The Wrong Workshop

TW: Mentions physical gore.

Any moment now Mike’s motley crew, which was how he thought of his art group, would be joining him. He turned the radiator up two notches in the attic room that currently served as both studio and workshop.

With sheets spread over his most recent canvases, a faintly surreal air hung about the place. Regarded as a successful artist in his heyday even if that was some time ago, the only work on permanent display was the self-portrait painted in oils not long after leaving art school. It depicted a man with white-blond hair and pale skin standing pensively at the side of a pool paying homage to a distant male swimmer. He privately regarded it as his most truthful work to date.

Mike was conscious of criticism in certain quarters for having “sold out,” but there was always going to be a certain amount of sniping in the art world.

As Mike J Adler, he’d been known for his commercially driven seascapes. Painted in acrylic, sinewy figures in various stages of undress, were either catching the waves at the edge of the sea or running their toes through smooth golden sand. Sold in expensive gardening centres and the like, the prints had been instantly recognisable and popular with the wider public.

Hearing the sounds of voices ascending the staircase, Mike took a risk and uncovered his most recent work, the one with the cute baby alligator swimming in a blue tiled pool. Not exactly his best piece perhaps, but more than adequate for clients on the Costa Del Sol with a menagerie of small reptiles.

Clients who in his opinion had more money than sense.

A lower turnout than usual was the most Mike could reasonably expect on a night when Storm Helena had once again wreaked havoc on an unsuspecting town. The day before, trees had been uprooted, and parts of the town were flooded. At the station, a power line had come down increasing the woes of already fraught commuters.

Determined not to be beaten by the weather, the most valiant members of Mike’s workshop had been offered towels by Mike’s partner, Jeff, to dry their wet clothes. Now, they were making themselves comfortable on the sofa bed or on various large scatter cushions where they sat drinking mugs of hot cocoa, at one end of the room.

Touched by such devotion, Mike cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Your project this week is to draw a portrait which you can start in the workshop today. It can be of a friend, a member of your family or simply someone you find interesting. However, it cannot be a picture of anyone in the group.” He’d learnt that one the hard way.

Mike was both surprised and relieved when Sophie and Sylvia, a pair of lively twins not a day over eighty, had made it in. But then they were from a tough generation. Lovers of the colour pink and very much alike in thought as well as looks, their saucy humour leant a certain charm to proceedings.

To his credit, in a former life, Mike had once tried his hand at running a psychodrama group. Telling himself he should have got used to the vagaries of human nature by now, getting the wrong mix of people could prove disastrous. On one occasion, a disagreement had led to someone being bitten, but perhaps that was par for the course when relationships turned sour. After that, Mike issued an unofficial edict preventing ‘couples’ from joining any of his art groups. Not that it necessarily always worked out that way.

Another rule was to turn off all mobile phones.

Tonight, Kevin Wordless who hadn’t appeared at the group for some weeks and was more of a writer than an artist (the two weren’t necessarily mutually exclusive), stumbled in with no apology for his lateness and obviously dark mood. He presented the most obvious challenge to a peaceful session.

While Mike was in no position to criticise male hirsuteness, with his long brown hair and even longer beard, Kevin was prone to taking things to extremes. He had a tortuous way of crossing and uncrossing his legs. Like one possessed, his eyes flicked back and forth as if on stalks, dissecting everything and everyone around him. Now, he raised his hand in a mockingly exaggerated gesture.

Mike prepared himself for the onslaught. “Yes, Kevin?”

“Only to ask what kind of medium should we use, oh Master Mike?”

“I prefer to be called simply Mike, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Okay, Simply Mike.”

Sometimes Mike wondered what made him put up with this sort of nonsense, especially in his own home. His partner Jeff said it was because he had a good heart and cared about people. Maybe that was true. There were times Mike liked to think he’d managed to penetrate Kevin’s harsh exterior and catch a glimpse of the troubled soul within. “If pressed, my preference would be pencil, crayon, charcoal, or acrylics, but whatever feels comfortable.”

Unfortunately, nothing felt comfortable to Kevin who’d only joined the workshop because his long suffering therapist had recommended painting as a way of easing his writer’s block.

“You need to become immersed in something other than writing. Take the pressure off yourself for a bit” had been the therapist’s advice.

Except now Kevin didn’t know why he’d taken it. With one or two exceptions, it seemed an exercise in pointlessness being here with all these talentless wannabes.

All Kevin had ever wanted was to be a writer, but since his breakup with Lila over his selfishness, he hadn’t been able to write a word, let alone finish his latest novel about the bleak life of a factory-farmed pig. He was beginning to see that Lila had been the yin to his yang. Or was it the other way round? Today, it felt like he’d blundered into the wrong workshop. Or was that the wrong life? It had been alright when Mike had been wittering on about the history of art and so forth but not when he’d decided to turn it into a mad hatter’s workshop. The trouble with art was it tended to involve eating large dollops of humble pie when people felt free to offer criticism.

