Beautiful Brushstrokes

By Marshall E. Gass

Max Martin has fallen on hard times. His career in journalism has taken a dive. His marriage is on the rocks and his two lovely kids are away.
A chance visit to a local Art Gallery sets him on a quest to find the Artist who he thinks is very trendy. Following this trail, the journey takes him across New Zealand and eventually across continents. Max decides to rejuvenate his flagging writing career by writing a novel, tentatively, titled: Beautiful Brushstrokes. He records all the research in his notes and eventually finds, part way through, that his quest is shaping up to be something more than a casual project.
What piece of artwork did he find in this gallery and where does the clue take him?
What are the findings that change his outlook on life and why is he subject to the vagaries of a whimsical fate that catapults him into this book?
Max will write this novel and find this artist. Thats the first step to regain his career.
Join his journey of discovery, not only of himself but of so many others in his quest for success- or failure!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Aug 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781499097504

Marshall E. Gass

Marshall E. Gass vive en la ciudad de Manukau, Auckland Nueva Zelanda. Tiene una larga trayectoria como escritor de ficción y no ficción. Este libro supone su consagración como escritor de novelas. Lo mejor en la vida, dice, es que tienes que vivirla para entenderla, aprendes de los demás, pero ¡la vives a tu manera! el camino hacia delante se traza mirando hacia atrás, y volviendo a dibujar el mapa de tu viaje a través de la vida.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

T here was a dash of blue and swirling purple trapped within a rich embroidery of pastels and shades. The deft touch of brush and bowl, against the rough canvas, was so indicative of love-making. Softness met with hardness and circles plundered the right frame. Even as the delicate ochre shade rested in the cavity of the sunset yellow, it lay supine against a banked wall of red blistering bursts of colour, at the bottom of the caged delicacy. The painting got your attention in an instant. This was some painting. The mind’s eye locked into the vibrant colours and froze the focus on deciphering what it all could mean. There was a surreal feel to this painting.

I was interested. Few paintings drew my attention immediately. This painting had power which the artist had generously invested into its composition. With brush strokes, both thick and thin, were reflecting as hair like filigree against the glassy twilight scene. It was seductive and attractive enough to have me stop by and stare blatantly at the frame. I had to know this artist. I had to buy this painting.

Who was this artist? I had to assume it was a lady. It reflected in the delicacy of the artwork, and of course, because, it was signed ‘Chris’ with an icon of ‘purriness’ and pretty pink nestled against the right hand corner.

Men usually were stubborn signatories. Their signatures took ownership of art without a second thought. They would scrawl their names, like shouting, at every chance to draw attention to their fragile or bursting ego. ‘This is my work’ the signature said and one immediately knew it was a man’s hand, with or without a raging mind that placed him into ownership. There were other underlying hidden meanings beside the signature.

‘Don’t touch! If you can’t pay’, ‘Fuck off if you don’t understand’, ‘I am famous, you know’. These could easily be interpreted from a male artist’s signature. But a woman’s was so different and delicate. It took more than a trained eye to know that.

The colours were rich and meaningful. The lines were clean, merging sensually in and out of intricate figures and figurines. Laced bodywork was oh so delicate. The tone and texture invested in the painting most often reflected, like a mirror, on what the painter was thinking about at the time and period it was composed. On an unhappy day you see ragged brush strokes, on gentler days you discern delicate lines. The mixing of the paint itself indicated the time and flavour of the day as compass to the artists mood.

This one was signed ‘Chris’ but who was she? I had never heard of any ‘Chris’ or in my entire life. After so many visits, to so many art galleries, I had never come across a ‘Chris’ painting. I was intrigued. But here it stood at the centre of the Viktors Art Gallery, displaying certain wantonness, certain sanguinity, a velvet fluidity that clearly expressed sensuality. Viktor, the Art Director, must have noticed these qualities and purchased it for his show. Viktor Masters was no amateur at judging peoples work. From a mile off he knew a painting and with one glance could tell you things that were invisible to the commoner’s eye. He knew who was who in the art world and where they lived and how they painted and operated. He was a master at judging artworks.

I had to find him out and make some enquiries.

Viktor was happy to make suggestions on the pricing and consider introducing me to the artist.

I looked forward to that meeting.

