creaked forward on his chair, turning out his palm. I would always remember this moment with Holden, how he looked at me with
certainty, knowing I would not release the paper to him. ‘Thought not,’ he said, and withdrew his hand. ‘It’ll take Jim a while to notice you’re a better painter than
he is. When that happens, move on. Until then, I suspect the two of you will get on famously. He’s already expecting you.’
If I had chosen differently, and carried out my plan to take a factory job alongside my mother, I might never have painted again. But how much worse off would I have been to live without art
than to have it consume me and spit out my bones? There are still days when I count up all the sewing-machine needles I could have packed instead.
There is no doubt that Fullerton’s arrival at Portmantle had some influence on my painting, but I cannot credit him for the discovery that mattered most. It was in the
springtime—two whole seasons before he was admitted—that I took myself into the deepest woods in search of herons to draw, and found one perching on a rotten tree trunk swathed in
mushrooms. I sat and sketched that splendid bird until it suddenly took off. I tried to keep track of it, gazing up through the branches, but it glided out of sight, and by then I was halfway out
of the forest and the dinner bell was clanging at the mansion. It was only when I got back to my studio, after dusk, that I realised I had left my sketchbook somewhere in the trees—most of
the drawings it contained were not worth saving, but I felt the heron sketches had potential and I did not want to lose them. So I got a torch and went back into the woods. That night, the dark was
full and thick; the firmament of stars was at its clearest. There was a waxing crescent moon and the yellow-white shimmer of the neighbouring islands seemed closer than ever. I hurried through the
pines by torchlight, hunting for the spot where I had found the heron, but everything looked different in the dark. My foot caught in the scrub and I tripped over. The torch spat out its batteries
as it hit the ground. For a moment, there was terrifying blackness and I thought I had passed out. But then I saw the most unusual thing ahead of me: a spread of pale blue light, like the haze of a
gas flame.
I lifted myself up and moved towards the glow. It was coming from a clutch of fallen trees not far away. As I got closer, the blue intensified: a curious shade, vivid yet lucent, like the
antiseptic liquid barbers keep their combs in, or the glaucous sheen on a plum. It did not emanate from the trees themselves, but rather from a substance they were covered in: luminescent mushrooms
the size of oyster shells. Their caps had pale blue halos that, when packed into dense clusters as they were, gave off a gleam so bright I could make out all the textures of the forest floor,
insects crawling in the mulch, my sketchbook lying on the ground—I no longer cared to pick it up. There was a slow, electric crackle in my blood, a feeling I had not known in years. Not quite
clarity, just the tingle of it surfacing. An idea. A glimpse of home. The rest, I knew, was up to me.
By the winter of the boy’s appearance, I was still learning the nuances of the pigment, sampling its versatility. Some inconsistencies had to be corrected in the mixture
before I could commit to painting with it; the production methods needed more refinement, and I had lingering concerns about permanence and lightfastness. But my excitement for the material could
not be dampened. Quickman always said the best ideas ‘invade your heart’. This one had become a romance.
It was not a difficult pigment to make, though it required considerable patience and commitment. I established a simple routine: working through the darkness until breakfast, sleeping until
lunch, resting until dinner, resuming after dusk. I lived this way throughout the summer, finding respite in the cool of
certainty, knowing I would not release the paper to him. ‘Thought not,’ he said, and withdrew his hand. ‘It’ll take Jim a while to notice you’re a better painter than
he is. When that happens, move on. Until then, I suspect the two of you will get on famously. He’s already expecting you.’
If I had chosen differently, and carried out my plan to take a factory job alongside my mother, I might never have painted again. But how much worse off would I have been to live without art
than to have it consume me and spit out my bones? There are still days when I count up all the sewing-machine needles I could have packed instead.
There is no doubt that Fullerton’s arrival at Portmantle had some influence on my painting, but I cannot credit him for the discovery that mattered most. It was in the
springtime—two whole seasons before he was admitted—that I took myself into the deepest woods in search of herons to draw, and found one perching on a rotten tree trunk swathed in
mushrooms. I sat and sketched that splendid bird until it suddenly took off. I tried to keep track of it, gazing up through the branches, but it glided out of sight, and by then I was halfway out
of the forest and the dinner bell was clanging at the mansion. It was only when I got back to my studio, after dusk, that I realised I had left my sketchbook somewhere in the trees—most of
the drawings it contained were not worth saving, but I felt the heron sketches had potential and I did not want to lose them. So I got a torch and went back into the woods. That night, the dark was
full and thick; the firmament of stars was at its clearest. There was a waxing crescent moon and the yellow-white shimmer of the neighbouring islands seemed closer than ever. I hurried through the
pines by torchlight, hunting for the spot where I had found the heron, but everything looked different in the dark. My foot caught in the scrub and I tripped over. The torch spat out its batteries
as it hit the ground. For a moment, there was terrifying blackness and I thought I had passed out. But then I saw the most unusual thing ahead of me: a spread of pale blue light, like the haze of a
gas flame.
I lifted myself up and moved towards the glow. It was coming from a clutch of fallen trees not far away. As I got closer, the blue intensified: a curious shade, vivid yet lucent, like the
antiseptic liquid barbers keep their combs in, or the glaucous sheen on a plum. It did not emanate from the trees themselves, but rather from a substance they were covered in: luminescent mushrooms
the size of oyster shells. Their caps had pale blue halos that, when packed into dense clusters as they were, gave off a gleam so bright I could make out all the textures of the forest floor,
insects crawling in the mulch, my sketchbook lying on the ground—I no longer cared to pick it up. There was a slow, electric crackle in my blood, a feeling I had not known in years. Not quite
clarity, just the tingle of it surfacing. An idea. A glimpse of home. The rest, I knew, was up to me.
By the winter of the boy’s appearance, I was still learning the nuances of the pigment, sampling its versatility. Some inconsistencies had to be corrected in the mixture
before I could commit to painting with it; the production methods needed more refinement, and I had lingering concerns about permanence and lightfastness. But my excitement for the material could
not be dampened. Quickman always said the best ideas ‘invade your heart’. This one had become a romance.
It was not a difficult pigment to make, though it required considerable patience and commitment. I established a simple routine: working through the darkness until breakfast, sleeping until
lunch, resting until dinner, resuming after dusk. I lived this way throughout the summer, finding respite in the cool of
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