Copyright © by Paul Brandon 2004


THE ARTIST’S CRAFT


Dogs Bay, County Galway, Ireland

A line, a stroke, an errant swatch of shading, and what was once nothing more than pencil marks on paper now resembled a shoreline.
More movement; she held the pencil loosely, palm downward, index finger extended along its length as she waved it across the pad: Clouds, sky.

As would be expected at six a.m. on a Monday morning, the beach was deserted. Although it was the beginning of October, the sun was out, splashing what could only optimistically be called warmth across the sand. Tiny waves licked quietly up the gentle slope of the shore, lulled by the sanctuary of the little crescent-shaped bay. Huge, flat-bellied clouds floated aimlessly in the grey-blue overhead, seemingly undecided whether to head back out to sea or explore inland a little further. Besides the rhythm of the ocean and the thin chatter of the wind as it brushed through the dunegrass, the morning was silent, infinitely peaceful.

Natasha Newlyn, or Natty as she was usually called, put down the soft 6B pencil for a moment and, leaning forward, she rested her chin on her hands and gazed out to sea. The pure, breathy notes of a flute drifted around her like smoke, as much a part of her creativity as the swish of a soft-tipped brush or skritch of a charcoal stick.

She closed her eyes, still retaining every gamut of the scene in her mind’s eye. She could see the pair of courting black-backed gulls that spiraled over the hills to the east—nothing more than flecks to the naked eye—that delicate shape in the cloud, was that a face? And just off across the water, were those ripples caused by a fish jumping, or just the ebbing movement of the tide?

Without opening her eyes, she reached for her pencil and carried on sketching, not concentrating on the picture as a whole, but rather as a series of small studies that would come together later. The sun was warm on her face, and bright even through the closed lids of her eyes. The pencil tip danced over the smooth white paper, filling here, highlighting there. Without looking, the soon-filled page was turned, and a fresh one started. Natty retreated down into herself, unaware of the immediate world, instead only concerned with her interpretation of it.

The low flute continued to play, an old air, its origins lost in the grey moments between sleep and wake, between the artist and the subject. It tugged about her like a gentle, inquisitive child, forever peeking over her shoulder or brushing at her leg. Occasionally it would hover at the very periphery of her daydreams, content just to sit back and provide a counterpoint, but mostly, it was by her side, an unseen musician conjuring the accompaniment to whatever it was she drew. It wasn’t always a flute; the instrument changed to suit the atmosphere and feel of the locations she had chosen. On the wild, barren Connemara moorland it had been the solemn scull of a lone uilleann piper, while on the purple-sloped mountains of the Twelve Bens, it had been a vibrant, almost jaunty fiddler. While she was out scouting, sketching the studies that would eventually become pieces, the performers were nearly always solo.

The concerts were saved for her studio.

The flute continued on, the even, steady notes rising in tempo and volume suddenly as she once again turned the page.

As if responding to the hidden instrument, the wind picked up suddenly, sending a tiny twister of sand up the beach. The dunes rattled their thin, saber-like leaves suddenly, as if angry at the wind for playing such games, and far away, she thought she could hear the surprised cries of the gulls as they battled the squalling currents.

Natty opened her eyes and let out a pent-up breath, absently tugged a thick strand of curling brown hair out from the corner of her mouth. Fishing into the pockets of her huge woolen duffel coat, she pulled out her fingerless gloves. She couldn’t work with them on, but as soon as she stopped drawing, she noticed the cold. She sat back in her old canvas director’s chair and just watched the land, soaking in the silence, listening to the hidden music as it gradually faded away.

In the six or so years that she’d lived in Connemara, she’d never once grown tired of the constant, heart-stopping beauty. A land of surprise and legend, she’d moved here rather than return to the constant bustle of her hometown, Dublin, when she’d graduated at twenty-one. She’d shifted from home to ‘further her art’. At least, that’s what she’d told her parents. If the truth be told, it was to get away from the whole family thing as much as it was for the scenery. Four years at the Royal Academy of Art in London had whetted her appetite for freedom. Sure, it was only a short drive back to the hum-drum of suburban Galway, but still, it was something.

Natty often wondered if her mother still thought that art was merely a passing fad, and that someday soon she’d ring home to say she’d got a job in a bank, or perhaps as a secretary. An honest down-to-earth job with a future.

