Castles and Classes

Life at Greendene settled into a pattern. Weekdays were divided between teaching and pottery making. Weekends were generally quiet as Michael spent a lot of time with Betty. I had the place to myself and found the silence and the seclusion overwhelming at times, profound at others. I took long walks up into the beech woods or across the road and up into mountain wood, where in the old days Denis said there were charcoal burners.

Here I found a pine wood, tall pencil like conifers reaching for the sky. This was so different from the flora and fauna on our side of the valley. I could dream of wolves, Hansel and Gretel and old fairy tales telling of strange creatures appearing from behind trees. I had read Tolkien and imagined elves and goblins fighting amongst the needles and pine cones. Later, I discovered Arthur Rackham’s illustrations of Wagner’s ring cycle and was inspired to do some paintings based on these works. For now, though I just walked in a kind of dream and took in scents and eerie sounds of the woodpecker in the calming enclave of this deep rich dell.

In the pottery I started to get interested in building castles and ruins and it brought out my love of architecture, gothic edifices and Victorian mansions. I made some on the wheel and some I made by slab building and adding doors, porticos and mullion windows. It seemed a good idea to fit a light inside or use them for pot- pourri and incense, harking back to Denis’s incense burners many years before. While I enjoyed making these one off things they took a long time to make and occasionally bits would drop off in the firing. I couldn’t hope to recover all my costs when selling them.

Along with the pottery I started to get the hang of teaching and managed to organise my classes better and this helped to make the sessions less frightening for me although I have never quite got over the anxiety and stress of anticipation before a class began, but once they started, all the tension dissipated and I found the lessons were over before I knew it. All the thoughts and concern seemed to evaporate and I enjoyed the banter and the sometimes hilarious things that happened.

One student I can remember was a large heavy boned, thick set chap who was over 6 foot tall and towered over me. It was difficult to say how old he was, but he had seen a lot of life and must have been over 50. He used to arrive at the class in an Austin Mini driven by a very glamorous young and attractive blond lady. With great difficulty he unfolded his long legs and extracted himself from the confines of the tiny car with a lot of cursing and wheezing. This event I had spotted one morning as I walked to the art centre and I have never forgotten it.

In the class he always went into the farthest corner and set his easel up facing the wall. While I circulated around the group I could hear every now and then a great sigh emanating from the far corner. Sometimes a shout and a curse would burst forth, steam rising from above his easel as he wrestled with the canvas.

I would trundle over hesitantly to discuss his work and,

“I hate painting!” he roared,

“I don’t know why I come, every week, as every time I start with such optimism and enthusiasm, but half way through I find I‘ve taken the wrong course and all my efforts just evaporate into a grey soup”

I would try and encourage him and give him advice, but to no avail.

“I’m afraid, I’m finished with this lark, I shall go and take up something easier, geology or bread making, maybe even astrophysics, it would be far easier!”

With that desperate plea, he would pack his paints and with a heavy heart he would clear off back to his young love and his half finished work of art.

The next week of course he would be back wheezing and sighing in the corner again.

Like so many, his difficulty was with handling his emotions, but something drew him back and I loved him for it.

On the other side of the room were two elderly ladies. One dark, the other grey, they always came together and always very early. They would leave the class half an hour before the end of the lesson? I discovered later, that one was married and in order to have time for a gin and it, they left early and went to the spinster’s house and continued to paint and have their tipple without the husband knowing.

The dark lady  had a small bright apple green fiat car, which she parked right outside the institute. It was a narrow road and it often used to block the road for other road users, but she was oblivious to this. Sadly, when they painted the yellow lines they made it a double yellow instead of a single and she was horrified and distraught and decided that enough was enough and they never returned. I guess they continued painting and tippling back at the house without telling the husband!  

Extract from Journal

February 3rd 1986

Walked in a daze up into Siegried’s forest, lines of trees drifting into the mist, everywhere damp and dark and silent. I think I may have fallen in love?

Autumn 1986

The death of Ralph Richardson an old style eccentric who talked about time and the theatre:

I paraphrase his comments: “

“A play once it starts is like a boulder at the top of the hill and once the curtain goes up the boulder begins to roll down the hill inevitably to the bottom”. (Like life)

“A good actor takes note of pauses, a pause is a great thing and to have confidence to stop during a play is a great thing ” . ( True in painting and music too)

To be continued