CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I stood before my canvas and just starred at the sketch I was about to paint. I had unusual feelings about both the idea and outcome of what I was about to do. Personally, I knew right from the onset of the sketch, that it's going to be difficult for me. A mare look at it could provoke sorrowful emotions.
I was about to make a painting of Pam's face just after life had eased out of her. It's meant to be the final piece of the collection.
The choice for that subject was conceived in order to create an 'ending' to Pam's story. I couldn't come up with a better presentation and I didn't ask for anyone's advice. I closed my eyes and analyse the images flashing through my mind, and the only one that appeared more vivid was that particular scene when she died, clutching my hand.
The pallet on my left hand began to feel heavy, for I stood for a while holding it. I kept it on the table and sat down, closed my eyes and took a breather for a minute. Still, I saw Pam's face staring at me. I opened my eyes. I didn't know exactly what came over me that moment. I felt as if possessed by some spirit that constantly puts fear in me over what I was about to do.
It was just a painting for God's sake! I yelled inside. I closed my eyes again, I wanted to see her; I must look at that face for as long as it would appear on my mind. I needed to confront it; to face it and drive away the fear it puts in me. And she was there; moving, holding my hand as she struggled and then stilled with opened eyes, looking at me. Then the whole picture cleared off.
I opened my eyes, a little composed I must admit. Then looked at the paintings on the wall, one after the other until my eyes settled on one of the Vermeer prints: The Girl with the Pearl Earring. I love the concept of that painting: the delicate treatment of light. And at that moment that I was about to paint Pam's dead face, I figured the concept would be excellent for it. I took up the pallet and the brush, and a deep breath. I got to work.
The feeling wasn't pleasant. There I was, painting a picture only my mind saw and felt. I think I just painted vigorously without stopping. That scene was like a course lying in the crannies of my mind that every time I thought about it, I experience a momentary emotional trauma. I heard soldiers that saw combats get tormented by the blood and dead bodies and destruction they saw long after those things happened. That's their curse. Mine was the last seconds I spent with Pam.
So I painted. Tones after tones; colour after colour; blending hues to bring the picture to a harmonious whole, with a soul and a captivating feeling. I didn't want to stop. Even when I did, I couldn't stop envisaging the end point. I finished it in four days and named it Mortality
It was a Friday. I walked towards the assembly hall with anxiety eating me up inside. Earlier on, I got a note from Mr Glasgow asking me to come to the assembly hall and view the setting for my exhibition before the place is opened for viewing.
The day before was kind of busy. I spent half of it with Mr Glasgow feeding me what he was able to put together over the week in preparation for the exhibition. He had used his personal money to fix a few things and needed nothing in return.
The school had granted our request to stage the exhibition in the assembly hall. And been the first exhibition of art works from a single student, there were high expectations as well as excitement among the students; everyone in school already knew what the subject was all about. Phil did an excellent job on the buzz; he made posters and buzzed it online. My page then had more than three thousand likes.
Many students stopped me in school asking me what to expect. I told them the best.
The door was closed so I knocked.
"Who is it?" A voice asked from inside.
"Bradley." I said.
The door opened instantly. I got in; and three steps through, I stopped, captivated by the display of colour and beauty. Twenty six exquisite artworks, created by my own hands displayed before me. I couldn't believe my eyes; for a moment, they all looked strange to me as if I wasn't the one that made them.
"So?" Mr Glasgow appeared from somewhere and stood behind me. I didn't turn to look at him.
"Breath taking." I said.
My eyes swept the entirety of the place and settled on the last piece of the collection; Mortality. I moved towards it and stood before it. I never thought it would look that real. I reached and touched her face and someone told me not to touch but I didn't listen; I still did. Waves of emotion heaved up in my chest. My eyes got blurred with tears. I cried.
It was the first time I cried ever since Pam died. Several times, I tried hard to cry but the tears just couldn't come. But at that moment, they came without me knowing it. In the midst of it, someone held me by the shoulder. I cried more.
"It's alright, son. It's ok." Mr Glasgow’s voice consoled. Still, I cried.
A few hours later, the hall was filled with teachers and students viewing the artworks. I had already named each painting and Mr Glasgow edited the short descriptions I made on each, which we printed and pinned by the side so that students could know more about them.
"This is the future for you mate, this is it."
