Smells and Memories

Smells linger longest in our brain. It is one of the senses which can retain memories which are buried deep in our human filing cabinet, our grey cells. When I go back and try to remember smells, I am immediately back in time and place, the memories strongly attached to the smells.

I have written down just four of the smells which have always stayed with me, and which work as a time machine.

I

Happiness engulfs her when the door of the modest semi is opened. She inhales deeply: varnish, oil paints, thinner. Without doubt the house of an artist, a painter. Professional or amateur, the smells are the same. It is a mixture of aromas which makes her feel safe and secure, a feeling which goes back to her childhood and teenage years.

A vivid image: her father, paint stains on his best trousers, oblivious of his surroundings, totally concentrated, palette in one hand, paintbrush and a cloth in the other. He closes one eye, takes a step back, looks critically at his work in progress on the wooden easel, then purposefully puts his brush on the canvas, applying firm strokes. Blue and maroon are the dominant colours, the colours of sea and sky, of wooden fishing boats, resting on the sandy beach, the time  before  a safe harbour had been dug out. The rusty brown of the wooden keels, of herring barrels, the past as we know it from Dutch painters of that period, Mesdag, Mauve, Jacob Maris, belonging to the “Haagse School” (1860-1900), the movement of realistic painters centred in and around The Hague.  Sometimes her father’s paintings had more colour: delicate flowers in a glass vase, the stems seemingly broken by the water surface. The moors where he went on holiday and of which he loved the intense purple colour, the honey bees and butterflies feasting on the tiny blooms of the heather. When he painted, he was unaware of the time of day , had to be called several times by her mother that dinner was ready.  Even as a child she well understood that painters, or artists in general,  did not always marry but had to be free. The regularity and routine of her mother’s days were totally opposed to his creative mind and impulses. She loved him the most when he was totally wrapped up in the things he was doing, in the creative process.

When her father was drawing, which required less space, the smells of black Indian ink mixed with the vague and ever present smells of varnish and oil paints. His studio might be a corner of the attic, under a skylight. Later, when she had already left home, his studio was the complete attic where he had decorated the white walls with scenes from Switzerland: snow capped mountains, dark pine woods and impressive waterfalls. It was his territory and her mother did not often venture out there. She loved his ideas, his impulses so at odds with what her mother considered to be normal or proper. But still, her mother loved him because of that. They were two opposites which attracted each other and perhaps had found an ever shifting balance.

She goes up the stairs, to the artist’s studio, a cold room on the north side of the house, where the light is best for painting. The overwhelming and familiar smells give her the feeling that she has known this man all her life, that she has come home.

II

As soon as her friend uncaps the small container the strong smell of sulphur throws her back into the past: Irritex, the proven means against youth acne that she used as an unhappy teenager, pestered by acne. A cream that not only dried out the pustules but also the rest of her skin so that she smoothly went from the stage of pimply teenager to the stage of mid age wrinkles, to her utter dismay skipping the stage of a beautiful, glowing and youthful skin. Again she feels the helplessness, her insecurity; again she is that desperate schoolgirl. Nobody can love me, I am so ugly, I look horrible. Pimples and acne are dirty. Nobody loves such a person. Nowadays one hardly sees young people with bad skin. Was it a nutritional thing, a lack of certain vitamins? At home her mother cooked simple meals, all from fresh produce. There were no readymade meals, no added e-numbers.  And fat, margarine in their case, was sparingly used. It was a healthy life style. This smell of sulphur catapults her back into the past, her own past which seems to be somebody else’s. No, it wasn’t all bliss to be young she suddenly realizes. It was a time full of doubts, of insecurities and uncertainties. She can vividly visualise the small container with the sulphur cream: white with a yellow stripe and a text printed in blue, produced by Dr. Swaab. She doesn’t even know if that brand name still exists, and if Dr. Swaab was a real doctor or just a name to impress and lend some authority to his product. But what she does know is that she does not want to go back to that time ever again.

III

Lovely. She takes a deep breath. The smell of oak trees, American oak trees her father tells her. It is summer. Her parents have arranged a house exchange with a family in Ede, a wooded part of Holland. They are cycling through the woods, her parents and siblings. The ground is covered with a carpet of blueberry bushes, the dewy berries well hidden under the thick round leaves, and there are edible mushrooms such as chanterelles. They have a deep yellow-orange colour, and look like upturned skirts, waving at the seam. You can pick them and make them into a delicious soup.

