Burning Bush Stony Ground: The Art Thing

By J. L. Fiol

The Art Thing
Gibraltar 1947
It is a scorching day in August, the Sun at its highest. It is the day when I catch the first conscious glimpse of that which lays claim to vacant possession of the interior of my cranium for the coming sixty seven years and counting. I am twelve years of age.
Sweaty and aglow, I am pelting down Lopezs Ramp towards home in Devils Gap Steps after an exhilarating scamper along the rocky slopes above the neighbourhood. Visions of flowing water with chunks of bread and lard with a sprinkling of sugar loom large.
No portent marks the occasion; no comet plumes the sky; no hovering kite brushes my eyelids with its tail feathers in benediction; no searing light signposts a path.
Instead, there is the chap in the khaki shorts.
I know him though not his name nor where he lives. I often see him, sitting on the wide steps, with elbows on knees and hands hanging limp, gazing down towards the town.
The word from the grown-ups is that he is of doubtful character. Its not just the habitual wearing of the khaki shorts, in itself sufficient to raise eyebrows, given the association with Scoutmasters. It is rather the shorts themselves which compress brows in consternation and alarm. Although of standard length to accord with their designation, they are however of inordinate width at the legs and highly starched, resulting in permanent flare. Well and good when the chap is standing or walking. Not so when he chooses to sit down on the steps. It is then that the shorts in their amplitude and starchiness rise to rampant, revealing unnecessary extent of shank and beyond. It is a spectacle which presents ongoing fascination for my more feckless fellows and these are under strict orders from the grown-ups forbidding proximity to the uninhibited sitter.
As I turn into Devils Gap Steps, I see a group of such fellows in compliance with the letter, if not the spirit of the law. They stand at some appreciable distance, downwind as one might say, from the chap who sits in habitual garb and posture in whose direction they sneak furtive glances alternating with bouts of shared sniggering.
I notice that the chap himself is alternating between staring intently ahead and occupying himself with something on his lap. My curiosity gets the better of me and I venture into the exclusion zone. As I do so, he begins scrubbing vigorously at what I make out to be a pad resting on his lap. He stops, blows on the pad and flicks a little finger across it. The thought crosses my mind that he is writing and has made a mistake which needed rubbing out.
With that in mind, I look down at the pad and get a shock. I can make out the flat roof of Mr Benabus house the lamp-post with the goose neck at the corner of Lime Kiln Road Mr Caetanos courtyard with the large pots of Geraniums the wide steps going down to Flat Bastion Road, although curiously on the paper they go up the chap is not writing he is drawing.
I am intrigued and strangely unsettled. I remain there gawping until abdominal rumbling demands my attention and I scurry indoors at No.4, my mind preoccupied with presenting a viable reason to account for my absence from barracks since breakfast.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504943048

J. L. Fiol

N/A

Book preview

© 2015 J.L. Fiol. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/29/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-4303-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-4304-8 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

BOOK ONE

The Art Thing

BOOK TWO

Damascus in the Dark

Language, Young Lady

Driven

Three Paintings and a Pasty

Other Titles

Troubled Water … & other irregularities

The Devil in French … & other musings

When it was the War … & other conflicts

Second Coming … & other upheavals

The View from Below … & other peerings

Record: Drawings, Paintings, Aquaflo, Constructs, Exhibitions, Notes, Films, Project, Book. J. L. Fiol

To

Roger Davies & Mario Finlayson

BOOK ONE

The Art Thing

Gibraltar 1947

It is a scorching day in August, the Sun at its highest. It is the day when I catch the first conscious glimpse of that which lays claim to vacant possession of the interior of my cranium for the coming sixty seven years and counting. I am twelve years of age.

Sweaty and aglow, I am pelting down Lopez’s Ramp towards home in Devil’s Gap Steps after an exhilarating scamper along the rocky slopes above the neighbourhood. Visions of flowing water with chunks of bread and lard with a sprinkling of sugar loom large.

No portent marks the occasion; no comet plumes the sky; no hovering kite brushes my eyelids with its tail feathers in benediction; no searing light signposts a path.

Instead, there is the chap in the khaki shorts.

I know him though not his name nor where he lives. I often see him, sitting on the wide steps, with elbows on knees and hands hanging limp, gazing down towards the town.

