The Art School Dance Read Online Free PDF Page B

a
stranger I kept blundering into.
    ‘ Is
there something wrong?’ he finally asked, when a stiff neck caused
him to turn his head and he saw that I was not actually doing very
much.
    It was then
that I gratefully put the brush down and admitted, ‘It’s not
working.’
    ‘ I don’t
inspire you?’ he said, but with only a hint of a smile.
    ‘ Genius
is more perspiration than inspiration,’ I answered, but the
platitude was a poor excuse and I had to confess that there was
something lacking.
    He seemed hurt
and said he was sorry, as if it was his fault, which it might well
have been. I told him that there was no need to be, though, gave no
clue that whatever is lacking seemed to be in him rather than in
the painting. It was just one of those days, I persuaded him, when
things didn’t quite work out as they should, a common malaise that
afflicted every artist at some time or other.
    ‘ Never
mind, leave it for tonight,’ Stephen advised, with a mature wisdom
which he thought might be beyond me. Like a father he offered his
counsel: ‘Leave it. It’ll probably work out better when you come
back to it.’
    I nodded and
packed away the paints, set the canvas –which Stephen had still not
seen- face to the wall once more, while he rubbed his neck where
the stiffness was. When I had cleared everything away I went over
to him, intending to massage his neck, but as Stephen saw what I
was about to do he held up his hands to warn me off.
    ‘ Oh no
you don’t,’ he told me. ‘Go and wash your hands before you touch
me. Better still, have a bath. You stink of turps.’
    ‘ I was
only going to-’
    ‘ I know
what you were going to do, and I don’t want you pawing me all over
with those filthy hands.’ When he was sure that I was keeping my
distance he tugged at his collar. ‘This is a new shirt.’
    I protested,
told him that I’d had a busy day and was tired, but he held firm,
inching away from me when I tried to move closer, so we sat apart,
Stephen on the bed and me on the chair before the empty easel. We
faced each other in near silence until he left, a little earlier
than usual.
    *
    ‘Have you
two had an argument?’ Gran asked, when I went into the living room
after seeing Stephen to the door; Gran was to one side of the fire,
knitting, while my mother was to the other side, dozing.
    ‘ No,’ I
answered, opening a book in my lap.
    ‘ Stephen
left early,’ Gran observed.
    ‘ Yes.’
    ‘ He
didn’t look too happy when he left, either.’
    ‘ You
were peeping through the curtains again?’ I supposed, with a brief
glance up from my book.
    Gran admitted
nothing, rattled her needles together as she asked, ‘What did you
do to upset him?’
    ‘ I
didn’t do anything to upset him. We all have our off
days.’
    ‘ And
whose turn was it today? Yours or his?’
    I was in no
mood for the old woman’s nattering, was impatient with her. She
seemed to think that her age gave her some particular insight into
people, and I said quite sharply, ‘Who says we have to smile all
the time?’
    ‘ No one.
You need a special reason for frowning, though. What did you do to
the lad?’
    ‘ Nothing!’
    My mother
stirred behind half-closed eyes, felt bound to add her opinion,
said, ‘He’s a nice young man is Stephen. So smart, so
sensible.’
    ‘ You’re
saying I’m not?’ I asked, knowing full well that this was exactly
what she meant.
    ‘ He’s
sensibly employed,’ my mother continued. ‘As we thought you would
be, after getting you’re A levels and all.’
    ‘ I’ve
gone on to college,’ I reminded her. ‘Isn’t that what you wanted me
to do?’
    She shrugged,
said nothing, but Gran gave a wickedly disdainful chuckle. ‘Art
college?’ she said, her teeth now clacking in time to her knitting.
‘That place? Pah! That’s not proper study. It’ll get you
nowhere.’
    I steeled
myself, knowing what was going to come next, having suffered the
topic so many times before. Sure enough the old woman cited