”I’d like a more specific brief, Mike.” This came from Leonie, a skinny woman with bright pink hair, earrings that looked like they wanted to hang themselves, and eyes that matched her bedraggled violet dress.

“Ok!” Mike said slowly searching for his inner Zen. “Off the top of my head, try drawing a picture of a friend in black ink.”

“Righto.” Unfortunately, Leonie’s best friend happened to be Sandi: that was until there was a mighty falling out between the two when Sandi had taken it upon herself to “comfort” an old boyfriend of Leonie’s a tad too generously. Leonie was less bothered than she pretended to be – the relationship had long been on its last legs with little chance of getting it back on track, but it was important to make the point about loyalty. However, if revenge “was a dish best served cold,” she decided she might be able to get some form of it by drawing an unflattering portrait of Sandi.

Whether she showed Sandi the end product or not remained to be seen.

Opposite, Kevin gazed at the mystery of the universe that was Leonie. He actually found her rather scary, the sort of woman who’d be terrifying in the bedroom. Not that he was ever likely to encounter her in one. Neither could he imagine her having any friends.

Adam, a care worker, who was actively embracing a large cushion on the floor, had quite different ideas. He had in fact become intimately acquainted with Leo as he called Leonie during the second week of meeting her at the art group and had found the experience interesting, definitely worth repeating, though owing to his subsequent backache, preferably from a more manageable angle. Unfortunately, after a post coital cup of coffee and a random roll up eked from one of the lioness-shaped ashtrays, he found himself unceremoniously turfed out of Leonie’s flat.

Somewhat disconsolate, he had trudged to his car and driven back to his lonely house in a village several miles away. Leonie’s words rung in his ears — that it would probably be best to “keep things low key for now” and “just be friends.”

Words, in fairness, Adam was not unused to hearing.

*****

A week later, the townspeople were relieved when another storm, this one less fierce than its predecessor, passed them by. Rather daringly, Mike had invited a new member to join his workshop. Guy, an amiable character who had worked in finance in a previous life, was ready to try his hand at “something new.” Mostly, he wanted to impress his wife who said he was becoming “staid.” Admittedly, their love had become a trifle dull lately.

Everyone except Guy entered the studio clutching their portfolios. Mike smiled, showing the gold capped tooth his partner found both sexy and endearing.

“Who’d like to go first?” Mike turned to the twins hopefully.

The twins sprung up giggling nervously. They had wrapped their pictures in a gauzy material tied with pink ribbons. The younger versions they had painted of themselves made it even more difficult to tell them apart. With their blonde hair and bright red lipstick, they resembled pale versions of Marilyn Monroe.

Very pale versions. Like them, she’d been a Gemini, they pointed out to anyone listening.

“Before we go any further, I’d like to introduce a new member to the group.” Mike tried to make the announcement sound breezy. “Everybody, this is Guy.”

“Hi everyone.” Guy smiled amiably. “I’m afraid I know next to nothing about art. I’ve just come to try my hand at something different.” He was going to say he wanted to step outside his comfort zone, but it sounded like a cliché. “It was actually my wife who suggested it,” he added.

“And do you always do everything your wife suggests?” Kevin asked crudely.

Guy pondered the question. “Generally. I find it usually makes for a happier home life. Happy wife, happy life, and all that.” Guy had a long history of being underestimated.

Mike rubbed his hands. “Ok folks. Who’d like to go next?”

Leonie was already making her way to the easel, regarded closely by Adam. In fact, she could hardly wait for the group’s reaction to her piece.

The picture of Leonie’s “best friend,” revealed a pair of semi-malevolent eyes staring back at the group.

“That’s a striking picture,” Kevin said, trying his best not to laugh. “Not necessarily the sort you’d want to take home to meet your mother.”

“She’s alright when you get to know her,” Leonie snapped.

“Who? Your friend or your mother?” Kevin quipped.

“It’s not mum. She died when I was very young.” Leonie said feeling instantly exposed.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Kevin, who had lost his father at a young age, was mortified.

Guy felt obliged to cover the awkwardness, “I know I’m no expert, but is it ok to put in my pennyworth here?”

“Sure, providing it’s constructive,” Mike said cautiously.

“To me, it seems an excellent portrait. I have to say it does seem to bear a slight resemblance to the painter.”

“I can’t see it myself,” Leonie protested. “It’s just a picture of my friend.”

This time Kevin kept his thoughts to himself.

Adam’s picture, drawn in crayons, was of a woman who bore a passing resemblance to Leonie. However, when pressed, he insisted it was a portrait of his sister.

“A good likeness,” Mike commented, even though he’d only met Adam’s sister once a long time ago. “You’ve definitely captured something. The pose is very human. Well, done, Adam.”