The word from the grown-ups is that he is of doubtful character. It’s not just the habitual wearing of the khaki shorts, in itself sufficient to raise eyebrows, given the association with Scoutmasters. It is rather the shorts themselves which compress brows in consternation and alarm. Although of standard length to accord with their designation, they are however of inordinate width at the legs and highly starched, resulting in permanent flare. Well and good when the chap is standing or walking. Not so when he chooses to sit down on the steps. It is then that the shorts in their amplitude and starchiness rise to rampant, revealing unnecessary extent of shank and beyond. It is a spectacle which presents ongoing fascination for my more feckless fellows and these are under strict orders from the grown-ups forbidding proximity to the uninhibited sitter.

As I turn into Devil’s Gap Steps, I see a group of such fellows in compliance with the letter, if not the spirit of the law. They stand at some appreciable distance, downwind as one might say, from the chap who sits in habitual garb and posture and in whose direction they sneak furtive glances alternating with bouts of shared sniggering.

I notice that the chap himself is alternating between staring intently ahead and occupying himself with something on his lap. My curiosity gets the better of me and I venture into the exclusion zone. As I do so, he begins scrubbing vigorously at what I make out to be a pad resting on his lap. He stops, blows on the pad and flicks a little finger across it. The thought crosses my mind that he is writing and has made a mistake which needed rubbing out.

With that in mind, I look down at the pad and get a shock. I can make out the flat roof of Mr Benabu’s house … the lamp-post with the goose neck at the corner of Lime Kiln Road … Mr Caetano’s courtyard with the large pots of Geraniums … the wide steps going down to Flat Bastion Road, although curiously on the paper they go up … the chap is not writing … he is drawing.

I am intrigued and strangely unsettled. I remain there gawping until abdominal rumbling demands my attention and I scurry indoors at No.4, my mind preoccupied with presenting a viable reason to account for my absence from barracks since breakfast.

* * * * * * * * * *

It could be seen as unfortunate, perhaps significant, that in that first encounter with what could very loosely be described as Art, the young clay of my being might at some subconscious level been indented with the impression that the activity involved individuals of doubtful character in prurient circumstances: that in the pursuit of the pictorial, doubtful character was, if not a requirement, symptomatic of the desire to do so.

* * * * * * * * * *

It’s a large sheet of thick paper pinned to a board. Next to it is an open tin of watercolours, two large jars filled with clean water and three white saucers. Brother Taylor is holding a large brush in one hand and a scrunched-up cloth in the other. He mixes paint with water in the saucers: blue yellow red. He gives the brush a tinkling rinse, wipes it and lays down the cloth.

He lays a broad band of blue, brushing from left to right at the top end of the paper. With a clean brush he adds a band of yellow, leaving a gap, under the blue. Similarly one of red under the yellow. He places a book under the top end of the board to give it a slight tilt. Very quickly he brushes in clean water in the gaps between the blue and yellow, the yellow and red and removes the book.

I look on mesmerised as the colours blend into each other of their own accord with green and orange appearing to form a seamless transition.

* * * * * * * * * *

A.jpg

With Art not included as a subject in the Grammar School curriculum, it had been my first experience of paint being used. Raining too heavily for PT or cross-country, we had been confined to our Form with the option of silent reading or drawing with coloured pencils. Undecided what to do, I had ambled over to Brother Taylor’s desk at the front of the classroom where several of my fellows had gathered.

I would not have been able to find the words at the time but in the light of subsequent experiences, I have come to value immediacy and sensitivity when handling paint in whatever medium: when the paint is not licked into submission but allowed the freedom of its own particular qualities.

* * * * * * * * * *

The book comes today. It’s what is called the Editor’s Choice: The Drawings of Leonardo Da Vinci. I already have three of the standard monthly editions: The Kon-Tiki Expedition; Elephant Bill; Seven Years in Tibet. I joined the Reprint Society when I started work at the Secretariat. Up till then I only read The Wizard, Rover, Hotspur, Tit-Bits and Reveille.

It’s here. It’s a beautiful book, larger than the regular editions, in a burnt orange hard cover with an intricate circular pattern in gold.

The drawings are amazing. They unsettle me. Drawings of drapery on kneeling figures are a revelation. I want to learn to draw but I don’t know how to start. I am puzzled at the reference to the technique of Silverpoint used in the drawings and wonder if I can use charcoal instead.

It’s Saturday. I’ve got some sticks of charcoal and three sheets of size A2 cartridge paper. I’ve prepared the paper to give it an old look by rubbing charcoal on sandpaper over it, pounding it with a wad of cloth and then dusting it off. It gives an interesting random texture and besides I reckon to be able to pick out highlights in the drawing using kneaded bits of bread.