They have visited friends of friends who live in the midst of this wooded area in a house straight out of a fairy tale. ‘Nature lovers’, says her father. ‘They eat what the woods provide for them.’ ‘They are just so poor they can’t afford to buy food’, says her mother. At first she does not want to eat the soup they had offered them, thought it was scary. After all, mushrooms are usually poisonous. They can kill you, or at least send you to sleep for a hundred years, like Sleeping Beauty. And then what? She can hardly expect a prince to rescue her. But after she had plucked up courage and very tentatively tasted a bit from the spoon, she couldn’t stop. It was absolutely delicious.

In this wood she sees the American oak trees, so different from the ones she knows, for the first time. They have smoother and much bigger leaves, which turn a beautiful red colour in autumn. Even in August, their holiday month, they have already started to change colour. They are absolutely wonderful. Along the railway tracks, the cycle path into the woods, is a big and ugly building, a working factory which makes nylon and artificial fibres. Even when they have left it far behind, she still notices a peculiar smell. ‘Pollution’, her father remarks. She doesn’t know what he is talking about, assumes that it is the special smell of the American oak trees and feels extremely happy.

Many years later she passes a chemical plant, and all of a sudden she is back in the woods.

‘Yuck, what a horrible smell,’ her companion remarks. But she is once more filled with happiness.

IV

I will never forget the smell of orange blossom. It was a few decades ago. I had promised myself to visit three important capitals which have some biblical connotations, Jerusalem, Athens, Rome. I had a job and saved just enough to be able to spend the two week Easter break in one of those cities. The first city was Rome and it was a fantastic experience. It happened to be during a Holy Year, just over thirty years ago. Seeing the Pope on Easter Day, all those people gathered in their Easter finery, was an experience in itself. No dreary Protestantism here, but excitement and joy. The women were wearing the most beautiful outfits, high heeled shoes and matching handbags, the little girls all dressed up in colourful dresses, happy and laughing. There were vendors of balloons and ice cream, there were groups of nuns from all over the world, waiting eagerly to see their Holy Father. The busses were packed to such an extent that buying tickets was impossible, let alone having them checked. We were advised not to take anything with us, no money, no passport, no cameras because the pickpockets would be having a field day. With joyful anticipation people were milling around in the huge square, which is amazingly spacious and still seems to embrace people. Yes, I was there when the Pope gave his Easter blessing. And I walked through the main doors into St. Peter’s Basilica, doors which are only open during a Holy Year which takes place every 25^th year. Passing through those doors means the following according to the information from the Vatican which they are giving out for this special Holy Year, a Jubilee of Mercy:

Those who pass through a Holy Door during this jubilee year will receive a plenary indulgence, which removes all of the temporal punishment for sins committed up to that time — provided the recipient also goes to confession, receives Communion, and prays for the pope.

This time there will be many strict security measures for those wishing to enter St Peter’s Square. In 1975 we just walked into the square, carried forward on a steady stream of people. There was no threat of terrorist attacks. I was lucky to be there.

The year after it was the Holy Land and Jerusalem. Again it was Easter. On Palm Sunday people streamed into Jerusalem through the gate, singing Hosanna and waving palm leaves. Ecstatic nuns, groups from religious orders and denominations, just ordinary people, a long procession of people going into Jerusalem, re-enacting the entrance of the expected Messiah, riding a donkey. Then Holy Week, and all the Holy places, the garden, the grave with the stone, it was all awe inspiring. But the thing which I remember most of all is not all the Holy places, the tour to Bethlehem, floating in or rather on the Dead Sea, the lake of Tiberias, the Peter fish on the lake and feeling sea sick, the Mount of the Beatitudes, all the places one had visualised from an early age, when the Bible was read daily after the main meals. Now I was really there, seeing all those places, the deserts, the Golan Height, the source of the river Jordan, Jaffa, the Jewish quarter in Jerusalem and the Arab souk, and many more places. But the smell I never forget is not the aroma of spices, the smell of Arab food or of the variety of fresh fruit in the various kibbutzim. It is the wonderful perfume of orange blossom when we landed in Israel on a very warm and balmy night. It was pitch dark, we were very tired, but that smell, intensified in the night, was a perfume I will never forget.