He lost his soul

He lost his soul

“Hello George, what are you doing here? Coming to see what the competition is doing?”

“Yes, I am coming to see what all the fuss is about. The young artist, John Atkinson, you are exhibiting is creating quite a stir.”

“We had the opening two nights ago. I had to call the police because there were far too many people. I was fearful they would damage my gallery and some pictures.

“Yes, I heard about it.

Look, if you are free, let's have lunch together and I will tell you all about John Atkinson.

“Delighted.”

“ Give me twenty minutes as I have to talk to somebody. In the meantime look around and we will discuss his work over lunch.”

Half an hour later George and his friend Harry step into a local restaurant. A warm welcome was extended to them from the owner as they were both well known in the area as owning prestigious art galleries. As they sat down George said to Harry.

“Now I understand what all the fuss is about. You have an exhibition of an extraordinarily talented artist that is capable of painting country scenes that emotionally stir up one’s feeling of peace and beauty to the deep and tragic horrors of war.”

“Before I tell you the story let’s order”.

There ensued a discussion of what was recommended today and a choice of wine.

“ Now let me tell you the story. First, I should admit some of it is hearsay but most of it can be substantiated. Secondly I was only introduced to his works a few months ago by his old girlfriend, now married.”

At this point there was a pause as the waiters carried in their lunch choices.

“Let me continue. John Atkinson was born in 1890 to a well known fruit farmer in the Surrey area. He was the couple's only child. At a very early age his mother encouraged John to draw and paint. I heard she had secret ambitions in this domain but falling in love with a fruit farmer had stifled these dreams. Her modest painting talents and ambitions were poured into the baby John with his feeding bottle. He spent many, many happy hours drawing and painting with his mother when she was not busy on the farm. It was clear in these early days if motivated and coached with care and patience John had an outstanding talent as an artist. The day he went to college his mother persuaded his father to let him have the old barn on the farm and turn it into an artist’s studio. The college was within cycling distance from the farm so John lived at home. He was a mediocre student with grades that did not propel him to a university. When he left his college two of his teachers told him that he certainly had the intellectual capacity to continue his studies at university level but he was spending too much time painting and helping his father.

For the next five or six years John was to be found helping his father on the farm and painting under the watchful eye of his mother. She told me she often saw the studio barn light on well into the night. This was the period John seemed to be extremely happy. His joy and perception of country life I believe one sees in the many remarkable paintings he produced. Painting of the countryside, of the fruits from the farm, of the village festivals, of the characters living in the nearby village and the people that came in the summer months at harvesting time, of family picnics. It was his period of showing how he understood and felt about English country life. During this time he fell in love with the neighbour's daughter, Isabella. There are several fascinating portraits of her.

He was twenty four when his bucolic wonderland changed. The dark and threatening clouds of war dominated the skies. He left for the Western Front after many hugs with his parents and tears and kisses with Isabella. How many times did they all promise to write? Only a few letters crossed the channel; the replies were very spasmodic. The precious bond with Isabella got lost in all the horrors of war. In his short period of training they, the officers, never told the recruits what the conditions would be like on the Western Front. Maybe the army manuals did not have words for such devastation. The trenches, the rats, your feet permanently in water, the disgusting food, the gun fire, the screaming as comrades who were in the agony of dying…..it was a living hell. Early on John lost his two good friends he had made while training. From that point on he kept to himself. He spent most of his quiet periods drawing sketches of what he saw. If he ever returned to the family farm in one piece he would paint some of the sketches. His mother had made sure he had packed pen and paper in his belongings. He just wanted to let the world know how the human race was disintegrating in violence, horror and misery.

It was two and a half years later he returned to the farm as a different man. The barn studio had remained locked throughout the war. His parents had bravely borne the stress of living under war conditions. Isabella had got married, the rumour mill says for a period she was distorted by his absence. Then she could not continue suffering from the periods of waiting without regular news. Over the next three years he helped his father with the farm but spent most of his time painting some of the drawings he brought back from the trenches. His parents wanted to engage him in a conversation about his time in the trenches. He had nothing to say and told them to look at his painting. The horrors he portrayed ended any attempt for further conversation about the war. In his loneliness painting war scene John realized he had lost his soul.

George interrupted and said. “What do you mean about losing his soul?”

“That is a very interesting question. It is that part of the human body that gives us our emotions, our inspiration and energy. The internal essence, animated principal or acturating cause of our individual lives. We cannot touch it, we only feel it. I would go so far as to say it is probably the foundation stone of wanting to live. When we find it in another person we call them our soul mate. John suffered deeply from this loss. He had lost all inspiration to paint; he had lost his motivation and imagination. He went to a few doctors and psychiatrists without success. His mother suggested he went on a walking tour to the Lake District, a land known for inspiring poets and artists. He went and came back not having made one sketch or painted a picture.

