer can live with many fears. There’s the fear of never being successful, of never writing well. I’ve always feared the day my well of ideas is no longer gushing. After all, selling those ideas is how a writer staves starvation.
Then there’s the unimaginable looming in the periphery of chance.
It’s the cognitive functions, the mechanics of the body dwindling with age that can sneak up like a battalion rushing over a hill. Personal independence is compromised.
Reading about Márquez came with a realization. All creative artists, if they live long enough to endure it, will have to surrender their craft. The idea of succumbing to a condition dictating the rest of your life and preventing you from your heart’s work, is painful. It’s an unfathomable break hard to bear.
When I write a story, I close every browser and unnecessary file on my laptop. Kind of like how I tidy the desk before sitting down to write by hand. And when I need room to think, no more than a splash of milk in a cup of coffee, I let the document fall to the dock and just stare at the image dominating the backdrop.
The image of Márquez reminds me of the inner self. I can’t see what’s happening beyond the photograph, outside the window where the sun is shining. I can only imagine it.
Tatossian’s painting is different.
A faceless woman holding a red umbrella in her right hand walks on a puddled path. Her long brown jacket rubs her kneecaps. Around her neck, a white scarf. To her left, a wooden fence easy to scale and to her right, a line of wet wooden benches. She’s surrounded by bursts of yellow. Deep shades as rich as mustard. Other strokes are as soft as light radiating from a shaded light bulb. The trees seem still with the canopy mingling above her. In the treetops, clusters of leaves hanging on as long as the season allows. Behind her, a line of stone buildings expected in an old city. It’s an image of bliss in autumn. A moment I can endlessly stare into.
I came across this painting before I learned Tatossian, who was living in Montreal, had a stroke in 2007. Much like Márquez, he was forced to surrender. The damage done to his right side, as a statement on his website explains, prevented him from caring for himself. In turn, he’s unable to paint.
Before knowing about Tatossian’s situation, I knew his paintings. Curiosity propelled me to learn about the man and his ability to bottle emotions in his cityscapes. It’s said he described himself as an “abstract figurative artist.”
It’s not an understatement to say Tatossian’s talent is in his DNA. He’s named after his grandfather who was a painter and curator at the Alexandria Museum of Egypt. Tatossian was born in Alexandria in 1951. And in 1973 he became the youngest person to be accepted into the Royal Canadian Academy. He was a professor of art at Loyola College in Montreal and Concordia University.
It was a milky Sunday afternoon on Aug. 26. I had just finished work and on my way home started to scrolling through Facebook on my iPhone. I came across an image in French posted under Tatossian’s name. When I opened it, it blurred a bit. I couldn’t read all of the words, but from trying to make sense of it I learned he had died.
I ran down my long winding driveway, threw open the heavy door and ran downstairs to my office. Word for word, I retyped the message into Google’s translator to make sure what I was reading was true. That my poor French didn’t make me believe my inspiration was dead. Tatossian had died Aug. 23. He was young. Only 61.
There are moments in life when you truly feel like you’ve lost your breath. My idols, the ones I rarely speak of and keep personal, have never been flashy or giants in their field. Tatossian was passionate, a painter’s painter and a world traveler. He held a love for his craft in the palm of his hand.
The most rewarding part about journalism is being able sit with someone, actively listening as they tell their life story. I had always hoped Tatossian would be one of those people I’d spend a moment with, learning his story.
I’ve since changed the image on my backdrop back to Tatossian. Back to the painting I’ve enjoy looking at. I’ve accepted that it’s the closest I’ll ever come to the source of so many stories. It’s a daily reminder of the life that lived behind the paint, behind the thick brushstrokes, behind the essence of a moment seen in a man’s eye.
- See more at: http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:vAGu-rTH-scJ:www.heralddeparis.com/losing-inspiration/187822+&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us#sthash.mYLVIXV3.dpuf

By Herald de Paris Contributor's Bureau on September 3, 2012

By Ashliegh Gehl
BELLEVILLE (Herald de Paris) — The backdrop of my laptop is wallpapered with a photograph of Gabriel García Márquez. He’s looking dapper. Dressed in a white suit with shoes to match, the only splash of colour comes from a bright yellow shirt with a collar up to his ears. I imagine it cotton, light on the skin.
