Early Memories #8 | HISTORY Page | Obituary Page | |
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"This is going to be a great year," I thought as I stood freezing on the doorstep, clutching a lump of coal. In the distance the sound of the town hall clock striking midnight was overtaken by the sound of impatient revellers. I gave the doorbell a ring. It was whipped open before the sound had died away and I was ushered in to the warmth of the kitchen party. Mother, father and Aunt Molly were there, drinking a toast, and the cat was enjoying the warmth of the oven built in to the massive cast iron range... When I Was 17 ... John's studio was in one-time commercial premises, long abandoned by the garment-makers and since invaded by artists looking for low-rent airy studios. You entered from the street, climbed ill-lit flights of wide stone steps, crossed gloomy landings with smelly dustbins and over-flowing coal bunkers, up to the third floor. John's room was large, the full width of the building, with tall windows on either side; a working room, with spartan furnishings, the model's dais beside a heavy iron stove, a screen across the end providing storage space for canvases and the paraphernalia of painting, and a small kitchen-cum-changing room. The studio on the floor below was occupied by Miss Barbara Niven, a lady given to supporting worthy radical causes--and there were plenty of them in the thirties: marches and rallies for the unemployed, support for the hardpressed Spanish Republican government and the International Brigade, anti-Mosley demos. The air of quiet concentration prevailing in John's studio as we attempted to catch the essentials of a pose would occasionally be broken by the noisy intrusion of vigorous debate below the floorboards. Often I would arrive to find the Niven landing cluttered with banners and placards, either stored in readiness for the next outing, or just dumped by returning marchers in the rush for refreshments. These props came in useful on windy wintry evenings when we surreptitiously borrowed a banner or two and blocked the draughts that whistled round John's entrance door to spare the model from goose-pimples. Once I pounded up the stairs late, and bumped into a shadowy caller forcibly expressing frustration at Miss Niven's absence, to be informed by a chuckling John that I had just met the Reverend Étienne Watts, the notorious Red Vicar of nearby All Saints Church. At home the results of my labours were occasionally scrutinised in a slightly embarrassed silence. I recall returning one evening when my grandmother was visiting us, and being coaxed into opening up my portfolio. Gran studied my pencil sketches without comment, lips pursed, exchanging occasional glances with my mother. "Don't the models wear anything--not even a wisp of tulle ?" she asked finally. I blushed, gathered up my work, and retreated to my room, aware of a ripple of laughter behind me as I closed the door. ■ When I Was 17 ... When I Was 17 ... When I Was 17 ... When I Was 17 ... When I Was 17 ... I gaze at the snapshot of my 17-year-old self I recognize the lopsided grin, still with me, the gold-rimmed specs glinting in the sunlight, hands stuck firmly in the pockets of grey flannel trousers, a sports jacket which I recall as heather green, a grey striped tie borrowed from my father, hair brushed back, darker then, even a wave in it. |
Sole © RFV&SDS, 2009. |