CHAPTER 2

V iktor’s office was typical of an art Director’s, a cluttered and random room with paintings stacked up in corners, piles of paperwork, and magazines, and art displays on the wall. There were advertising boards and a phone on the floor, chargers and grey steel cabinets occupied secluded corners.

Viktor liked his clutter. I once asked him about it and pat came the answer: ‘No time.’

You could not argue with a man who was there one day and gone, for a week the next. The gallery was just the opposite of how it was organised just beyond the office door. You walked through the corridor, down a worn carpet hallway and entered this plush studio, where red velvet couches, walnut side tables and a grand table occupying the centre.

This was where Viktor negotiated his deals, met his artists, praised or criticised his clients and signed up sales. When a sale came close to completing, he would reach instinctively for the liquor cabinet., He would pull out some sparkling crystal glasses and dash out his most expensive drink.

Even the drinks he served were directly related to the value of the sale. All visitors got the same nip. GlenFiddich served with a dash of Indian Tonic Water, and a slight hint of Angostura Bitter. No client or artist ever got a second nip of the drink that was served.

Viktor had a way with sales. The best sale got the best drink. The difference between the buyer and the seller was the label, which dictated the status of the person he was dealing with.

I arrived exactly at 2pm. I knew from past experience that he kept his appointments clean and clinical. If you were late for one appointment, he made sure to cut those exact minutes from the next meeting. There were no excuses in his world. It was all planned and complete, clockwork precision.

I took the couch closet to the liquor cabinet, simply because I was here on a deal that may or may not work out. I was here to negotiate on the offer I made on Chris’ painting.

Driving down to the appointment the painting was playing tricks on my mind. The more I looked at the sketch notes on my notebook, the more I was convinced I was on to a good thing.

I would have liked to think I discovered a masterpiece of some sort, but without authentic approval from a master tradesman there was no way I could lay claim to such a lofty assumption. Viktor held the secret close to him. What surprised me more was that he displayed a piece of work in his gallery alongside some of the more established artists. That alone said he knew he had spotted some artwork of value and was looking ahead at how this artist would develop in time.

I had to pick his brain.

Negotiating with Viktor was no easy task. The more I showed interest in the painting the higher he would push the price. The less I showed I showed interest, his disinterest would be obvious. It was a game. Viktor knew how the market responded to every whim and fancy in the art world.

My offer of $ 1,200 was set aside immediately.

‘Come on, Max! It’s not possible to get a painting of this calibre for a cent lower than that!’

‘But she is new on the market, I have never heard of this her before.’ I countered, unable to give him ground to capture.

‘That’s a fair point, Max. But something attracted your attention to this painting. So what was it? Is it the same elegance, and balance that struck me too?’

‘Well I would have to say that it would be the vivid colours and the way the lines move against the other aspects that I can see. I feel that it would take time to fully understand what the artist was trying to say. So obviously, selfishly, I want it around for those times I want to stare at its beauty without leaving the comfort of my home.’ I answered, hoping that I didn’t sound too interested, but knowing that I just might have given him more room to bring up the price then I cared for.

‘Why Max, that’s the same reason I picked it up to include in the gallery catalogue.’

‘Ok, are there others interested in the same painting?’ I asked. ‘I see it listed in your catalogue from early in the month. Are there any other takers?’

‘Yes!’ Viktor asserted. ‘We had a lady come in yesterday seeking to know more about the painter. I had some scratchy information but not too much. These artists come and go and often just disappear. That’s the way talent works. These are all moody people. Once in a while an artist comes along, does a great job, earns a lot of money and then disappears in marijuana smoke, crystal meth, alcohol, broken relationships, and travel abroad. It takes years to get them back on the painting scene.’

‘You know the scene well, Viktor!’ I asserted.

‘Yes, I do! I’ve been in this business for years. I should have retired a while ago. Gone way to my bach, settled in with a mistress or playgirl and spent my last days sipping wine and watching sunsets!’

‘It’s not easy now, I guess. The money in the business has kept you rooted to this gallery. I noticed, on and off you said the same thing. But you return each summer break to continue on. I guess you must be waiting for a stray Van Gogh or Picasso to turn up in some garbage dump and once you get those millions you just might retire finally?’