“Pretty good for a hobbyist,” Kevin said.

“No need to sound quite so patronising. I think Adam’s picture is good,” Leonie shot out.

Adam surprised by the unexpected endorsement, nevertheless caught the pain in Leonie’s face. For some reason, Kevin’s barb hurt, even if it had been directed at him rather than Leonie. For Adam, this was never going to be more than a hobby. But for Leonie? At what point did a hobby turn into a passion? Become a way of life.

Kevin was standing at the easel watching the group’s members. Expressions ranged from decided amusement to outright dismay, but then surely Great Art ought to move people.

Painted in oil, Kevin’s painting depicted a woman with long fair hair and a gentle face holding a severed head. The eyes of the head seemed to wander in all directions and the mouth gaped showing dirty teeth and bedraggled hair.

“Hardly original,” Leonie muttered just loud enough to be heard.

“What do you mean by that?” Kevin exclaimed.

“No need to blow a gasket, but isn’t it an imitation of Caravaggio’s work? You know, the one where David has killed Goliath and is holding up his head.”

“Eh?” Kevin had once come across the Caravaggio picture in an art book and it had left a deep impression.

Leonie was like a dog with a bone. “The head of Goliath looks a lot like you, Kevin. Did you intend it to be a self-portrait?”

“No,” he lied.

“Who is the muse? She has an angelic face.” Years of people management had taught Guy the art of deflection. Not to mention flattery.

“The muse is actually a close friend of mine.”

“So, you had no idea it might be seen as a self-portrait?” Mike asked.

Kevin, who had been convinced his interpretation of the brief had been highly original, wore a sullen look.

“I have to say it’s a remarkable picture, even if you were influenced by Caravaggio. It’s so full of life,” Mike said.

“Not to mention death,” Leonie put in.

“I mean you could almost write a short story about it,” Mike continued. “The characters practically jump out at you. I’d like to know more about the woman and why she is holding a head. Why her face is sad rather than triumphant! What’s the backstory here?”

Suddenly the muse seized Kevin, so much so, that he could hardly wait to get home and get in touch with Lila and his laptop, though not necessarily in that order.

“Perhaps you have something there, Mike.” Kevin almost felt like pummelling the art tutor’s hand. “You may just have inspired me to write again.”

For the first time in ages, Kevin felt something had lifted and he was on the right track.

Adam had planned to walk to the taxi rank after the art session ended because his car was being serviced. Instead, he found himself walking along the riverbank shielding Leonie from the rain with an enormous umbrella. As they drew near her flat, the river’s currents swirled, but last week’s flooding was definitely under control. Leonine suddenly burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Adam asked.

“I dunno. Just the absurdity of that workshop. Life even. I mean, Kevin drawing that huge self portrait of his own head! A head that perfectly matched the size of his ego.”

Adam laughed too. “It was funny.”

Leonie’s eyes glittered in the moonlight. “Do you have to go home just yet? Fancy coming in for a cuppa?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Adam said happily.

Adam and Leonie seemed transfixed as they stood together on the pavement in the rain, but it was a nice rain.

“I mean, who draws something like that?” Leonie said again. “Mike wanted us to draw a portrait, not a self-portrait.”

“So along as he hasn’t killed anyone.” Adam said, thinking of Caravaggio’s murky past.

“I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Still, whatever turns you on, I suppose. And I don’t mean killing someone. It was a good picture though. Mike seemed to find it inspiring.”

“Yeah. Mike must get something out of running his nutty group, otherwise why does he do it?”

“Good question. Maybe he enjoys getting insulted by Kevin.”

“Kevin’s a decent artist. I’ll give him that.”

“Grudging praise indeed! If only he wasn’t such a pain in the neck (excuse the pun), he might be half decent.” Adam lightly touched Leonie’s arm. “Anyway, who cares about him? I find you far more interesting.”

“Do you now?”

What the hell - you only lived once, Adam thought, flinging caution to the wind. If you liked someone, there was no point pretending otherwise. His friends had always said his best quality was honesty. That, and his ability to make a tit of himself round the opposite sex.

“You know, I think you’re really cool – as humans go, Leonie.” It sounded better than “I fancy the pants off you, even though he did.

“I’m not sure there’s much to like about me,” Leonie said mournfully.

“That’s crap.”

“Well, maybe we can step out of the rain and settle our differences inside. Pointless standing here getting soaked.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Adam said, smiling.

Not long after the workshop members had trooped out, Mike was putting the finishing touches to his latest commission before packing it away to be sent abroad. Everyone had been so focused on hanging onto their individual prejudices, the picture’s hidden meaning had quite escaped them. If anyone had bothered to look more closely, they’d have seen the faint shadow of a fully grown crocodile lurking beneath the pool’s surface, waiting to pounce on the baby alligator in a soon to be active jaw.