Not long after my husband's death, I received a phone call from a charity organisation, offering me a calendar set. Swaddled in the cocoon of love, which my late husband had woven around me in his last weeks and days, I was naked as a newborn in the world. I did not know how I would be surviving, financially, emotionally and mentally.
The lady on the other end of the line was sympathetic and very real. She told me that they sent calendars to people who said yes to their offer. There would be an invoice and the client would be trusted to pay the charity.
"You send the calendars on trust?" I asked in disbelief.
"That's how we do it," she replied.
"I will take them!" I cried. "You have no idea how healing it is for me to hear that you operate on trust!"
She chuckled and took down my details.
When the calendars arrived, I saw they were comprised of artworks by Lisa Halstead.
I am not generally a fan of representational art, and my rather snobbish education had taught me to dismiss such images as kitsch - but Halstead's images showed skill and love for her subject matter, which, that year, was wildlife. Each calendar image was with me for a month, during which I learned to appreciate the specific intentions behind the artist's hand - her devotion to the animals, as well as to her craft.
For three years running, the charity trusted me and Lisa Halstead's art became a kind of emblem of something subtly and deeply strengthening in my life. I should add that the calendars were very competitively priced and always affordable.
As 2020 came to an end, however, I noticed that the charity had not called. I began to feel sad about the prospect of having to go through 2021 without the comfort of Halstead's work, which had also included birds and flowers.
I searched online and saw that the charity only had year planners: lockdown had stopped their usual business. I went so far as to call them and they confirmed that they had not been able to commission the artist to produce more work, let alone print new calendars.
Early this year, I received a few phone calls from the charity. I was on the road each time and was forced to request they call back. They did not give up on me and eventually one of their volunteers caught me in a good moment.
I was disappointed that they did not have calendars. Instead, I was offered a coffee table book, entitled In My Nature, containing a wide-ranging collection of the artist's work. I accepted and then the moment of truth came: the charity did not have the funds to cover postage of ordered items. They needed me to pay upfront, whereupon they'd dispatch the book. They had trusted me for three years. Now it was my turn.
The book is a bit imperfect - some of the pages were still joined and I had to separate them with a sharp knife. Some of the images are cut off at the top, which is a pity.
However, even so, against my own expectations, I find In my Nature quite splendid - not least because of the way it challenges my education and everything I have learned about art. I have absorbed myself in images I would otherwise never have studied. If I have a pet hate, it is representational art featuring pets. It turns out that this range was in aid of the Animal Anti-Cruelty League and the Muscular Dystrophy Foundation. My heart and mind have expanded by contemplating the drawings. Truth be told, I have wondered whether I had previously dismissed such art as "sentimental" perhaps more as a result of clinging to a narrow, 'high-brow' identity than real understanding?
I was particularly struck by one of the artist's own favourite images, featuring two Afghan hounds. The differences in personality and character capture two souls. If I give myself over to the drawing, their windblown hair only enhances the spirit breathing the creation.
I have been charmed in ways I could not have imagined. Even if I might not choose to frame any of Halstead's images on my walls, my narrow-minded judgments have disappeared. I simply have no more need for them.
All because of trust.