Viktor remained silent. His glance seemed far away in the distance. He must have heard similar stories before. At this precise moment he was probably wondering when that a Van Gogh would pop up. That was not going to be easy though. Wellington was a small town. There were very few artists loitering around. Most of the population were the retired gentry. They worked in the factories all their lives, scrimping and saving every loose penny for a retirement. Saving it away in some bank vault and every month watching their funds grow leaf by leaf until, at last, at the ripe old age of sixty-five, it was time to call it quits.

There were only two antique shops in the town. They were each and as far as possible from the other. They bickered and fought over everything. They spread rumours, carried fresh gossip and made sure that all the visitors in the town got to know how good they were, and how bad the other was. Unfortunately the main highway ran through the town splitting it in half. Those entering from the northern districts stopped off at the north end, and those entering from the south stopped off at the southern end. So the shops stayed put, always imagining they got the customer first when actually neither ever did. Once the visitors piled in they just shot past the other store and carried on.

This was how peace came to reign on these two bickering store keepers.

Viktor opened his little art Gallery smack in the middle of the two warring camps. Outside his gallery, just across the road, a café opened shortly after and with council permission a sizeable car park and toilet was placed. This was where most cars would pull and pile out. Viktor, being the cunning and crafty entrepreneur, made sure that all the paintings from both antique stores were purchased and displayed in his gallery. That again kept the warrior owners, of both stores, at bay. Business was good for both stores, as long as he maintained the peace between them. Yet there was a discreet agreement between the owners that all paintings that came from nearby bungalows, and farms and older citizens would be first offered to Viktor’s Art Gallery. The ones he did not want were purchased for less than the price of a lollipop. Each year he would donate the imitations. He would include, school kid paintings, battered and bruised water-side masterpieces, hundreds of charcoal works, self-portraits and gruesome works of impeccable monstrosity to the annual school fair. It was good to get rid of the ones that had no perceptible value this way.

Never in the twenty five years, that he set up the art Gallery, did any single painting at these school fair auctions rise above the price of a box of crayons, USD$2.50. It was a princely sum to some poor farmer, used to tending horse dung and cabbages, to would pay for a painting to embellish his crude lodgings in the nearby stud farms.

And so life went on as it does in these quiet little towns.

Both Viktor and I knew how this life plodded on. We were both into artworks, poetry and painting. Something always attracted us to look at every piece as if a maestro was at work. We had checked out hundreds of such paintings in the last two decades and not one little painting rose above the mediocre!

Instinctively, we judged, based on a deep emotional connection to the content of the painting and the skill that was invested in each little stroke. We had to see through the works to the artists mind. The shades of colour, depth of meaning, the lines intersecting, bisecting and brushing past the composition spoke an enormous amount of detail to us.

Sometimes we would spend hours looking at the same thing, and then suddenly go off to fetch a coffee or a beer, take a few sips and return to the painting to unravel its deeper meanings. Most often a fresh invigorating meaning jumped out at us. We were able to see far deeper than at the first cursory glance.

I had a habit of writing notes of each painting. At first I sketched an outline of the whole work, and then I deconstructed each detail. I found a starting point, usually the dead centre of the frame and worked in circular motions as each daub of oil paint filled a micro frame. Like any digital artist constructing a graphic detail, I filled in the missing pieces of the composition layer by layer, stroke by stroke, until at last the entire composition unravelled in exquisite detail.

I knew that male artists went in for bolder colours and mixed their paints on the easel with fine delicate mixes with brush. Female artists, on the other hand, were far more specific with their colour combinations. Very rarely would a colour differ from another of the same blend. It was that perfect blend that showed them as female artists of high calibre.

This was easy to see once you got to deconstruct so many paintings.

Viktor knew instinctively that I stood in his gallery, looking at this particular painting with the same discerning eye and had judged for myself that this was a new artist with huge potential. He would have done the same when he first spotted the painting.

Viktor had gone through art school, and after working his way to a Masters in Creative Arts, he worked with highly established galleries for a decade, before he moved to the country to set up his own gallery. He was meticulous, I was crude. He was educated, I was less experienced. He was a businessman, I was a connoisseur. We were a good team together.

‘Tell me about ‘Chris.’ I interjected his thoughts, ‘Is this painter male or female?’

‘You tell me.’ he replied, catching me out at my own game.

‘I’d say a female Viktor!’

