He tells me that it was forty years since he went to art school and now he’s painting again. He can’t get enough of it. He paints all day. He resents having to come into town. You come to the dentist, he says, you talk to people and before you know it that’s two painting hours lost.
Oh, ‘im, he says, they bought a painting of his of a chapel and gave it President Carter. His ancestors were from there. Was it good? I asked.
What does it matter? What does it matter? You do not have to be good, intones Mary Oliver, you just have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. He loves to paint, let it be.
Town was full of kids this morning. Early. 4.30 am chucking out time for the clubs. They were everywhere. Coatless and heedless of the wind. A chaotic queue of them at the fried chicken place on Pier Street, one of them shouting at a group of lads across the road. Down Great Darkgate Street and a young man is sitting on the pavement, his arms encircling the metal rod of a bus stop sign, his head bent over. Further down the street a young girl in a sleeveless dress is striding up the hill. The soles of my wellies slide in a mess of discarded chips and pizza slices. Pizza boxes, paper wrappers, cans and bottles are strewn across the pavements. The wind stirs up a sense of havoc. Post-apocalyptic. Down on the prom the mess is nature’s work. Sand and pebbles left by the high waves, crunch under my feet. A white plastic Aldi bag dances in the air.
I see her in the gym regularly. A tall, dark, gazelle-like girl, aloof and unsmiling. Dutch maybe, or Scandinavian. Certainly from Northern climes. The other day I said hello and she smiled. She brings her own yoga mat. The tall, dark, gazelle-like beauty with bruises on her arm.
Monet choose to paint in Etretat in November. Outside in the rain. The skies just grey. Once a wave came over and stole his painting away. Sisley died in poverty, bitter at his lack of success. So they tell me. And yet, he was good. Wasn’t he?
Walking into the wind is hard going. Sometimes I shout. Other times I succumb, leaning into it, against it. I remember our horses and the wind stirring, agitating them. Their manes flurried. Sometimes they would whinny and then canter hard around the field. The wind makes me feel alive.
Shall we walk today? The sky is still white. No sun. No break in the thick membrane of cloud. Sunday morning. Sunday morning.