Phil, Henry and I were at the backstage watching the viewer’s go from one painting to another, admiring them.
"This is the beginning of the future, Henry." Phil replied Henry. "The future is yet to come."
"Phil, are you seeing what I'm seeing? If not, I urge you to take a good look at the people in here. Everyone is excited about his works. What more can an artist wish for?"
"The last time I checked, that artist is still fifteen. He's not into university yet. Got it? What do you think he'd be after that?"
"Guys please stop." I chipped in. "I'm right here, so I need concentration from both of you for what's going on right now; not the future's beginning or ending; ok?" I looked back at the crowd "I'll be going down there in a few minutes to meet people who would possibly ask me billions of questions I might not yet have answers to, so I need your back up."
"We're backing you up mate, we got you."
"You look nervous." Phil grinned. "You should relax. This is your day. You'll be cool."
"I hope so Phil, I hope so."
"May I have your attention please?" Mr Glasgow took the stage and the hall turned into a peaceful silence. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this beautiful exhibition: The Favourite Muse." A roar of applause broke out.
"Favourite Muse is a story of a young girl, with dreams and ambitions like each and every one of you in this room, only to be confronted by an unfortunate mishap that took her life. This is the story of Ms Pamela Graham." Another applause.
"I don't have any idea about how the story all started between the artist and the muse that eventually led to the creation of these masterpieces. Though, I'd love to know all about it, maybe I could learn a thing or two." There was a short mirth from the audience. "I don't believe I'm too old for a love affair that could eventually lead to this sort of effort, but..." There was a roar of laughter "I believe this whole effort is worth it. And for that, I'm proud to present the artist himself to come and share a thing or two with us. Ladies and gentlemen, I proudly present to you my good student, Mr Bradley Johnson"
The sharp roar of applause from the audience nearly made me jump out of my skin when I was introduced. As I walked out of the curtains, I thought I was dreaming. The clapping continued until I stood before them. And just before I opened my mouth, I caught a short glimpse of Pam, at the far corner of the hall behind the crowd, smiling at me. It was a kind of delusional imagination, but I liked it. That was a big blessing. I smiled back, again with tears in my eyes.
After a brief speech which dwelt on special thanks and appreciation to people that supported me- my mother, my friends, teachers and strangers that grieved with me- I got into the crowed to talk, answer questions, sign autographs and took phone numbers from girls that would like to replace Pam.
The local news crew came; I answered their tricky questions for three minutes, which dwelt on Pam rather than me. I told them she wanted to
be Catherin Zeta Jones.
"Hey, Bradley, I want you to meet someone." Mr Glasgow tapped me on the shoulder. "Come with me." I followed him to a less crowded part of the hall where two strange men were waiting.
"Hello Mr Johnson, it's good to see you again." The older of the two said as he stretched out his hand for a shake.
"Good afternoon sir;" I said. "Forgive me but, I...."
"Ah; never mind that. I saw you but you didn't see me. I was there at the museum when you took Ms Graham for a tour of the Galleries. Remember that day? You got my attention by the way you talked about those paintings and artists." He smiled. "The way you told her about Van Gough was so fascinating that I thought you work in my building."
"Your building?" I asked.
"This is Mr Robert Stevenson" Mr Glasgow introduced. "He's the curator of the National Museum of Wales."
Bloody Hell! "You are most welcome sir, I'm so delighted to have you here."
"The delight is mine." He smiled. "Mr Glasgow here is a good old friend; a friendship that goes back in time." He said with a mirth gesture. "Way back in time."
"He's my favourite critic." Mr Glasgow said.
"Critic?" I looked from Mr Glasgow to Mr Stevenson "Of what?"
"Of art." Said Stevenson. "I find his views rather untraditional."
"Traditional; I find the word vaguely absurd in the world of arts." Mr Glasgow retorted. "I wonder what kind of world you come from."
"Mr Bradley, your teacher here wrote a book I find highly controversial. I assume you must have read it too; if you did, what do you have a say about his idea."
I looked at Mr Glasgow and at the curator; the trio looked back with eagerness on their faces. "Well, I think it's really kind of untraditional."
"That's exactly what I..."
"But I believe the dynamism of art in itself has reached an extent where people's psychology towards colour has changed tremendously."
"Explain." Mr Stevenson folded his arms and gave me an eagle look.