‘OK, you get one Brownie point for a correct answer Max.’

‘Is she a local artist?’ he pushed on further.

‘‘No!’ I replied confidently.

‘Now you have two Brownie points!’

The game of skills continued.

‘How did you know that?’ he continued. ‘It’s usually not so easy to know that.’

‘Oh yes, you can!’ he seemed surprised at my confidence. The third brownie point seemed waiting. Maybe I could trade these Brownie points for a discount?

Viktor waited for me to continue.

‘Locals paint with New Zealand sourced oil paints. These tend to get flaky once dried. If you take a magnifying glass close to the frame you see micro cracks in bigger blobs, in thinner strokes you can see the lines disjointed or discontinued. The dilution of the stroke across the canvas is sometimes obvious. These paints are often made in China, which runs a large industry for such exports across the world. Chinese technology is however catching up fast. Besides, Chinese paints use chemical formulas first in the manufacturing process, keeping the paint emulsified and consistent. Once the chemicals dry out, the pigments return to a semi colloidal state. American paints use a more consistent texture. In using a blend of vegetable dye and chemical dyes, American paints tend to throw more colour bands out. The paintings do look brighter and attractive. The British paints are mostly between the Chinese and American paints. Their colours are paler, well emulsified too and has good drying and retaining properties.’

‘That’s three Brownies here my friend,’ he seemed pleased this conversation followed this test of knowledge.

‘So you say the artist is female?’

‘Yes!’ I replied confidently.

‘Your assumption is based on the paints and composition and colour bands?’

‘That’s correct!’ I replied.

‘You are right!’ he continued, ‘She is American. Apparently, she passed through Cambridge years ago, stayed in old Dexter’s house for a few days, did chores around the house, kept everyone laughing and left behind two of her paintings as a reward for his hospitality!’

‘So I was right?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Her name was Christina. She was very young then, I’m told. Dexter mentioned she was about 27 yrs old. He also stated she had large blue eyes and was very beautiful. The local lads were taken up by her joie-de-veire. She left no forwarding address or contact number that he could find. Dexter said that one fine morning she was all packed up, knapsack and all, and was ready to move on. Apparently she went down to Hamilton and that was the last he heard of her!’

‘That’s intriguing!’ I replied. ‘I guess that good artists are moody and mischievous. Their minds are filled with all sorts of things. Sometimes fidgety, sometimes eccentric, some calm and often hard to keep locked in one place.’

‘You can have a discount with your three Brownie points, Max! That’ll be USD$1,200!’

‘Thanks, Viktor,’ I replied. ‘I’ll take the painting away and transfer the payment online tonight. Please have Melissa wrap it up in bubble wrap and put a handle on it. I’d like to have this one hanging in my lounge. I like it a lot! Maybe one of these days I’ll pop around to Dexter’s place and get some more information on this artist, if I can. For all I know he may have other works lying around in his house. He’s getting on now. I heard his wife is getting arthritis and Dexter was thinking of entering a Retirement Village. The old fella is getting on in age. Good old Dexter!’ ‘Well, I better get moving. Just one more thing, did this Christina leave a second name, by any chance?’

‘Nope!’ he replied with finality. ‘That’s all I know and I have no more Brownie Points left in my cookie jar either.’

We both grinned happily. I collected the painting, walked up to my dead beat 2004 Nissan Maxima, and delicately placed the painting on the back seat and put a seat belt around it.

Just before starting up the engine to head back home, I looked back the bubble wrapped box, seated and strapped, and knew instinctively that Christina Whoever was now a passenger in my car.

The story was yet to begin. I knew this was going places. Sometimes, my intuitions took over my sensibilities. How did I know Christina so well? That was surprising. I would find out who she is and where she lived. Meeting with Dexter to ferret this information was now on top of my priority list.

CHAPTER 3

I n summer the grass around this area was threatening. The more sunshine, the more growth. With that came a greater need for water and nutrition. There would be more mowing and caretaking, and all the more work. Dexter had a way of dealing with this situation. He got a few goats, tethered them to a long rope, strung a wooden triangle around their necks and tied them to a fence.

The goats were the best lawnmowers he had ever contrived.

No more kicking engines to life, no more trips to the small engine repair shops and no more need for storage place in his already cramped and overcrowded garage.