There’s a wave of calm on his face as he sits on the edge of a bed neatly made, marred by symmetry. The angle of light falling on his feet suggests he’s looking out a window. His hands, barely visible, are lost in his lap
Márquez, at 82-years-old, is suffering from senile dementia. His condition forced him to retire his pen. The writer has surrendered. And yet, when I look at the image I see a man who lived a joyous, turbulent life, welcoming the solace of solitude.
Before Márquez, a painting by Armand Tatossian dominated the backdrop. It held steady as a source of inspiration for over three years. Last July, when the state of Márquez’s mind became a news flash, I decided to change it up.
A writer can live with many fears. There’s the fear of never being successful, of never writing well. I’ve always feared the day my well of ideas is no longer gushing. After all, selling those ideas is how a writer staves starvation.
Then there’s the unimaginable looming in the periphery of chance.
It’s the cognitive functions, the mechanics of the body dwindling with age that can sneak up like a battalion rushing over a hill. Personal independence is compromised.
Reading about Márquez came with a realization. All creative artists, if they live long enough to endure it, will have to surrender their craft. The idea of succumbing to a condition dictating the rest of your life and preventing you from your heart’s work, is painful. It’s an unfathomable break hard to bear.
When I write a story, I close every browser and unnecessary file on my laptop. Kind of like how I tidy the desk before sitting down to write by hand. And when I need room to think, no more than a splash of milk in a cup of coffee, I let the document fall to the dock and just stare at the image dominating the backdrop.
The image of Márquez reminds me of the inner self. I can’t see what’s happening beyond the photograph, outside the window where the sun is shining. I can only imagine it.
Tatossian’s painting is different.
A faceless woman holding a red umbrella in her right hand walks on a puddled path. Her long brown jacket rubs her kneecaps. Around her neck, a white scarf. To her left, a wooden fence easy to scale and to her right, a line of wet wooden benches. She’s surrounded by bursts of yellow. Deep shades as rich as mustard. Other strokes are as soft as light radiating from a shaded light bulb. The trees seem still with the canopy mingling above her. In the treetops, clusters of leaves hanging on as long as the season allows. Behind her, a line of stone buildings expected in an old city. It’s an image of bliss in autumn. A moment I can endlessly stare into.
I came across this painting before I learned Tatossian, who was living in Montreal, had a stroke in 2007. Much like Márquez, he was forced to surrender. The damage done to his right side, as a statement on his website explains, prevented him from caring for himself. In turn, he’s unable to paint.
Before knowing about Tatossian’s situation, I knew his paintings. Curiosity propelled me to learn about the man and his ability to bottle emotions in his cityscapes. It’s said he described himself as an “abstract figurative artist.”
It’s not an understatement to say Tatossian’s talent is in his DNA. He’s named after his grandfather who was a painter and curator at the Alexandria Museum of Egypt. Tatossian was born in Alexandria in 1951. And in 1973 he became the youngest person to be accepted into the Royal Canadian Academy. He was a professor of art at Loyola College in Montreal and Concordia University.
It was a milky Sunday afternoon on Aug. 26. I had just finished work and on my way home started to scrolling through Facebook on my iPhone. I came across an image in French posted under Tatossian’s name. When I opened it, it blurred a bit. I couldn’t read all of the words, but from trying to make sense of it I learned he had died.
I ran down my long winding driveway, threw open the heavy door and ran downstairs to my office. Word for word, I retyped the message into Google’s translator to make sure what I was reading was true. That my poor French didn’t make me believe my inspiration was dead. Tatossian had died Aug. 23. He was young. Only 61.
There are moments in life when you truly feel like you’ve lost your breath. My idols, the ones I rarely speak of and keep personal, have never been flashy or giants in their field. Tatossian was passionate, a painter’s painter and a world traveler. He held a love for his craft in the palm of his hand.
The most rewarding part about journalism is being able sit with someone, actively listening as they tell their life story. I had always hoped Tatossian would be one of those people I’d spend a moment with, learning his story.
I’ve since changed the image on my backdrop back to Tatossian. Back to the painting I’ve enjoy looking at. I’ve accepted that it’s the closest I’ll ever come to the source of so many stories. It’s a daily reminder of the life that lived behind the paint, behind the thick brushstrokes, behind the essence of a moment seen in a man’s eye.
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