The art Room

Happy New Year!

Yes, it’s off to an amazing start already, isn’t it?! At home alone, with nobody to speak to, nobody to kiss at the bells, and nobody knocking at the door. Perhaps it’s better. At least with no distractions, I can concentrate. This time I will get it finished. The pale faces stare at me mockingly. I have promised my son that I’d finish this painting for him and, so far, it has not happened. One problem after another has stalled their creation; they have been paused in a state somewhere between recognisable and good. The chins aren’t right. The nose is too broad. The wrinkles shouldn’t meet. All of the small details jump off the canvas with every passing glance. The original painting had been so fast, so smooth; it had seemed like nothing to agree to duplicate it. Three months on, every brushstroke seems to defy its purpose and step further from the vision in my mind.

Tonight is a new year, a new start- a good time to get some real progress. I switch a tattooing programme on, select my colours from the myriad of hues in the drawer and set the canvas on the easel. The paint slides over the older layers, brightening, covering and sculpting the comic book features, and before I know it, it’s dawn. 

I clean up, and close the door on two Jokers, finally beginning to come to life.

Entering this room, the smell always stirs something inside me- oil, fresh wood and paint aromas awakening the artist inside. Weak January sun brightens the space without warming it, and the cool air is refreshing. It is a haven of calm, where I can get lost in tiny pointillistic details, and spill my emotions onto an unsuspecting medium. 

It has been a rough morning; the anniversary of a friend passing away, and I want to escape the guilt that comes with thoughts of him. I have a fun project to try, and I think he would appreciate that. I select a small square canvas, and search for the posed photo that I want. From pencil sketch to full multicoloured patchwork, I feel his appraisal – I do not do abstract, pop art or bold lines, and yet all are evident in this. I should have answered his call. Pause. My brush lines the contours of her neck, and immediately I’m in his car, massaging his neck after a hard day at work. He loved me, and I loved him. Platonically, respectfully and intellectually. I should have answered his call. I can remind myself that I was working, and unable to answer, but always I shall know; I should have answered his call. 

Lunchtime, and I’m finished. I have a fun, bright and commanding depiction of Harley Quinn, looking knowingly, confidently out from a medley of coloured puddles. The contrast with the darkness and pain in my chest makes the picture loom large over the small room as I make my retreat.

I stop to look out of the window, looking at the tiny splotches of colour breaking through the light snowfall. Primula, crocuses and snowdrops huddle in clutches under the bare shrubs, and it seems that their little bit of cheer has seeped into the room. I turn to face The Corner. The Corner is where a motley collection of creations languish in the gloom. I flip through the frames – red, green, blue, gold, black, cream, pink, black – stop. A peacock. He would work well, with his jewelled head and sapphire breast already luminescent, I can immerse myself in the eyes of his tail, to build the filigree feather fan. I anticipate the coming spring, and all of the flowers I’ve planted in my garden; I wonder if I can win a prize again this year. My son laughs at me, calling them by name as I wander around, feeding, watering, pruning and propagating. To me they all have their own character, and deserves their names to be used. Sappho is a beautiful thug, invading her delicate neighbour’s space, and now carrying bandages which I hope will become new plants of their own. Her buds are swollen, but won’t open for some time, unlike Black Lace, Katsura and Crimson Queen who are hinting at their coming vividity already. Mine is the only garden in the street which hasn’t been stripped bare, and colonised by the ever present willowherb, and I treasure my haven. It’s not le Jardin Majorelle, but it shuts out the busy world enough for me. I lose a few hours in this contented bubble, with its silent cast of players dancing through my mind, and it takes a moment to place what the unfamiliar noise is, jolting me back to the dreich February day. It’s the doorbell, and I hurriedly depart, closing the door behind.

In late March, I seek refuge in this little nook, this room from another dimension, filled with stories, promise and memories. Our varied discussions are scientific, prompted by news reports and involving much research; my son is sceptical of my now distant microbiological learning, but I have a renewed admiration for these tiny, beautiful examples of nature’s design. I marble gold and green onto a fresh white board, creating a pool of shimmering plasma on all but the stark blank lozenge, slightly off centre, and already the focal point. It’s amazing how this tiny blob has been infamous for years, and yet barely anyone will recognise its form. The electron microscopy of a single E. coli wasn’t used to illustrate the news like the mugshot of a SARS CoV-2 which is appearing with increasing frequency and ferocity on every available platform; I consider a diptych, each with one of these villains of our time, but already I am bored by the sight of the complex clove- studded globe that has invaded our lives. Instead, I set to highlighting the smooth body, spewing its chromasomes in intense orange coils across the muted background. I muse on how many of these lifeforms would fit upon this representation, like grains of sand on a beach…. Oddly coincidental as the pattern now looks like a coastline breaking into hundreds of islands and peninsulas on a strange, alien map. I don’t know what to do with this oddity, now that it’s completed, but can’t resist the idea of hanging it in the bathroom……. We leave for this destination immediately. 

I’m looking for card. I know I have mounting card here somewhere, unopened, and specifically for this one job. I have my photography exhibits ready, I’m in time for the deadline, and yet somehow, in this tiny room, with all of my organisational desires exercised, I cannot find the card. I don’t know. I turn my attention to the paper cutter, eternally referred to as the guillotine in my internal monologue since my primary school art teacher christened it as such. I do know where it lives. I pull it from its slot, and with it comes a sealed bag. The card. So, I was previously too organised after all. I select my best photographs and set about enhancing them - on ivory, in black, on black with a white border, on ivory with a black border- I have three entries for each class, and although the competition is online this year, it doesn’t mean I can’t help the aesthetic a little. With a precision I rarely demonstrate, alongside a good knack for judging by eye, I am finished and scanning the results in no time. Which is lucky, because there is a garden out there, and I want to be outside in it, before the April showers return. 

