I knew that my make-up and hair would be a mess, and my shirt had lost two of its buttons, but I needed to leave immediately. I went down the main stairs, my legs stiff as though I had walked for miles, and I appreciated the clear, clean air. Once out in the street it was better still, though the bright sunlight made my eyes ache and bleached the colour from everything around me. I needed to walk back home at a sensible, reasonable pace, without giving in to a need to run. I felt that panic was still within me, deep down and I had to continue to control it.
As I crossed the road by the theatre Julian pulled up in his car, returning, so he told me, from a frustrating scavenge for cardboard boxes. He pointed out that I looked unwell, and he was quite content for me to go home and leave him to the work that remained to be done at Mr Robertson’s flat. He had decided, he informed me, that the manuscript material that I had found was rightfully his. When he drove off it was all that I could do to continue and not collapse on the pavement that seemed almost to be moving underneath me.
Of course, Ernest Robertson’s posthumous reputation looks unassailable to us today, especially with the reprinting of his work by large commercial publishers, and with the critical acclaim given to the previously unseen stories that Julian Tovey has edited. I didn’t re-read any of Robertson’s books again until recently, when I worked my way though all of the stories consecutively, over just a few days. I felt compelled to write this account, I suppose, under his influence.
Forcing myself to remember what happened twenty five years ago has been a revealing exercise for me. I am a very different person now to that girl in her early twenties, and I wonder how I would react today to such events? Probably, nothing like that could happen to me now? However, my main concern is that the story I have told has been filtered through the consciousness of someone who is now too old and perhaps too knowing? I do not believe that I understand more than I did then, and it may be that I see less?
AN ARTIST’S MODEL
Justin had been humiliated many times in front of his fellow students. On a regular basis they were all made to put their work up on the walls of the studio for a Criticism. This was intended for the sole purpose of enabling their tutors to tell them exactly why their artwork failed. Or, at least, that’s how it seemed to Justin. But their art was not exhibited solely for the scrutiny of tutors; other undergraduates were expected to comment, and even students from the second and third years were encouraged to come along for the show. If the tutors were harsh and appeared to have favourites, the students could be downright cruel; it felt as though as much effort was expended by them on the destructive criticism of others than on the creation of their own original work.
There were those who sailed calmly through this process of public humiliation, of course. As ships on a bright and sunlit sea they never seemed to experience any hazards; they were not asked awkward questions, and their weaknesses appeared to pass unnoticed. Others, however, like him, always faced bad weather, and knew that storms were approaching long before their leaky vessels had ever set out upon the water.
Justin usually argued with his critics. He told himself that it was his way of surviving the attacks on his work, but his belligerence made him enemies. The tutors were convinced that he rarely learnt anything from their comments, and that he never followed their shrewd advice. Perhaps they were right? Perhaps he argued because he knew that he did not have the talent of his peers?
His embarrassment and disgrace this time, though, was not meant to be a public one. The only tutor who appeared to have any time at all for him, Archer, a man who enjoyed championing the underdog and was viewed with suspicion by his own colleagues, had come up to Justin after lectures one morning and taken him aside.
‘I know that you’ve still got a couple of assignments before the academic year ends, but I should tell you that your future here is in doubt,’ he informed Justin. ‘Your first year hasn’t gone well. Already there are those among the teaching staff who don’t think you should come back for a second year in the autumn.’
‘Do you mean I should “loosen up”, as Barrett suggested, or should I be more “disciplined”, as Locke recommended,’ he asked facetiously.
Archer was an affable man and Justin knew that he was being unfair.
‘I mean, you need to put in more hours in the studio,’ Archer said patiently, stroking his neatly-trimmed beard. ‘You need to be seen to be more dedicated.’
‘I already put in twice as many hours as anybody else.’
‘Perhaps you do, but not in the studio. You spend too much time working at home. The studio environment will help your art to develop, and might just save you.’
‘I’m not sure that it will. There’s always somebody around to tell you that you’re on the wrong track. At least back in my digs I can concentrate.’
‘I’m not going to argue with you. You need to be seen to be putting in long hours,’ he said, and after a pause: ‘And you need to get on with the tutors.’
‘Well, that works both ways.’
‘I agree,’ Archer bowed his head, and then looked up with a smile: ‘But I think I have a solution.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’m moving out of the first year studio. I’ll be going into Mr Hemmingway’s old room; I’m sorry to say that due to his illness he won’t be coming back. I’ve always worked with the students in the communal studio, but I recommend that you take over the space that I’ll be vacating.’
‘But that’s right next to Mr Locke’s studio! You know how much he despises me?’
‘Exactly. And that’s why you have to be there when he arrives in the morning. And you must still be there, working, when he leaves at night.’
‘Am I allowed to say no?’
‘Of course you are. But unless changes are made I can guarantee that you’ll be asked to leave at the end of term.’
The conversation had taken place outside of the main lecture theatre, and although they were to one side of the corridor somebody had obviously noticed the short, older tutor in earnest discussion with the tall, gangly student. Their conversation was overheard, so by the time that Justin returned to the studio it was common knowledge that he was about to be thrown out, and in the meantime he had to be under the close supervision of Locke. Justin was ready for a fight, but even those students who were normally aloof from failures like him seemed to be sympathetic. When it was time for Justin to move his equipment from one end of the studio to the other there were a number of friends ready to lend a hand. He had arranged his easel, paint-boxes and desk, and recreated the still life that he was working on, when Mr Locke appeared, and made a sound that approximated to ‘harrumph’, before going into his own room.
