:: Eversong ::

:: Saturday, April 26, 2003 ::

The Painter (Chris Turner)

THE PAINTER

By Chris Turner

“Oh, I am so glad you asked me how I’m doing! So much has been happening, and you just wouldn’t believe it! It’s so nice to receive visitors. Miss Katie says I can have as many visitors as I like now I’m here. I like it here. It’s very peaceful. I think the décor is a little tacky, but you soon settle in.

Do you like my new jumper? I adore the little harlequin squares. They’re so me. Each little square reminds me of a battenburg cake, or one of those modern ice-creams…what do you call them? Neo…Nip…Well, you know the ones. When you get to my age, these things do slip your mind from time to time. It’s really comfortable to wear – not like that awful hessian thing I had all those years ago. I used to itch for hours in that thing. I can remember Sebastian buying it for me, so I had to wear it really. It was like wearing a nest of fleas. Oh, and the beret? Yes, I’ve still got it – even after all these years. Its never left me. You need one to be an artist. It’s like a badge of honour. It’s a little on the small side now, but you’d expect that after all these years.

I can still remember where all the paint splashes come from. You see that one? That’s “Twilight in Manila.” I bet it doesn’t look like much to you! To me, that splash is a complete canvas. I remember it well – the deep blue sea, a couple holding hands on a beach, and a beautiful red…Oh, where is Manila again? The Caribbean? Was it a Caribbean sunset? Oh, I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter, I suppose. One sunset is much like another to a painter. It’ll look beautiful whether it’s Manila or Peckham. Artists make things look beautiful, you see. Even things that look ugly on the surface. An artist looks deeper than ordinary people – even in Peckham. Miss Katie doesn’t always understand, but she’s very nice and supportive. Not very critical, but I suppose we can all do with a “yes” man from time to time, can’t we?

Miss Katie isn’t as good with my hair as Sebastian, though – I tell you. I saw myself in the mirror the other day and I looked terrible! It’s all wispy and silver. It shouldn’t be like that. I used to have lovely hair. I saw all the styles. I’ve looked like Elvis, each one of the Beatles, even a couple of footballers in my time. Not Charlton, though. He’s a good striker, but you wouldn’t want him as your fashion consultant. At least his hair isn’t silver, though. Do you think it makes me look more chic? Maybe it’ll come in fashion one day. I’ll ask Miss Katie if she can do something with it. Do I look like a wise old master? I wonder. No, it’s not right. A cutting edge artist shouldn’t look like an institution.

I always found hair fascinating, you know. No two people have hair alike – did you know that? You can study someone’s hair and never copy it exactly. Too much detail. It always gets blobbed on most unceremoniously, no finesse or style. I don’t like painting it. I did a study of hair in a work of mine…oh, what was its name? Sebastian will know. Miss Katie won’t, though. I don’t think she appreciates art like Sebastian. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. It got hung in the library in a local exhibition, but nobody really understood it. I was too avant-garde for the locals. Sometimes, an artist really feels like he is among the barbarians. It’s lonely, having an artist’s mind.

Do you like it here? I must say, I do like my garden outside. This chair overlooks it perfectly. Miss Katie says I can have my box and canvas this afternoon, and then I can paint it! I don’t like having all these other people in it, though. I keep asking them to get out of my garden, but they don’t listen. Even when I go out to them, they won’t listen. Miss Katie says I was shouting at them this morning, but she doesn’t understand how rude it is to walk around in somebody else’s garden. She was brought up in a different time, you see. My parents won’t let anybody walk in our garden uninvited. The dog doesn’t like it at all.

I learnt to paint in our garden – did you know that? I started painting flowers. They’re such promising subjects, you know. Much better than a model. Some people call them “still life”, but I don’t think anything living is still. No matter what those flowers look like to the casual eye, somewhere inside them, something is growing – lots of little things are happening – but the uninitiated call them “still.” Sebastian is so good at flowers – they’re really his forte. He says that the secret of the flower is in the stalks, and that anybody can paint a good petal. Everybody always sees the petals in a flower, because they’re the bits the flower wants you to see – but they key to a really good flower is in its stalk. If you painted a man with a really fat belly, would you only paint his head and shoulders? To appreciate living things, you have to see them as a whole, my friend. Miss Katie likes flowers too, but I can’t really paint them. Sebastian can, though – maybe he’ll do one for her.

I did a painting of Mrs. Goldfrank a fortnight ago, but I could tell she didn’t really appreciate it. She cried when she saw it, but I could tell she didn’t like it. I didn’t understand why she was crying, really. Nobody ever cries over my paintings. They don’t understand them – I’m too avant-garde, you see. Especially for the locals. Mrs. Goldfrank should be grateful that she had a Cubby Shaw original, quite frankly. The London galleries used to fawn all over them, I can tell you. I used to turn them down when they called – all too mainstream, you see. I didn’t want my work displayed to tawdry Japanese tourists with their cheap disposable cameras. I hate those instamatic things.