The goats did a beautiful job. All day they chewed on the succulent grass and at night they slept on the warm ground, bellyful and contended. They laid their little goat pills wherever they grazed, which in turn fertilised the soil and they ate away from the goat pills that littered their grazing patch.

Goats gave him the milk for his afternoon tea, and rich creamy cheese, which made his mozzarella and bocconcini. Dexter was a wise man. He knew how to conserve the land, feed his cows, mow his lawns and race his horses, all on the goodness his father had left for him and his young family on the farm. Dexter loved the land as much as he loved his wine, his micro vineyard, his hop plants, fruit trees, herb garden and the extra-ordinary beautiful landscape that he could admire from his lounge. Out in the front, the Kaimai ranges rose majestically, the dark blue haze surrounded everything. It to amaze him.

Dexter loved his land as much as he loved his young family. He was a member of the local Lions Club. He cut wood for the pensioners that lived nearby, always carting logs for the other neighbours to keep their fires alight in winter, and barbecues in summer, and forever carrying cartons of sweet milk to the widowed lady that lived off Kent Street. Dexter earned his happiness by bringing a smile upon all the friendly neighbours faces. It was his way of saying to the all and sundry: ‘My name is Dexter, I love being a part of this community. If not for you I would be nothing!’

Dexter was a hospitable farmer. His doors were always open to guests and strangers alike. Many tourists heard of Dexter and wandered straight up to his house to taste his fresh ice-cream and sit under the shade of his gigantic oak trees. All picnics were blessed with Dexter’s visits and his old wife’s delicious scones or muffins. It was his treat to the picnickers.

On one such day, in the summer of 2010, a young lady walked up, knapsack bearing heavily down on her and slightly hunched. She walked past the welcoming of his Pomeranians right up to the door. The bell chimed deep into the house and within a few minutes the door opened and Dexter’s wife Marge stood there, broad smile on her face.

‘You poor thing, here let’s just put that heavy bag down and come in for a cuppa tea! My name is Marge. Welcome to the capital of Cambridge.’

The warm introduction made the visitor smile happily. She immediately unbuckled her baggage and slipped it down to the floor.

Reaching out her hand, the stranger said, ‘Call me Chris, please. I’m passing through Cambridge and I need a place to stay for the night. I’ll be gone in a day. I’m visiting New Zealand and this is my first time here. The people are so friendly. It’s unbelievable!’

‘Come in Chris. Yes we have a spare guest room attached to the back of the house. It’s used often. You are lucky; it’s unoccupied at the moment.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t pay for the lodging, but I’m happy to do chores on the farm, perhaps do some artwork for you or whatever you want me to do to repay your hospitality!’

‘Never mind that Chris, just come on in and have a cuppa tea first. There are always things around the farm for you to do. We won’t break your back so don’t worry. We will work something out.’

Chris entered the house, left her heavy knapsack by the door and settled a bit uneasily on the nearby couch. Marge disappeared into the kitchen. She returned with a steaming cup of tea and her famous muffins.

Marge continued, ‘After your tea you can use the washroom down stairs by the stairwell. I’ll show you to your room soon after you freshen up. How long have you been walking?’ Marge asked.

‘It’s been just about half the day, Marge. I left Auckland at 10am this morning, hitched a ride up to Hamilton, got another trip to Cambridge and got off near the antique store in town. That’s where they told me about you and your friendly hospitality. I decided to walk up to here and here I am.’ Chris answered.

‘How lovely, Chris. You made the right decision. Enjoy your muffins and tea and I’ll be back in 5 minutes. I need to open the back gates to the milking sheds. The cows will be heading home to milk any minute now.’

‘Ok!’ Chris replied, feeling quite relaxed at the gentle approach and typical farm life in New Zealand.

The tea was delicious and Earl Grey and the muffins were dressed with raisins and walnuts. They were fresh and nice. Marge returned and straightaway, in about ten minutes, she began to sort out the cushions and open the windows to let the light come in. Chris was using the washroom downstairs. She would be out in a few minutes and would want to be shown to her room. She was a lovely young woman. Courteous and well mannered, soft spoken with those big bouncy eyes that spoke so expressively even if she kept quit and said nothing.