The family told me about three weeks after this trip John worked in the morning on the farm with his father. They all had lunch together and after that John went to his studio. He was certainly in a deep depressed mood. The parents did not see him for the rest of the day. When his mother didn’t find him at dawn in his bed she knew sometimes was wrong. Both parents went immediately to the studio and found it locked from the inside. His father forced an entry. There to their horror, surrounded by his life’s work, John hung from a rope strung up on one of the barn's beams.

The shock and sadness in the local town was demonstrated by many mourners. Isabella ,with tears in her eyes, introduced her husband. When she lent forward to hug and kiss John’s mother she whispered in her ear.

“John was my first love, I just could not wait living with the unknown. Can we come and see his paintings? It would give me so much pleasure?”

“Of course , my dear, come next week.”

A week later Isabella and her husband sat down to tea with the Atkinsons. The atmosphere was heavy with sadness, gone where days Isabella sat with John on the couch holding hands. In our separate ways we have all paid dearly to be freed of the German boot. I was told when they walked to the studio barn and opened the double doors Isabella and her husband just stood there in reverent silence. Isabella later told me it was as if they had stepped into John's body and reached his soul. On one side of the barn hung many enchanting pictures of the beautiful English countryside with many portraits of characters and country gatherings from the district. Isabella's portrait featured several times. The other side represented destruction and war portrayed so powerfully one could almost hear the guns and screams. I understand Isabella fell down crying. John's parents left.

Half an hour later Isabella’s husband asked the parents if he could contact a friend of his. With tears in his eyes he said the world should see John’s work. About eight months ago I got a call from Joe Blackburn, an antique dealer from the Portobello Road. I knew him as over the years I had purchased a few items from him. He briefly explained why he was called and asked me to accept a visit at his gallery from his wife, Isabella, as she knew the young artist he had just described. That ,dear George, is how I came to know the family.

“What a sad and fascinating story, please continue when you have finish the excellent lamb”

“Well,a week later Isabella came to my gallery. She is an attractive young woman, short dark hair, classical features with seductive grey eyes. She told me about John and his family. From her story I guess she had been deeply in love with John. His death has left a lifelong scar across her heart. We talked about his paintings and she persuaded me to come down to the Atkinson’s farm. I went and met his parents. I could see John’s mother knew how to paint from a couple of her signed pictures the family had hanging in their sitting room. The brush strokes, the understanding of light and shade and choice of colours. But when we opened the studio barns double doors I was at a loss for words for what I saw. It was that rare moment when as a dealer in art you find an artist that can give you such a deep emotional experience; it takes your breath away. The exhibition of his works has only been open two days and we have already sold 70% of the pictures shown.

I decided to spend a night in the village and try and talk to some people that knew John. The owner of the pub where I stayed knew John before and after the war. He told me before the war he had always been at the center of village get- togethers and parties. He often came to his pub with friends discussing farming and art, his two loves. After the war when he occasionally came he just sat quietly in a corner looking into his beer. Many of his friends never came back. The landlord told me he once saw a war wounded man walk into the bar. John knew him. They just stared at each other, no doubt, drowned by the memories that flowed between them. John bought him a beer. They sat there with a few words passing between them. When they left they hugged each other for a period that seemed like an eternity. I was greatly moved by this story. I talked with several other villagers. The postman, the butcher, one of his teachers and the mayor. The collective opinion was that the village paid a high price for sending their young men to battle. They all told me John came back for his time as a soldier deeply affected. The Atkinson’s are a first class family the death of John was an unimaginable tragedy. In his remembrance on the date of his death his father has sponsored an annual church service.

“ Was it difficult to persuade the family to allow you to promote his works?”

No, his mother said, it was what John would have wished. In his lifetime he never had the time or desire to think about getting his art exposed to the general public. Occasionally he sold pictures at village fairs and gave pictures to friends. He would have wanted to show his art comparing the light of living in peace with the darkness of destroying each other. The parents insisted on keeping a few of his pictures and giving Isabella a portrait of her choice.

“ George, it's been a most interesting and fascinating lunch. It's sad to think John is no longer with us; he clearly had so much to offer.”

In memory of John

One Soul

When one soul is set ablaze by truth, the whole universe ignites, and for an instant light reaches every corner, cave and crevasse. When the heart remembers what it is, joined in vastness by joy and suffering, both the future and the past dissolve like snowflakes on the tongue.There is nowhere to run, no reason to do anything but rest in the cradles of the cosmos, rocked in the arms of emptiness, and held in the near embrace of love.

Danna Faulds

David Nutt June 2025