Leaning back in the creaking chair, Natty reached her arms up over her head and stretched, trying to shake the lethargic feeling from her body. It was always the same when she was working. The yawn seemed to last an improbable time, and when she flumped back forwards, she felt nothing more like curling up on the cold sand and going to sleep. Blinking like an owl, she brushed back the heavy cuff of her coat and glanced at her watch. Not in the least bit surprised to find it was after lunch, she quickly flicked back through the dozen or so pages of her sketchbook briefly before stowing it away carefully in her wooden drawing box along with everything else. She leaned down on the other side of the chair, where her knapsack sat, and ferreted around inside until she felt the familiar bulk of her Thermos flask. Unscrewing the cup and the stopper, she poured herself a generous amount of steaming black coffee. The aroma drifted up before her, riding on the waves of steam. She took a sip, letting the warmth seep slowly down inside. From somewhere inland came the sound of children playing.

The sun was almost directly overhead now, gilding the placid waters of the bay with a shining amber sheen that was almost the same shade as the sand. There were a lot of old memories here, on this beach. Her best friend’s father had proposed to her mother on this beach, Natty’s first true sale of a painting had been a scene painted from this very spot, and then of course there were the evening walks here with Sean, before things had turned sour.

Natty frowned, angry that he’d managed to sneak into her thoughts again. It had been nearly two weeks since they’d split—on her demand—but somehow he’d always manage to be there; in the shop when she was buying milk, the pub, even that other day up on the cliff-top path. It was almost as if he were doing it on purpose. That would be just like him though, she thought. Always the shite.

After trying to briskly rub some life back into her cold legs, she bent down to close the lid of her box, then stood up. With a sudden flurry of movement she snapped the chair shut, picked up her pack and turned toward land. Her yellow Timberlands sank into the soft sand as she slowly trod back along the beach to where her car was parked. The clumps of dunegrass to her right waved goodbye momentarily, before the wind dropped again and they were still. Gravel crunched underfoot as she made her way across the small square of tarmac that passed for a car park.

Just along from where her old green Volvo waited, a bright new four wheel drive with foreign plates sat, all doors and tail gate open, and a veritable picnic spread out over the lush grass of the verge. A pair of cheery, European-accented children greeted her, and Natty smiled and waved back as she fumbled her car key into the lock.

The boot of the old wagon squealed in protest as she lifted it open and bundled her equipment and her knapsack in. Giving it a hefty slam, she walked around to the driver’s door and got in. The engine fired on the third turn, spluttered a while, then evened out to a low, if somewhat erratic, grumble.

With the heater on full, she sat there for a long moment, her hands held out before the vents, warming up. Slipping the worn T-bar into R, she maneuvered around the other car then pulled out onto the thin ribbon of grey road that led back to Ballystone.



* * *



Natty turned off the narrow High Street and brought the car to a halt alongside the old dry-stone wall that fringed the back garden of where she lived.

Her studio was basically a whole floor above the Ballystone Newspaper and Gift Shop. It was almost an ideal arrangement for her, for not only was the rent cheap and the room perfect, but the landlady that owned the shop, Ruthie, had turned into a good friend. Pulling out her gear and putting it on the grass for a moment, Natty shut the car boot and locked it, more from habit than any real need. Four years of living in London had ingrained a few habits.

She shouldered her bag and crossed the grass toward the two back doors. One led up to her studio while the other, which was presently ajar, opened into the shop’s storeroom. She paused to wipe her boots dry then entered. Before her, the room opened out into a small store-cum-kitchen, with short corridor that went through to the shop itself. The back room always smelled nice; a heady mixture of all the different confectionery and fizzy pop. Even today, with the door wide open, there was still the warm aroma of chocolate. The shop itself was empty. Ruthie was bent over the sink rinsing out a cup. She was a large woman, pushing toward the more distant side of fifty years, but she possessed a huge heart and a devilish sense of humor. They’d both taken an immediate shine to one another when Natty had answered the small add for a lodger that Ruthie had run in the county paper. It had been one of those wonderfully coincidental moments when she’d found out that not only was the space ideal, in exactly the village she wanted to live in, but the landlady was a hobby painter herself.