Gonzo, her little Labrador barked a low growl which Marge clearly understood as the pet recognising someone else was in the house. This was a sure sign she recognised a visitor. Otherwise Gonzo rarely barked. This was not an angry one but a welcoming instead.

Chris emerged from the showers looking fully refreshed and pleased.

She sipped into the last of her now cold tea.

‘What do you do for a living back home, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Marge asked, a little unsure if that was a good question.

‘Oh I’m an artist and I paint pictures to sell to customers, mostly online. It’s a fun job. I’ve done this for some time now and my client base is slowly growing.’

Relieved that her question was well received, Marge went on getting to know a little bit more about Chris. ‘How nice, we have never had an artist stay with us. I s’pose once you settle in you might want to capture the sunsets from through this window. It’s lovely later in the evening when the sun is going down. I love the way it reflects off the mountain ranges there. The colours are incredible. One has to see it to believe its beauty.’

‘I’m sure it must be!’ Chris replied.

‘Let me show you to your room, Chris. You will enjoy your stay here. Regarding lodging costs etc., you will need to have a word with Dexter. I’m sure he won’t break the bank. Dexter loves having people over, especially talented ones. We had a church musician stay over once and he was such a pleasure. The entertainment he offered us was priceless. Oh my word, he play that old piano so beautifully and I had neighbours always call over asking him to sing and play his catchy jazz tunes.’

‘I think you will like my paintings, Marge! I’m sure you will. Down at the antique store the lady was taken up with my work and purchased unsecured oil on canvas. She did mention she was going to on sell it to Viktors Art Gallery further down the road. I have a few more I’d like to sell to earn money, to continue my travels!’

‘It is a lovely way to get around, I think. We have never had a guest that did that sort of thing. In the old days we worked in the farmyard. Milked the cows, fixed fences, and watered the drinking troughs and that sort of thing. I guess modern girls have a new way of getting around?’

‘It’s common in the States, Marge. Lots of people travel around these days offering services like painting, carpentry, house-keeping chores, laundry, ironing, tutoring, cooking, child-minding and that sort of thing. The list is growing rapidly. My services are similar in some way. I’m happy to do chores to get things done around the house or farm, even drive down, do shopping and grocery. Anything goes. What I love most is painting a local scene to suit my hosts. This could be a portrait of a pet animal, a special reproduction of some old picture, maybe some computer work, cooking, framing, dishes, gardening, sewing and so on. You name it, and I can do it, it’s done.’

‘How lovely Chris. We all have unfished business around the house. Dexter would love that. He is getting on in age and there are always things to do on the farm. I don’t know much about painting and art work, but I’m sure he does. He’s an educated farmer. I met him well over fifty years ago. He was a dashing young graduate at the time. His eyes were sky blue and he looked through me with those liquidity stares. My legs gave in with unholy fright. It reminded me of a lion about to pounce on a dainty meal.’

‘How lovely Marge!’ Chris replied. I’m looking forward to hearing all about it when he gets home?’

‘Yes, he will be happy to chat with you too!’ she continued. ‘It should be about an hour. Take some rest in the meantime, and I’ll come and fetch you later.’

‘OK. Bye for now. See you back in an hour or so. That’s if I don’t doze off for too long.’

Christina picked up her knapsack with ease and walked around the house to where her room was located. The door was ajar. A fresh bunch of sweet smelling flowers was placed in a large glass vase on the table. A notepad, pencil and a packet of envelopes lay at the side. A black old fashioned ringtone phone sat on a side table. The bedspread was a checker Scottish pattern and the pillows looked fluffed and inviting. Christina flopped on the soft bed and within a few minutes was sound asleep. The days trekking and riding on cargo trucks, carrying a heavy backpack and small tent alongside, gave her a slight back strain. However, she knew well that some good rest would ease the pain.

It was 7pm in the evening when she opened her eyes again. Still bright outside, she realised the door was still ajar and fresh chill air was streaming in. It was such a pleasant evening. Almost on cue she heard the little pet dogs shuffling outside the door. She went to the door quickly.

‘Have good rest, Chris?’ Marge asked politely.

‘Oh yes, thank you very much! I sure need some shut eye. I’m up now and ready to meet Dexter.’

‘He is having his little nip of whisky on the patio. He was so pleased to know we have a guest drop in!’

Dexter was an old man, greying at the temples, but with a headful of hair. He was quite strong and