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 25th
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.
The former hunting lodge is now a very attractive tearoom which
has expanded and has nice terraces and an attractive garden outside. It looks
like a house straight out of a fairy tale. There are also several old big
houses on the estate, manor farms, which are still working farms. The estate is a mixture of fields and woodland,
intersected by many ditches. One of the narrow dikes separating two ditches is
very rural. One wouldn’t expect anything like that in such an urban part of
Holland. The dike is very attractive most times of the year with shrubs, small oak
trees, willow trees, wild flowers, and walking it one looks out over the fields
and towards several farms. Usually there are geese, ducks, lapwings, gulls,
herons, and also hares racing hopscotch through the fields. And cows once the weather
improves. I was rather disappointed to discover that the shrubs and small trees
bordering the narrow dike, and the willow trees had been cut back drastically
giving the cold wind free play. Pruning is necessary, but I had never seen the
dike so bare. Apparently part of the dike had so far escaped this drastic
pruning and still looked attractive. Besides it offered some shelter against the
cold wind. Here are two pictures of that dike!
