in my work which was apparent to him, if not to me.
Strangely, however, he seemed completely wrong in his assessment of his daughters’ abilities. Whenever we spoke of the drawing lessons, his concern was all for Juliana, for her need to regain health and spirits. Yet, from the start, it was evident to me that Marianne was the one with artistic promise. Juliana had a fussy, hesitant approach, over-concerned with correctness: I should have to work hard, I saw, to make the best of a very modest talent. Marianne, on the other hand, had boldness, a feeling for place, and a style that could be termed slapdash but which needed only a little discipline to smooth its roughness.
On my second Sunday at Fourwinds, after attending church and doing justice to Mrs Reynolds’s good roast beef and apple pie, I excused myself and went outside to look at the Wind carvings. I studied them in detail, and made a careful drawing of each, trying to emulate the clean precision of blanched, smooth-grained stone.Then, turning to a blank page, I walked round to the west side of the house and stood looking up at the space which should have been occupied by the missing piece, the West Wind. I saw it, I fancied, in my mind’s eye.
I was no connoisseur of sculpture, but there was something about these carvings that strongly appealed to me. Each stone figure seemed to have its own living presence, its own personality; and none revealed all its secrets at once. The North Wind seemed wearied of his duties, as if he would fain have changed places with his opposite on the south wall. The East Wind – the beautiful youth, bared to the elements without so much as a conventional fig leaf or wisp of loincloth to conceal his nakedness – looked fearful, hounded by Furies. The South Wind, smug by comparison in the balmy breath of wind that disturbed her tresses, gave a knowing, sidelong glance that was almost sly. Their maker seemed to have taken his inspiration from Roman or Greek figures, infusing them with a pagan mischief that spoke of medievalism. By now I had found other evidence, too, of his presence – of his humour. Beneath one roof quoin, a gargoyle head looked down at passers-by with a jeering expression. On a window ledge, a stone lizard stood poised; on another, a tiny monkey crouched. It was almost as if the sculptor had placed small jokes around the building, to reward the attention of the close observer.
Keenly interested in this Gideon Waring, I had committed his name to memory the instant Charlotte had uttered it. Here, I felt strongly, was a man whose work spoke of authority and sureness; whose identitywas stamped on everything he touched. I had not heard the name before, but wondered if Waring lived locally and if I might see more of his stonework. I envied him his assurance, for in my painting I had yet to find a style I could call my own; I allowed myself to be swayed by one influence after another, as the whim took me. In comparison with the gifted Mr Waring, I felt myself to be a skilled copier, at best.
Looking around me, I saw a wrought-iron seat against the hedge that screened the vegetable garden. I sat, and drew. The afternoon was warm and still; the merest of breezes carried the scent of a rambling rose that sprawled against the house wall; I was content.
Here at Fourwinds, I resolved, I should find myself as an artist. While all my needs were provided for and I had limitless time to devote to my work, I should define and strengthen my style; I should find a painterly expression that was unmistakably my own. Yet, completely at odds with this ambition, I drew now in imitation of Gideon Waring. I was sketching the West Wind as I thought he might have executed it.
‘No, no.’ I imagined his voice in my ear; imagined he had crept up on me and looked over my shoulder, amused and sceptical. ‘No,’ he would say. ‘That is not it at all.’ Disturbingly, when I tried to give a face to the person I had summoned, the features
Strangely, however, he seemed completely wrong in his assessment of his daughters’ abilities. Whenever we spoke of the drawing lessons, his concern was all for Juliana, for her need to regain health and spirits. Yet, from the start, it was evident to me that Marianne was the one with artistic promise. Juliana had a fussy, hesitant approach, over-concerned with correctness: I should have to work hard, I saw, to make the best of a very modest talent. Marianne, on the other hand, had boldness, a feeling for place, and a style that could be termed slapdash but which needed only a little discipline to smooth its roughness.
On my second Sunday at Fourwinds, after attending church and doing justice to Mrs Reynolds’s good roast beef and apple pie, I excused myself and went outside to look at the Wind carvings. I studied them in detail, and made a careful drawing of each, trying to emulate the clean precision of blanched, smooth-grained stone.Then, turning to a blank page, I walked round to the west side of the house and stood looking up at the space which should have been occupied by the missing piece, the West Wind. I saw it, I fancied, in my mind’s eye.
I was no connoisseur of sculpture, but there was something about these carvings that strongly appealed to me. Each stone figure seemed to have its own living presence, its own personality; and none revealed all its secrets at once. The North Wind seemed wearied of his duties, as if he would fain have changed places with his opposite on the south wall. The East Wind – the beautiful youth, bared to the elements without so much as a conventional fig leaf or wisp of loincloth to conceal his nakedness – looked fearful, hounded by Furies. The South Wind, smug by comparison in the balmy breath of wind that disturbed her tresses, gave a knowing, sidelong glance that was almost sly. Their maker seemed to have taken his inspiration from Roman or Greek figures, infusing them with a pagan mischief that spoke of medievalism. By now I had found other evidence, too, of his presence – of his humour. Beneath one roof quoin, a gargoyle head looked down at passers-by with a jeering expression. On a window ledge, a stone lizard stood poised; on another, a tiny monkey crouched. It was almost as if the sculptor had placed small jokes around the building, to reward the attention of the close observer.
Keenly interested in this Gideon Waring, I had committed his name to memory the instant Charlotte had uttered it. Here, I felt strongly, was a man whose work spoke of authority and sureness; whose identitywas stamped on everything he touched. I had not heard the name before, but wondered if Waring lived locally and if I might see more of his stonework. I envied him his assurance, for in my painting I had yet to find a style I could call my own; I allowed myself to be swayed by one influence after another, as the whim took me. In comparison with the gifted Mr Waring, I felt myself to be a skilled copier, at best.
Looking around me, I saw a wrought-iron seat against the hedge that screened the vegetable garden. I sat, and drew. The afternoon was warm and still; the merest of breezes carried the scent of a rambling rose that sprawled against the house wall; I was content.
Here at Fourwinds, I resolved, I should find myself as an artist. While all my needs were provided for and I had limitless time to devote to my work, I should define and strengthen my style; I should find a painterly expression that was unmistakably my own. Yet, completely at odds with this ambition, I drew now in imitation of Gideon Waring. I was sketching the West Wind as I thought he might have executed it.
‘No, no.’ I imagined his voice in my ear; imagined he had crept up on me and looked over my shoulder, amused and sceptical. ‘No,’ he would say. ‘That is not it at all.’ Disturbingly, when I tried to give a face to the person I had summoned, the features
Similar Books
