where I’d reveal that everything reminds me of a page from the Kama Sutra and get hauled off to a clinic for sex addicts. ‘Is this painting by positions, as opposed to numbers, sir?’
‘I think me an’ Greta did that one back in 1973!’ Hughie piped up. So, warped minds across the generations think alike. Last month I became Smother, now I was Hughie.
The morning was spent sketching the ink spot and a series of inanimate objects, while at the same time, everyone chatted and got to know each other, with some prompting from Chris. He nodded to me first,‘Why don’t you tell the class a bit about yourself, Bernice?’
‘Well, I’m a little hung over after throwing my new husband out of our honeymoon suite last night and downing two bottles of wine . . .’
‘Actually, there isn’t a lot to tell,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if Linda goes first?’
Linda, it transpired, was already a practised artist as she had taken up painting two years ago after retiring from her job as a school principle.
‘I turned sixty, had the chance of early retirement so decided to go find myself,’ she explained.
‘I’d love to do that,’ I said with a sigh. ‘I hate my job.’
‘Well darlin’, take it from an old pro. Don’t wait ‘til you’re my age to start doing what you love instead of working any old raggedy job you hate. I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time.’
‘Oh, it pays the bills,’ I sighed, ‘but a part of me wishes I had so much money I could just quit. That’s wrong though, isn’t it? There’s so much need in the world.’
‘There’s nothing wrong in wishing you were rich,’ said Chris. ‘Don’t beat yourself up on that one. I always think of all the good I could do for others if I had loads of cash.’
I paused to consider his words; it was the first time I’d looked at it like that. Whenever I allowed myself to wish for a better life, it felt selfish. People in the world were starving; it wasn’t fair to consider myself anything other than one of the lucky ones. But I knew he was right, I would love to have enough to share − to make other lives easier, not just my own. I considered my childlike scribbles of the morning for a second, and announced, ‘Well, if I’m going to dare to make my fortune it won’t be my art that does it.’
Linda laughed. ‘It’s not bad. This sort of stuff can go for millions of pounds to some art collectors.’ I liked her very much.
Edvard spoke for himself and Ginger. ‘I am an architect and my wife is an accountant.’
‘Ah, figures,’ said Linda. The joke was lost on everyone except me. I threw her a wry smile.
‘What about you, Greta? And Hughie?’ asked Chris. The couple answered at the same time.
‘Retired,’ said Greta.
‘Playboy,’ said Hughie.
‘He’s retired an’ he reads Playboy ,’ Greta added.
As we all laughed, Chris knelt down and studied my drawing. Taking my pencil from me, he began sketching some more lines over mine. His face was so close to mine it felt a little awkward, like those moments when the optician is peering into your eye with an ophthalmoscope and you’re scared to breathe in case you blow in his ear.
‘I know, it’s rubbish,’ I began.
‘It came from your mind to the paper,’ he said, still concentrating on the drawing. ‘That creative process is beauty in itself. It’s all about personal interpretation.’
‘ Meraki ,’ said Mita, who now sat watching us from a nearby sunbed.
‘Yes indeed, meraki ,’ Chris replied.
‘I love making art,’ said Linda. ‘Having the freedom of creativity to express yourself is really somethin’ else. But you gotta help me get these lines right, Chris.’
And with that he had gone from me to her.
In half an hour, we were all through with sketching and had moved to watercolour painting on easels in the lower gardens. Linda chose an intricate spray of oleanders to paint, while I picked an olive branch.
‘Funny that I should paint something my husband
‘I think me an’ Greta did that one back in 1973!’ Hughie piped up. So, warped minds across the generations think alike. Last month I became Smother, now I was Hughie.
The morning was spent sketching the ink spot and a series of inanimate objects, while at the same time, everyone chatted and got to know each other, with some prompting from Chris. He nodded to me first,‘Why don’t you tell the class a bit about yourself, Bernice?’
‘Well, I’m a little hung over after throwing my new husband out of our honeymoon suite last night and downing two bottles of wine . . .’
‘Actually, there isn’t a lot to tell,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if Linda goes first?’
Linda, it transpired, was already a practised artist as she had taken up painting two years ago after retiring from her job as a school principle.
‘I turned sixty, had the chance of early retirement so decided to go find myself,’ she explained.
‘I’d love to do that,’ I said with a sigh. ‘I hate my job.’
‘Well darlin’, take it from an old pro. Don’t wait ‘til you’re my age to start doing what you love instead of working any old raggedy job you hate. I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time.’
‘Oh, it pays the bills,’ I sighed, ‘but a part of me wishes I had so much money I could just quit. That’s wrong though, isn’t it? There’s so much need in the world.’
‘There’s nothing wrong in wishing you were rich,’ said Chris. ‘Don’t beat yourself up on that one. I always think of all the good I could do for others if I had loads of cash.’
I paused to consider his words; it was the first time I’d looked at it like that. Whenever I allowed myself to wish for a better life, it felt selfish. People in the world were starving; it wasn’t fair to consider myself anything other than one of the lucky ones. But I knew he was right, I would love to have enough to share − to make other lives easier, not just my own. I considered my childlike scribbles of the morning for a second, and announced, ‘Well, if I’m going to dare to make my fortune it won’t be my art that does it.’
Linda laughed. ‘It’s not bad. This sort of stuff can go for millions of pounds to some art collectors.’ I liked her very much.
Edvard spoke for himself and Ginger. ‘I am an architect and my wife is an accountant.’
‘Ah, figures,’ said Linda. The joke was lost on everyone except me. I threw her a wry smile.
‘What about you, Greta? And Hughie?’ asked Chris. The couple answered at the same time.
‘Retired,’ said Greta.
‘Playboy,’ said Hughie.
‘He’s retired an’ he reads Playboy ,’ Greta added.
As we all laughed, Chris knelt down and studied my drawing. Taking my pencil from me, he began sketching some more lines over mine. His face was so close to mine it felt a little awkward, like those moments when the optician is peering into your eye with an ophthalmoscope and you’re scared to breathe in case you blow in his ear.
‘I know, it’s rubbish,’ I began.
‘It came from your mind to the paper,’ he said, still concentrating on the drawing. ‘That creative process is beauty in itself. It’s all about personal interpretation.’
‘ Meraki ,’ said Mita, who now sat watching us from a nearby sunbed.
‘Yes indeed, meraki ,’ Chris replied.
‘I love making art,’ said Linda. ‘Having the freedom of creativity to express yourself is really somethin’ else. But you gotta help me get these lines right, Chris.’
And with that he had gone from me to her.
In half an hour, we were all through with sketching and had moved to watercolour painting on easels in the lower gardens. Linda chose an intricate spray of oleanders to paint, while I picked an olive branch.
‘Funny that I should paint something my husband
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