The tour ends in front of the largest painting in the exhibition. In fact, the painting consists of three paintings, their frames joined together. The whole piece must measure almost five metres across and two and a half metres from the floor. Monsieur Monet must have painted the pond to scale. I listen to Laura Helanto, who sees lots in the painting besides the waterlilies. I feel as though I am gradually sinking into the murky pond. The water feels warm and pleasant. It smells of Laura’s hair and…
‘The museum will be closing in ten minutes.’
The caretaker’s voice on the tannoy brings me back to the here and now.
Laura is smiling. ‘Now you won’t have the chance to see if I got it right.’
‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ I say. ‘Do you have a moment to talk about art a while longer?’
Laura lets out a short chuckle. Then her face turns serious.
‘I must say, nobody has ever asked me out like that before.’
‘Like what?’ I ask.
‘Do I have a moment … It’s alright. My daughter is spending half term with her cousin. I’d love to. Let’s talk about art a while longer.’
8
‘I’d already decided I was going to become a famous artist, that much was clear, but I hadn’t found my own style yet,’ says Laura. ‘After all, I was only eighteen. I mean, I hadn’t even worked out what my own style might be or where I might find it. Then I was in London and I saw an exhibition by Helen Frankenthaler. That opened a door. But it really helped that on the same trip I saw the classics with my own eyes, works that are important to me in their own unique ways. Cassatt, Turner, Pissarro, Sisley, Degas, and Monet, of course. Everyone always says Monet, even you – and it’s true. I think Pissarro is my personal favourite. Who has captured light in the same way, at a single moment in time, turned a trivial moment into something eternal and beautiful? Then at the Tate Modern and Tate Britain I saw Pollock, Hockney, Rothko, and then there was the Frankenthaler exhibition. Later, on the same trip, I visited the Galerie Belvedere in Vienna, a museum full of famous Klimts. Even The Kiss.’
I’m not entirely sure what Laura Helanto is talking about, but I enjoy listening to her. Of course I realise she’s talking about art, but the names mean nothing to me. We are sitting in a pub in Kaisaniemi. It was dark when we left the Ateneum. At first the rain was nothing but a drizzle, but as we walked down the front steps to the street it grew stronger. Now the pavement beyond the window is dancing with thousands of droplets, the space between earth and sky is filled with water. Streaks of lightning illuminate the air like the flash of an enormous camera. The thunderstorm is directly above us. A candle burns on our table. I realise that normally I would think this unnecessary, both with regard to the light and the overall functionality of the space, that it is a standard element of the interior decoration of so many pubs, something whose only purpose is to increase ambience and augment sales figures. Now I think its soft, flickering light is perfectly suited to Laura Helanto’s exuberant, attractive presence, her wild hair and blue-green eyes. I like the way the flame is sometimes reflected in her glasses, the way it flickers warmly in her eyes.
‘What about you?’
‘I’m a beginner when it comes to art,’ I say. ‘I’ll freely admit it.’
‘I mean in general,’ Laura smiles. ‘What made you become a … what was the word again?’
‘An actuary,’ I say and briefly explain how I became fascinated by mathematics, why I believed and still believe that practising mathematics is my most important responsibility, and why I left my job. I mention my chaotic childhood, the comfort and salvation offered by mathematics, and the unfairness of my constructive dismissal.
Laura looks out at the rain, then turns back to me.
‘You’re very open,’ she says.
‘That’s what happened,’ I say.
‘Yes, right. I mean, most people wouldn’t talk about such personal things on the first … the first time they meet.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ I say. ‘I very rarely find myself in situations like this. On the whole, other people don’t interest me. But you interest me. I listened to every word back in the museum, I could have listened to you for hours. Your murals, your paintings – or sketches, as we should call them at the moment – I could stare at them for hours at a time. I think you are extraordinary.’
I realise straight away that I’ve spoken longer than I intended, said more than I planned. The candlelight, Laura’s eyes, her scent, Monet, the other paintings. My thoughts are running in directions that feel strange and new, yet at the same time rather pleasant. And I realise I’m thinking exactly the way I just described, as though I’ve jumped into the water first, and only then decided to go swimming.
Laura Helanto looks as though she is smiling, then almost immediately as though she has remembered something. Her expression turns serious, almost saddened.
‘I don’t know about that,’ she says. ‘But it’s kind of you to say so. Thank you.’
Then she falls silent. We drink our beer, and the air flashes again. We both look up at the sky. My eyes return to Laura. Yes, there’s something despondent about her.
‘Is something worrying you?’
Laura snaps back to earth. She shakes her head, then smiles.
‘I can be frank with you, yes?’
‘I believe it’s for the best,’ I say. ‘Some people say it can be rude, but I think the benefits far outweigh the possible drawbacks. I’m not sure of the exact ratio, but in my experience I can say that the probability of causing offence can’t be higher than ten percent. That gives being frank around a ninety-percent chance of success. Those are exceptionally good odds.’
‘You … you really have your own style,’ she says, perhaps with a little smile.
‘Is that a good or a bad thing?’ I ask, genuinely interested.
‘It’s a good thing,’ says Laura.
I say nothing because I sense that Laura wants to continue. She props her elbows on the table.
‘You seem honest and trustworthy, and I like that,’ she says. ‘You say what you think, you keep your word. I don’t know if you realise how rare that is. You are what you say you are.’
‘I am an—’
‘An actuary,’ she says. ‘Yes, I know. I mean in general. You’re not like other people – which is a good thing, too. And it doesn’t matter that you look quite amusing, in your own quirky way. That’s a plus. Always in a suit and tie, even in the museum. Excellent. But I’ve said too much, far too much. It’s been a long day. An early start, then Monet and now this beer. I was so thirsty I think I drank it a bit too quickly. I don’t know. I’m a bit…’
Laura doesn’t continue her sentence, though it is clearly unfinished. I wait for a moment.
‘Something is bothering you,’ I say.
Laura leans back in her chair. ‘You won’t let it go.’
‘No, I won’t.’
Laura shakes her head. She smiles. The smile is different from before. This time it isn’t so enthusiastic.
‘It’s the murals,’ she says eventually.
‘We agreed on a budget and a timetable. All you need to do is paint.’
The sky flashes again. I thought the rain couldn’t possibly get any heavier, but that is what seems to happen.
‘That’s just it,’ she says. ‘The painting. I haven’t … I haven’t been able to do anything. I’ve produced sketches and plans, sometimes very fully developed ones. I’m excited, keen to get started. But then, when I have to pick up the brush and start, somehow, I just can’t … I put off starting again and again, until I have a new idea and make new plans and sketches that excite me and … I haven’t talked to anyone about this before.’