I barely return during May. I have projects outdoors, and long overdue decorating indoors, so I have become one of the many, employing unknown hours at home to make it a more pleasing place. I have filled the table under the window with seed tray propagators, and the primary tools of this little place are sidelined and stowed. These will be my main reason to visit for some weeks, my time dedicated to more mundane artistic expression. In early June, I return to the easel with an ambitious idea that I’m dubious I can pull off. My elderly friend has an upcoming birthday, and I want to paint her childhood home in the style of her favourite artist. We have spent many hours, sitting in her kitchen talking about her wild youth. Always independent, she was a trailblazer during her teenage years in Bolton, and her strong will is still very evident, although her physical ability is waning. She has painted such a strong image in my mind of a character filled, bustling street, with its eccentricities and community that I wish I could visit. It is, of course, lost under the bombs of World War II, the ridding of slums, decades of development and urban expansion, but in her stories, it lives in all of its glory. I struggle to find source material, and must go to request help from others. 

June and July bring darkness so late that I lack the energy to be creative. Still the Jokers hang on the wall; a lip missing here, a too bright red nose there. The peacock has returned to The Corner. He sits proudly above the pile of the unnoticed, propped against the wall. They have been joined by another outlined character, just a smear of red, white and blue in a pool of rain streaked bleakness. She will wait, just like the others, just like me, until I stumble upon that elusive place within myself where the ideas and abilities dance together, and the room is lived in once more. Until then, I flick a duster over their faces, and leave them. 

 August: I bring a visitor to this special place of dreams. My neighbour’s son, full of wonder and joy at newly acquired information and skills, he marvels at The Corner, soon exploring the drawers and asking about all manner of uses for what he finds. He has done a project about Frida Kahlo for school, and I was the first person to be able to recognise his collage portrait…. He wants to learn more. He shouldn’t be here, in my house, but we wear our masks and stay apart. The windows are open wide, and he embarks on a new adventure, seeking out books, learning the names, studying the signatures of the great artists. It is an energy unfamiliar in here. My son was keen to learn too, but dismissive of the artistic subjects, instead seeking the challenges in mathematics and physics, these resources have been dormant, unheeded for much of the time, and it was good to feel them in our hands, the smell of the pages filling our noses. It is reinvigorating to see through fresh eyes the wonder of this world. 

My friend died in September, and again I sought solace in the room. The enclave. The bubble. I shall not ever expand on the simple outline of notable Bolton landmarks that faintly hug the edges of a small, quiet canvas on the table. I shall not ever hear the familiar, but still funny story of her sneaking a motorbike into a newly refurbished medical laboratory to strip and clean the engine, nor all of the slapstick tales from her childrens’ formative years. The time her son didn’t realise they’d been burgled, instead assuming Mum had searched for something in a hurry. The love for her husband, and the unknown differences between English and Scottish behaviours. Wave after wave of fresh sorrow crashed over me, and wave after wave of blues, blacks and greens washed over Her painting. I couldn’t bear to see it. The buildings I’ve never set eyes on, but knew so well were fresh tines of grief…. Washing them away with a tumultuous seascape was as good as I could manage. I exorcised what I could and slunk away in tears. 

I avoided this place, and its raw atmosphere until December prompted a fresh insistence within me that my work would be acceptable as a gift, that the uniqueness and time taken over each would validate the lack of spending on something commercial. One golden Eagle, shining in the light soon took a spot on the Finished Wall. Next came a peregrine falcon, fluid lines as light and free as my determined line of thought. It was nearly Christmas, with the decorations, lights and charged atmosphere I love. Bolstered by the warmth growing in me, I embarked upon a vase full of flowers, in the familiar style of a Dutch master, while it was drying, a mini racing car followed; a favourite superhero; a loved supervillain; and finally back to the Jokers. My neck ached as I pored over every line, every contour, every shadow. I have long since accepted that I cannot churn out portraits, but these, with their bold faces made up in stark contrast are different. Their features distorted, hidden, exaggerated. They can be done. On Christmas eve, I finally put the last stroke in the bottom corner…. I can still see the flaws, the wobbles and the unevenness, but it’s not for me. I have to let go, and call it finished. 

One week later, and I'm back, cleaning for the new year. The Corner looms large, reminding me of broken promises, halted progress and loss of inspiration. Nothing has changed in the twelve months; I'm still alone here. I wonder why. At least this year, I can argue with myself that it is circumstances which prevent me from sharing my life....it might not be because of me. I look around and see a smudged corner.... It is a small fingerprint on a large piece. I force myself to put it in perspective, and suddenly I see it. In everything I do, I pick faults- it’s ingrained in my being, and I must now acknowledge that this is why The Corner haunts the room. It is not a place of dismissed opportunities, it is not a scrap heap of accumulated materials, it is not even my failure. It is my nursery. Where the ideas have begun to take shape, but are still in their chrysalis. I have to build them up, as I would build up an inquisitive child, not diminish their progress and belittle what has been achieved. I must also stop this habit with myself, my ambitions, my dreams, and my journey……. Yes, this is the way to move forward. 

It won’t last. It never does. This energised, progressive person within me is capricious, and, much like the room, fitfully visited. It has comforted and shielded me, it has given me inspiration, and it has remained there, ready for its moment in my time of need…. This year, and many before. For however long it continues, I shall always return to this every changing, ever stable, ever present space.