The object to be drawn is set up by the front door. It’s made up with a stool, pillows, shoes, empty bottles and pieces of wood. Draped over with my grey blanket, it’s the nearest I can get to a kneeling figure. Prudently I dismiss the fleeting notion of dipping the blanket in plaster of Paris in emulation of Leonardo. I am ready to start.

The lighting is not right. No emphasis in contrast between darks and lights in the object. No chiaroscuro. Directional lighting is needed. Down come the window shutters. A split cone made from newspaper is positioned around the naked bulb and after some experimenting with the direction of the beam, secured to the brown plaited flex with clothes pegs. My grandmother watches the proceedings with bemused concern. I am ready to start.

I kneel on the floor facing the other truncated kneeling figure. I mentally position the object on the paper. I sharpen the charcoal to a point on the sandpaper. I am ready to start.

Abruptly I turn my head at the sound of a smothered whimper to behold my grandmother pointing up at the light source, which is emitting black smoke as a brown wave consumes the newspaper. I yank down the ex-cone and stamp on it, effectively cooling its ardour. I remember the silver paper left over from when I stuck bands round my Indian clubs for the Sports Day Gym Display. The improved cone is installed. I am ready to start.

In no time at all the available kneaded bread goes from white to dense black. Awful mess. Too heavy on the charcoal. Sheet number two. This time the object is badly placed on the paper. Cut off at mid-calf. Still too heavy too soon on the charcoal. Rubbing with fresh bread leaves too many ghost lines. Sheet number three.

I place the object using feint lines and mark out the areas of shadow. I’m doing OK. A knock on the door.

Who’s that?

It’s me. Are you ready? It’s The Mark of Zorro.

What?

The pictures. Are you coming or what?

I can’t.

Why not? Are you sick?

No. I haven’t finished the drawing.

What drawing?

The Da Vinci drawing.

What’s a davinci? I manage to open the door sufficiently to stick my nose through.

What’s that on your face?

Nothing. Listen, you go on without me. My friend makes a disgusted noise and goes off.

I’ve forgotten it’s Saturday and with the shutters drawn didn’t see it getting dark. I’ve broken the thread and realise I’m desperate for the loo. I’m not worried for my grandmother, she never goes up to the communal toilet on the roof terrace once it begins to get dark. I daren’t disturb the arrangement blocking the front door. It has to be out of the window, on to the corrugated sheet flat roof, over the wall onto the wide steps and finally up to the terrace through the street entrance to the building.

I decide to continue with the drawing in the morning after a good refreshing sleep. It dawns on me that the pillows and blanket are spoken for … and it is February. No monogrammed silk pyjamas tonight. It has to be full dress with gabardine.

Valuable lessons are learned with the Da Vinci episode. For one, future arrangements are on a more modest scale and do not impede the flow of traffic or physiological necessities. I set up arrangements of household objects and continue to use charcoal combined with black Conté crayon. Depicting light in a literal sense interests me. I set up a large still-life with woodwork tools and a lit candle, working on size A1 cartridge by the beam of a pencil torch so as not to intrude on the candlelight with shutters drawn. Starting with a pinpoint of white where the end of the wick meets the flame, I radiate outwards in gradations to take in the objects, their cast shadows and on to the surroundings in which darks are accentuated with Conté. I use fixative to build up layers.

* * * * * * * * * *

I had no inclination to work from nature or indeed to venture outdoors for subject matter. I did make a largely abortive attempt to confront Nature during the Gibraltar period, as well as subsequently on isolated occasions. These were attempts to validate the work by external reference. I did not then or ever keep a sketchbook. The nearest I got to one involved colour exercises while at Art College, more for the purpose of fending off lecturers who advocated the use of sketchbooks as proof of commitment than from personal inclination.

* * * * * * * * * *

Another summons to go down to the counter in the main entrance to the Secretariat. Having of late been spouting about my interest in Art, I get lumbered with dealing with the flood of designs in response to a competition for the tickets in the forthcoming Gibraltar Lottery. The tickets conform to A5 size which allows considerable scope for the inclusion of imagery. In the entries submitted views of the Rock abound, closely followed by Barbary Apes, Union Jacks, on to military heavy weaponry and a sprinkling of heads purporting to be that of Her Majesty the Queen.

