The Yellow Room

James McNeill Whistler, Watercolor and gouache on paperboard, 1884

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An ordinary, peaceful Sunday afternoon. I walked off the route 137 bus once again. It was another weekly routine to visit my grandparents in their little wooden villa away from the city. The house was surrounded by a golden rice field with some refreshing tints of green foliage scattered across the land. Joyful magpie chirps dispelled the silence of the countryside, and the gentle late-summer breeze stirred the tranquil field to life. I gently pushed the courtyard door covered with those naughty morning glory vines, and took a step in. The delicate, comforting aroma of antique furniture and traditional incense aroused a stream of warmth in my body. I closed my eyes, letting the memories fill up my mind.

“Here, take these my boy.” Sitting in his rattan armchair in the yard, my grandpa handed me a pile of yellowed postcards. A soft shaft of sunlight painted his benevolent countenance in a subdued orange. The lively clanking of cooking-pots and the bubbling sound of carrot soup came from the kitchen inside, where my grandma was preparing my favorite dishes for dinner. I carefully held the postcards and started to go through them one by one. Most of the paintings and photographs on there blurred away from my memory over the years, but there was one, the one that remained clear and impacted my life – The Yellow Room.

On the wrinkled postcard was a corner of a room. A yellow fireplace steadily stood on the left, with a thin, yellow chair facing towards it; a golden-framed mirror sat on the fireplace, leaning on the yellow wall behind; in front of the mirror was a row of vases and pottery, each with its own style. These pieces of yellow set a bright and harmonious tone for the room – tender, vivid, welcoming, and with the purest happiness. Stories unfolded here - families gathered, people laughed, children ran around, and time flowed. Just like the sunset yard where my grandpa gave me this postcard, it was a room too ideal, too happy to be real.

……

In fact, my grandpa was defeated by pancreatic cancer three days before my visit. I had to face the truth, the brutal truth that life, despite its miraculous power of generating happiness, can vanish into the void on an innocent day. I opened my eyes and let the memories sink in. The room around me - dark, pale, inanimate with only flickering candlelight trying to light up a corner, dragged me towards the ground, as if my grandpa was calling me from underneath.

I gently walked my way to the terrace. From there the verdant hills in the distance looked particularly soothing. I noticed the rattan chair was moved inside.

“Grandma?”

She was there, sitting in the chair, gazing into the vast yellow field.

The other part of the postcard came to my mind. To the right of the fireplace in the yellow room was a lady. A lady in purple, an opposition of harmony. She collapsed into the chair, holding her head with both hands, as if she was trying to resolve a problem that could never be fixed. Her eyes were blurred; she had nowhere to look. The yellow wall behind her appeared darker, with hints of violet and indigo smeared onto it. In a room lit up with the warm happiness, she, with her cold outfit, seemed insulated from the kindness of the world. She was apart from us. She was alone.

Is happiness the norm? One would wonder. Or is it sadness? Does the loss of her love torment the violet lady, or is she relieved from the curse of life, a curse that haunted her for decades? What granted life the arrogant power of devastating another life?

I was angry, furious, even crazy when these ideas ate up my mind. Where? Where is the answer? In desperation, I opened the dusted envelope, took out the postcards for the first time in three years. There I resorted to my last hope – the yellow room. This time, I noticed something that had been hiding from me all these years.

Vases. Mirror. Pottery. Glass frame. Thin chairs. The lady.

Vases. Mirror. Pottery. Glass frame. Thin chairs. The lady.

…

A hidden but crucial connection between all of these that made up the painting revealed itself – fragility! The artwork screamed the word fragility in every object it captured. The seemingly secure and happy room was comprised of nothing but disguised fragility. I wondered all these times why this particular piece of art touched me deep inside, and now I probably have an answer.

What makes life precious? Not the emotions, the fame, or the ability to perceive, but the fragility that grants it a one-way pass through the world of the living.

I calmed myself in front of my grandma. She looked at me in a deep and gentle gaze.

“You’re back, my dear child.”

She gave me a big hug and smiled in the sun.