Ruthie had continued running the small shop when her husband had died nine years earlier. It did a reasonable business, and had the benefit of being popular not only with tourists, but with the locals as well. The off-season was quiet, but it was never too lean. She herself lived in Clifton Cottage, an attractive, small stone building on the other side of the road.

Natty leaned against a shelf, and in a soft voice, said, “Morning there Ruthie. Quiet one is it?”

The old lady turned, a welcoming smile on her lined face. “Well hullo there dear,” she said, reaching for the towel that hung over the sink. “Aye, quiet enough. Still, they’ll be by in droves come fourish, when the coaches head back toward town. I was about to fix mesself a cup of tea, do you fancy one?”

Natty shook her head, stirring her dark curls into life. “No, thanks, I’ve just had a coffee. I might go and unload this stuff, then have some breakfast.”

“For God’s sakes girl, ‘tis nearly one in the afternoon. No wonder you’re so thin.”

Natty frowned at her, mock-serious. It was a common tease of Ruthie’s. Poking out her tongue, she shrugged the bag strap over her shoulder and went back outside to her separate door.

“Oh, before you disappear,” said Ruthie, coming to the bottom of the stairs, “Sean came callin’ by for you again.”

Natty sighed. “What did he want this time?”

“He didn’t say. He asked if your were in and I says you was out working. He wanted to know where, but I told him I didn’t know.”

“Thanks for that Ruthie. Last thing I could have done with was having him blunder down the beach being a nuisance.”

“He’s certainly a persistent one, isn’t he.”

“Sean Lavelle’s just a gobshite,” Natty replied, somewhat surprised at how annoyed she was feeling. The morning had gone well, and she had been looking forward to locking herself away and starting this new piece. Now she’d have to work at recovering her good mood and trying to dispel the feeling that any minute he might walk in.

Seeing her expression, Ruthie said, “I know it’s not my place to say, but I really don’t know what you saw in him, Natty.”

She let out a breath, “Neither do I. He’s handsome but. . . I don’t know. There’s not much else there other than that, at least, not that I can see.” She sighed and shook her head.

Ruthie took on a mischievous air, her eyes glinting, “Was it the naughties, Natty?” she asked in a stage whisper. “Did he do things no-one else had done before?”

That popped the bubble of depression that had been gradually inflating, and Natty burst out laughing. “Ah he should be so lucky now! It was bad enough having him paw at me like a bear,” She shivered exaggeratedly then grinned. “Jay, you’re a filthy old lady, Ruthie O’Brien!”

“Why, less of the ‘old’ if you please,” she replied indignantly.

She was about to say more when the bell over the front door jangled. They both looked at one another, and Natty mimed and mouthed that she wasn’t here. Ruthie winked with a smile, then straightened her apron and walked back into the shop to greet the customer. Natty listened for a moment, then continued up the stairs when she heard the gruff voice of Rossy Baxter asking for tobacco.

Pushing open the top door with her foot, Natty stepped into her studio. Light streamed in through the pair of closed sash windows directly opposite, and through three more in the wall behind her, and dust motes swirled within the criss-cross of bright shafts. Her studio and home was essentially one large room, except for the small bathroom and semi-partitioned kitchen. At the other end of the room, where the three huge bay windows overlooked the ocean, was her small living area; her bed, wardrobe and dresser, a stuffed bookshelf and an old imitation Chesterfield sofa. It was slightly screened from the rest of the studio by a couple of hanging curtains of bright green cotton. The centerpiece of the main studio was the vast old wooden desk that Natty primarily painted on, while three thin-legged easels stood guard around it. An old set of angle-iron shelves took up almost the whole length of one wall, positively overflowing with supplies ranging from a thousand tiny tubes of paint to enough brushes to build a house with. There were multi-colored jars of dry pigment, tall bottles of everything from distilled water to turpentine to ox gall; pencil sets, pens, palettes, all manner of weird and wonderful implements that looked best suited to the area around an operating theatre. Though nowadays she mainly painted with watercolor, occasionally she’d turn out an oil or an acrylic, if she thought the piece needed it. The other wall and part of the floor was covered with a collage of studies, some new, most old, and over by the window, in a slatted box, carefully stacked, her finished pieces waited for her monthly trip into Dublin. The honey-colored varnished floor boards were surprisingly free of paint, and despite the surrounding chaos, the main desk was ordered and tidy, with most of its area taken up by a stuck down piece of cold-pressed paper that Natty had left to stretch. Her favorite palette and two-dozen or so tubes of watercolor were stacked within easy reach to one side, while a sheaf of more recent sketches was stacked neatly on the other side.