"A plain colour, say blue, could be enough to make people happy and comfortable. As such, artists play with such colour on a canvas in different pattern without any form. The patterns alone could be pleasing to the eye. I think that's what you meant by untraditional."
"In which case, Mr Bradley, the painting won't have a soul." Mr Stevenson buttressed.
"You are right; it won't" I said, "but to some, it could have. That, I think, depends on individual perception. If someone loves a colour, I don't think he would mind having it in a harmonised pattern on a canvas. Because what's important to that person in space and time is the colour, not the form."
The trio had their eyes on me for a moment without; none said anything.
"I can't remember writing that in my book, but you just said exactly how I felt." Said Mr Glasgow.
"What do you feed this gentleman with?" Mr Stevenson looked at Mr Glasgow. "I thought you'd be all alone on this."
"Well, welcome to the contemporary." Mr Glasgow smiled at him.
"Mr Bradley, walk with me." Stevenson said to me with a smile.
We walked amidst the students. "I admire these; they are excellent. And the best part of it is that it's traditional. People will relate to it easily and feel your message."
"Isn't that what art is about, feeling?"
"You are right Mr Bradley. You are right."
"Sir, please call me Brad."
"Ok, Brad. That's easier."
Three girls were standing by the Attitude, they winked at me when we passed by. He saw the gesture and said "When you do the right things that please people, you'll attract their attention in the most inappropriate way. See, the girls like you." I smiled at his words. "More of this is coming your way, I must warn you. If you continue like this, the sky is the beginning. I'm saying this because I know."
Another group of younger girls came for autographs, I signed. He looked with a straight face. "Sorry about that." I said.
"It's ok." He said; alighting at the 'Mortality'. He looked at the painting for a moment. "Tell me Mr Bradley, were you expecting something like this three months ago?"
"No, I wasn't. I guess I was so engrossed in the relationship with the subject that I didn't think of that." I looked at the painting. "I knew she'd die sooner or later; I just never thought it'd be that soon. I remember telling Mr Glasgow all these were worthless."
"Then what really inspired you to do this?"
"Her mother."
"That's right. If I was her mother, I won't let all these rot in your basement."
"No sir, but she would've preferred that."
He looked at me and the straight look he got from me explained it better. "Oh; okay." He looked at the painting again. "How about hosting the exhibition at the museum? We would be delighted to have your works exhibited there."
"Excuse me?" I didn't get him right, at least for the first few seconds.
"Was that a yes?" He asked.
"Yes sir, that's a yes sir!" I was lost of breath. "Oh thank you sir, thank you."
"Don't thank me, thank your teacher." He nodded towards Mr Glasgow who was standing with some students by the 'Going home.' "That man would make a hell of an agent." He smiled.
In the middle of my excitement, I saw mother standing with Mr Graham. She waved at me. I excused myself from Mr Stevenson and hurried to where they were standing. I gave her a hug while I cried. She cried with me, wishing father was alive to witness what his boy had achieved at such a young age. She cried more when I told her the good news.
Before the end of the exhibition, Mr Glasgow announced the venue of my next exhibition, the National Museum; Gallery 13. I received a thunder of applause and tons upon tons of congratulations.
I sat alone in the hall, my paintings still hanging on the walls and easels. It was a great day for me. I never thought it would be that great. I was nervous in the beginning, now I was exhilarated.
I took a long sigh and closed my eyes. I didn't want to feel or think anything; just a moment of solitude would calm me. I needed to blackout. I don't know why I thought about it but it's more like I was trying to get back to the old me (even though I never wanted the day to end).
I heard someone clearing his throat. I opened my eyes and turned. It was Phil, Henry was with him.
"Are you alright mate?" Henry asked.
"Yes; I'm alright." I sighed. "I'm alright. What's up?"
"Man, you look like you were consulting with Pam's spirit."
"I wish I were." I smiled. "I won't mind that at all. She brought me fame in a day."
"No, you brought yourself fame. She just inspired you. You did the hard work. Painting these masterpieces isn’t easy."
"He's right." Henry said.
"I'm right." Phil supported him. "And talking about fame, check this out." He handed me his I-pad.
"What's this..." I was tongue tied when I saw it. "The Favourite Muse Goes National." I read out. "Images of Zeta Jones wanna be..."