The uniformed messenger indicates a young man among other persons at the counter waiting to be seen. I go over to him and he tells me he wishes to enter the competition for the design of the lottery tickets. He hands over three entries on folded card protected with tracing paper. Standard Gibraltarian themes but with imaginative treatment and strong sense of layout. I admire the designs. He appears pleased. I check that his personal details are included with the three entries. His name is Mario Finlayson, some eight years older than my eighteen winters. The address is given as Castle Road, quite close to where I live in Devil’s Gap Steps.

I mention my interest in Art. Mario becomes animated. He tells me he himself paints, though not as much as he’d like to. He works in the Shipping Section of a local Firm and has not long been married. We arrange to meet up after work.

* * * * * * * * * *

Although I was to move to the UK, we have kept in contact over the years by Airmail letter and latterly by email and phone. Mario visited us on three occasions while on study courses from Gibraltar in the UK. Once in Newport, Gwent, while I was in Art College. Then in Essex where I taught in a Comprehensive School. Finally in 2004 for my exhibition in Falmouth, Cornwall. He remains my oldest friend.

In 2006, returning on a visit to Gibraltar after forty eight years, I was able to meet up again with Mario on home ground under somewhat curious circumstances which might merit a mention.

My wife and I were on a sample coach tour of Andalucía which included a two-hour stop at Gibraltar. I had made it a condition for going on the tour that when we reached the Rock I would remain in the coach while my wife could join our fellow travellers in a look-around. At the time I was not up to confronting certain ghosts. However when we drew up at Gibraltar through the frontier at La Linea from Algeciras, a pang of conscience mocked my churlish attitude and while others hurried off on minibus tours of the Rock, I resolved to show Doreen the real Gibraltar.

Suddenly we found ourselves in a strange area devoid of people and vehicles. With some effort, I was able to identify Montagu Bastion and then the Market Square, so I knew we weren’t too far from Main Street and the centre of town. However we had a problem. After an unsuccessful knee replacement, Doreen was having difficulty with mobility and I could not see her coping with the upward trudge to my home in Devil’s Gap Steps which was the focus of her interest. Twenty minutes of the two hours ticked away while we stood disconsolately looking for signs of life.

A taxi materialised and when I approached it, the driver rather curtly stated himself to be at the end of his shift and unwilling to take any fares. A tirade in Llanito from me together with the promise of a hefty tip stretched his work schedule and we were duly deposited at Maidstone House on the Laguna Estate. Minutes later we were knocking on the door of Mario’s flat. No-one at home. Forty six minutes of the two hours gone.

Having got my bearings in a much altered landscape, I reckoned that in the time available our best bet to see something of the town was to head for the nearby Casemates Tunnel which gave on to Casemates Square and Main Street. All sorts of small shops and kiosks had sprouted inside the Tunnel. On impulse I entered one of them.

Excuse me, I said to the young woman inside. Would you by any chance know a Mario Finlayson?

Yes, replied the young woman. He’s my dad. With that Paulette got on her mobile and in minutes Mario and his wife Margarita drove up. We combined greetings with a lightning tour of the upper reaches of the Rock taking in my neighbourhood and made it back on time to the coach and were off to the next stop in Malaga.

Mario continues to be as enthusiastic as ever about painting and the Arts in general. He always did have a joy about painting which I envied, unable to get off the starting blocks myself. In addition to turning out paintings, he continues to button-hole politicians and other public figures in order to raise funds as well as awareness and appreciation of Art in the community.

His output is as impressive as it is varied. Essentially a figurative painter, he has embraced Abstract, Impressionist, Expressionist and Esoteric strands. For me his views from the upper reaches of the Rock are the very essence of Mediterranean sunshine, as also a reflection of the generosity of his character. He has shown, at times to his own embarrassment, a tendency to run off with prizes at local and national exhibitions.

At the time of writing, Mario is being honoured with a Public Homage Exhibition of his work in recognition of his qualities as an artist and of his contribution to the cultural life of Gibraltar.

* * * * * * * * * *

Mario and I meet up in town from time to time. We talk endlessly about Art and the admired painters of the past. Mario keeps me up to date on his current work. I make up for the lack of any with inflated opinions on the nature of Art and its function.

I visit Mario at his home in Castle Road. I take in the folding easel in the corner of the small living room, obligingly supportive of a still-life in progress; the circumstantial evidence in the square motley palette; the seasoned brushes with hair receding in the course of duty; the contorted tubes squeezed of their essence, sacrificial to Man’s yearning for the transcendental. I revel in the odour of turpentine.

Mario is in his element, at peace with God and Man. He brings out a succession of