I like my work to be seen by connoisseurs. Mind you, I don’t expect I’ll achieve any fame in my lifetime. I suppose that’s how all the greats are, though. Nobody liked Lowry until the “Northern” thing was in. Sebastian hates it up north. No culture. They were so rude to us when we went on holiday to Blackpool once. Nothing to do except go on strike – and they don’t even have any political beliefs. How can you believe in anything when all you do is drink beer and go on strike? Anyway, Lowry’s passé these days. Yesterday’s man. It might be fashionable to paint on cardboard boxes at the moment, but being at the cutting edge is about guiding the fashions of the future, and then leaving them behind to the sheep. I told Mrs. Goldfrank about northerners when I was painting, but I don’t think she really understood. It’s not her fault. She’s a woman after all.

I think Mrs. Goldfrank wants me to stop painting, too. I’m sure she’s conspiring against me, telling everyone to hate my work. I’ve known some rivalries in my time, but never as evil as her. You be careful when you go near her – she’ll probably try and turn you against me. I saw her talking to Miss Katie this morning, but she won’t listen. She’s on my side, you see. Mrs. Goldfrank says I should go into a special home, like a funny farm. Can you believe that? She thinks my art is subversive. Don’t listen to her archaic imperialist dogma, though. People like her want to suppress artistic freedom so they can carry on with their capitalist agenda and lead us into a nuclear war.

I painted a picture in…1963, I think, called “Cuban Sunset”. No, wait a minute. That’s not right. “Manila Sunset?” Oh, it was before your time anyway. It was the most political picture I ever painted, and it had them scared, you know. That’s why they wouldn’t hang it in London – they were too afraid it would be subversive. These days, they try and ridicule me. I drew a hammer and sickle on a postcard of HMS Victory the other week. They’re nice, those postcards – you can get them from the shop down the road. Miss Katie take me to see them sometimes. Anyway, you could tell that they’d got to the people outside, because they all laughed at me. Maybe some of them found it funny because they’re like children. The others were laughing because they want to ridicule the left into submission. Miss Katie says I’m not to draw on things that aren’t mine any more, though.

Sebastian used to be quite a protestor in his day. Oh, yes, your Uncle Sebby once even got arrested on a CND march – did you know that? Oh, you did. I remember I did a painting of the occasion – “Peckham, 1965” it was called. I think it was Peckham, anyway. It definitely wasn’t Manila. Sebastian was the talk of all the parties at the time. We got invited everywhere – even to Tammy’s place! Have you met Tammy? Oh, you must. He’s such a card! Delightful cocktails – you must try a Buck’s Fizz! Have you had one before? Oh, well…I suppose they’re a bit passé now, after all. Babycham will never go out of fashion though.

Well, my dear, I can see you have had a long day, and I have so enjoyed your company. Sebastian will be here soon, I’m sure, and I know you have things to do. You young folk are so busy these days – it’s all rush, rush, rush! Miss Katie will show you the way…she’s very nice, you know. It’s so nice to receive visitors, and I’m nicely settled in. It’s a bit tacky, but I like it. And Miss Katie says I can have as many visitors as I like.”

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A short monologue that I scribbled down when considering how to convey the early stages of Alzheimer's. One of the symptoms is an inability to form abstract thought, so I considered what the effect would be on somebody who had only ever thought in such a manner. "The Painter", whoever he is, is clearly living in a world of his own, and nothing can be taken for granted. Is he really a great artist? Is "Sebastian" even alive? Is he even talking to a visitor? The narrator has become cut off from the real world, but his brain is still highly active, but just in his shell-like world. I hope you liked it.
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:: Plod 3:42 PM [+] ::
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Sarah, Don't Cry Tonight (Chris Turner)

Out there somewhere is a pretty young girl
With eyes of hazel and hair of golden hue,
Whose tears fall like warm droplets upon the morning dew,
Cried out, her face like a jaundiced pearl.

On through the uncaring garish light of day
Painful little streams flow over her red-raw cheeks,
Ever looking skywards to the voice that never speaks,
Isolated in her cruel passion-play.

Please, someone, love her come the twilight,
Sit and cradle her atop her lonely grassy spur,
Stay, protect, comfort and cherish her,
And make sure my Sarah has no reason to cry tonight.

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I'd been reading a bit of John Keats and felt like writing my own love poem - not something I do all that often. I imagined a lonely girl, crying, all alone with nobody to turn to. I leave it to the reader to decide who the narrator is, and what his relationship is (or was) to Sarah, and why she is crying.
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:: Plod 4:02 PM [+] ::
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