The whole room was filled with the sharp odor of paint, turpentine, and the surprising brightness of the vases of fresh flowers that sat in the sun opposite one another on the wide windowsills. The ceiling was lofted; open plan and slashed with the huge old rafters and support beams of the roof. The cross bars were pasted with a confusion of postcards from all over the world, newspaper cuttings, photographs of family and friends and of course, more sketches. The height gave the studio a bright, airy feel, but did make heating it in winter a bit of a pain.

To Natty, it was just about perfect. Nestled in the heart of Connemara, in one of the few Irish-speaking, gaeltacht districts left, it was just about one of the most remote places on the mainland. Sure there were the bus-loads of tourists, a never-ending stream of hikers and all the usual sightseers, but at its core, Connemara was still wild. As an artist, she reckoned she’d be hard pushed to think of anywhere else in the world she’d like to live and paint—except perhaps the wilds of North Canada or the African savannah.


Though her agent, Rosemary Jackson, lived in London, she had an associate in Dublin that Natty delivered her finished pieces to. Rosemary had a network of small, hand-picked shops and galleries that she tried to keep stocked with the much sought after Newlyn originals. The arrangement suited Natty fine; Rosemary took a percentage in exchange for placing the works and dealing with all the ordering, shipping and paperwork. Of course there were the occasional exhibitions, in fact Natty was due over in London in just over a month for a “spring into summer”—themed exhibition of which she was a major part. She never accepted commissions, for Natty preferred to paint whatever took her eye, rather than to someone else’s prescribed vision. She was only just twenty-seven, but already she had a reputation as possibly one of the best new painters to emerge in the last twenty years. It was an image Natty did her best to dispel. She just loved to paint, and if she could make a living doing what she loved, then fine, and if not, well, she’d had plenty of part-time jobs before. The fact that she earned a pretty decent amount doing it placed her with the rarest of all the artists, writers and musicians.

Natty slipped the heavy coat off her shoulders and hung it on the wooden stand by the door at the top of the stairs. She dropped her work box on the floor and walked over toward the kitchen, tossing her bag onto the unmade bed as she passed.

Mechanically, she filled the kettle and set it to boil then leaned against the counter, running her hands through her hair then slowly down her face. She let out a low moan as the lack of sleep suddenly caught up with her. Pushing herself away from the benchtop, she moved back past the bed and entered the bathroom. Running the tap for a moment to let the warm water through, she cupped her hands and splashed some over her face. Blindly, she reached for the hand towel. With another sigh, she put it down and regarded herself in the large mirror. The deep brown eyes that stared back were tired looking; weary and underpinned by shadow. Her usually healthy, pale skin seemed almost translucent, bloodless, and the laughter lines around her mouth looked more like wrinkles today. Even her chestnut tumble of hair looked lifeless and dull. Although she was spare of frame and only a few inches over five feet tall, Natty usually abounded with energy, but even that was lacking. The morning had been fine; her mind had been taken away by the work, but now, back here. . .

She scowled at the image in the mirror, and left the bathroom. Passing the disheveled rumple of blankets on the bed, Natty paused a moment and tried to mentally grab the ghostly half-images of the dreams that floated through her mind. They were fleeting, like childish shadows that only barely hinted at their form and shape. The faint lingering traces of the eroticism lingered on, drifting like lazy smoke through the sudden sparks of terror and exhilaration. No matter how hard she tried, the images would just not stay, and thinking on them only made them all the harder to recall.

She entered the kitchen just as the kettle clicked off, and wearily, she filled and assembled the small metal stovetop coffeepot. The reassuring aroma of fresh coffee filled the small room, and as she had done for the past weeks, she cast the lingering images from her mind and began mentally picturing her next piece. With the steaming mug of thick black coffee in her hand, she ventured back to her workroom, stopping on the way to pull the sheaf of fresh sketches from her box and kick off her boots. By the time she was sitting at the oak desk leafing through the work, the dreams were almost forgotten.


Onto Chapter 3 -The Wild Reel