It was the website of the local news, talking about my exhibition. "They wrote a lot of things I didn't say." I said.
"Mate, I was there when you mentioned Catherine."
"I did?"
"Yes you did." Phil said. "And that's not all. Give me that." He took the I-pad and tapped it twice. "Prepare for Immortality!" He said and handed it back to me.
"Immortality? What's tha..." I stopped short at what I saw. My Facebook page, it had over ten thousand likes. "Holy Jesus; is this real?"
"Yep, and just so you know, we have invitation messages to exhibit The Favourite Muse from London, Bristol, Paris, Ukraine and New York City. It means we'll soon be international." He took the ipad again. "Brad, all that will be arranged later. For now, we are starving and I know you are too. Let's grab a burger."
"Wait." I said. "Guys, I was alone here composing myself with thoughts of Pam and the paintings; you came in and got me excited again with something that's beyond my imaginations; now you asked me to go with you and grab
a burger?"
They both looked at me, a little confused. "What's wrong with that mate?" Henry asked.
"Everything is wrong with that; everything. I'm just fifteen. I need to slow down and I need you to slow down too." I sighed. "Guys, this is going way too fast for my liking. Way too fast."
They looked at each other again, then back at me; then they sat back down.
"Ok, let's slow down." Phil said, he sighed. "Would a little quite help?"
"Yes, a lot. Thank you."
Henry was mute, but there's a funny look on his face, like he wanted to laugh. So we all sat in silence. Where we sat, the 'Attitude' was propped before us so we were all facing at it.
"I love her." Henry started. "I never realized I do, until now."
"Henry!"
"What; I was just saying something."
"Just keep it to yourself; let's have some peace."
"Ok." He sighed.
Wait a second; a sudden realization befell me. "who do you love, exactly?" I asked.
"Catherin. Catherin Zeta Jones." He said.
We looked at each other and laughed our hearts out.
EPILOGUE
It was warm in Gallery 13 of the museum where my arts were on display. It was the first day and viewing was yet to begin. Mother sat with me looking at the email list we had earlier sent to invite people to come.
"If half of these people could walk in here today, there won't be a breathing space." She said. "If ten people would at least buy a piece, you would sell out in ten minutes."
"I don't want to sell out, what would I be left with if I do; memories?" I chuckled. "Oh please."
"Son, you need to reap the reward of your hard work. That's an indisputable law of natural progress."
"I know, but..."
"It's ok Bradley, you don't have to sweat it. Besides, you didn't put a price tag on the ones you won't be selling so there's no cause for worry."
I looked around at the three paintings she was referring to; Mortality, Attitude and By the Lake. They were pam's beginning, middle and the ending. "I'm not worried. I'm good."
"And I'm proud of you, Brad." She looked around. "Where are your friends?"
"Somewhere in the building." I said. "Did you just called me Brad?"
"I did?" She asked jokingly.
"Yes, you did." I smiled. "It sounds kind of...funny coming from you?"
"Kid, I'm old."
"Yes you are." I laughed. She did too. "I like it. So should I call you mom?"
"Must you call me that?"
"I want to." I said. "I always wanted to call you that."
"Alright, you can. So we've officially changed our names now?"
"Yes; it's only fair."
A strange woman suddenly strode into the hall and walked towards us. Her dark hair hung loose on her shoulders, matching the colour of her dress. She wore a straight face; kind of appeared dangerous judging by the dark clothes, the red lipsticks on her thin lips and the mascara on her eyes.
I could barely hear mother saying something about changing names and civilization, but my concentration was more on the woman. She looked striking; and strangely familiar.
She stopped and started looking at the paintings on the walls. It's like she wasn't actually looking at them but at a specific one. Then she went and stood by the Attitude, looking at it. A few moments later, she went directly to Mortality. There, she spent more time looking at it. I was watching.
Then she turned and walked to us; and then dropped the bombshell.
"Hi, I want to buy those two." She pointed at the paintings. You haven't tagged them, I saw. So how about I write you a cheque of ten thousand Pounds, a piece."
Bloody hell! "What?" Bloody hell!
Mother looked up at the woman and then at me. I looked at mother, and then we both turned our gazes back to the lady.
"What did you just say?" Mother asked.
"Sweet Jesus mom, it's her." I almost yelled.
"Her who?"
"Zeta Jones; it's Catherine Zeta Jones."