The art school was a long, thin Victorian building on four floors, and each of these was essentially a large open space lit by tall north-facing windows. At each end a small private studio had been created for the tutors with partitions which were partly solid and partly glazed. It was up against one of these that Justin was now expected to work, and he had placed his easel in such a position that he could not be watched by Locke from his desk or his easel. The light was noticeably different from where Justin had previously been working and the composition of his still-life had to be re-organised. So far he had only sketched-in the outlines of the skull, the suitcase and the bottle of wine, but it was annoying to have to start again. Judith, however, seemed happy to help him; her easel was now nearest to his, and together they came up with quite a pleasing arrangement in which the different sizes of objects did not seem to be in quite such an awkward relationship to one another as before. Justin then took another sheet of cartridge paper and taped it to the board on his easel. With a new stick of charcoal he began to painstakingly draw the outlines of each item. He started to delineate them very softly, and made a few changes before going over the lines with a little more pressure.
‘That’s pathetic,’ announced Locke from behind him. ‘Make those lines darker, lad.’
‘
They will be, when I’m sure of them.’
‘I can see what your problem is. It’s lack of confidence. Don’t be such a coward!’
‘Thank you for your advice…’
‘I’ve been watching you for the last few minutes,’ he announced, his voice suggesting tiredness and exasperation. ‘You know exactly where the line should be strong, and where it should be weak. You use the charcoal in such a pathetic fashion. Don’t go over the same line time and time again to thicken it up; have the confidence to use more pressure when and where it is needed.’
Locke was a massive man. He was well over six and a half feet tall and seemed almost as wide. He was not overweight, nobody would have the nerve to call him that, but he was broad. His hands were what always surprised people the most; he had great thick fingers, and it seemed impossible that an artist could ever have such unwieldy-looking digits.
With a dismissive sniff he walked away, and for once, rather than continue to argue, Justin simply turned back to his drawing. He had a yet heavier heart; if this was to be the result of working in such close proximity to Locke then he would walk out long before they asked him to go.
Justin worked through lunch and Locke returned to his studio late.
‘Are you still outlining those objects? Put some bloody effort in, lad,’ he bellowed, and Justin decided that he would show the old bastard. He worked in the uncertain way that he always did, but he was still there when many of his fellows had wandered off to the bar that evening, or had left to go home. Locke didn’t leave until seven, and Justin had the satisfaction of watching him depart before him. With the studio empty of everyone except Chalmers at the far end, Justin walked over to the south wall and looked out of the window by the sofa where the more gifted students seemed to congregate. Justin watched the tutor’s bulky, but now foreshortened figure appear out of the main doors below and then disappear along Infirmary Road. It was the student’s cue to leave for the evening.
The next morning Justin was in early, meaning to arrive before Locke, and was annoyed that the tutor himself did not get in until nearly midday. By this time Justin had discarded his first drawing, started another, and after some more discussion with Judith he had made a pretty good fist of the picture.
‘Now, have the confidence to give those forms proper shadows!’ Locke bellowed as he passed Justin’s easel and strode into his own studio. The student took a deep breath and sat down to compose himself. He deepened the shadows, somewhat hesitantly, and continued to make ineffectual changes to the study for the next half hour. When Faulkner walked over, he had come to borrow some tape from Judith, he considered the picture and suggested that there was scope for even more shadow and therefore more depth. Justin did as he recommended and soon Judith glanced over at his work and agreed that it did look more impressive. However, the objects themselves appeared weaker as a consequence, so he went over them with the charcoal, not with confidence so much as annoyance; he turned greys to black, then shaded grey those areas that had previously been white. He added more gradations of tone, even though he could not honestly see them in the objects before him, and two other students who happened to have business in Locke’s studio said, as they passed, that the sketch looked good. Finally he could see that it was working, and gaining a little in confidence he made yet bolder marks on the paper, and it was not too late in the afternoon when he allowed himself the luxury of sitting back on his stool and putting his hands behind his head.
‘Admiring your work?’ Locke asked from behind him.
‘No,’ he lied, defensively.
‘Good. Now, you’ve done enough on that picture. Knowing when to stop is as important as anything else you can learn here. What I want to see over the next two days are at least two more, different studies of the same objects.’
‘But what’s the point? I’ve put in all this work in preparation for the painting. Why should I waste it?’
‘It’ll not be wasted, you ignoramus. You’ll learn something new each time you start another study. And I want at least two more.’
Justin’s second study was undertaken while he was in the blackest of moods, and he refused to speak to anyone. He later admitted to himself that he had wanted the second drawing to be second-rate so that the first would become the basis of his final painting. He did, however, apply the lessons he had learnt from the previous picture, and though it was inferior, the result was not as bad as he had expected. In fact, he rather liked certain aspects of it, and when he came to rearrange the objects for his third attempt he was able to make a few refinements to the structure of the picture. He left himself more room for the shadows, and by denting the suitcase (in what Judith termed an act of vandalism), he gave so much more scope for texture, to a whole massive plane that had previously dominated the composition but which had been lacking in any real interest.
He began his third picture with some nervousness, but this was caused by his desire to create something at least as good as the first. It took him a full day to complete, and he was still adding a few last refinements when Locke left the studio that evening and simply commented:
‘That’s better.’
Justin stopped work and let the words sink in. They were as much encouragement as he had ever received from Locke and, given the rarity with which this tutor ever bestowed praise upon him, it was quite a positive step forward. It had been a hard-won comment, he considered, and he was not sure that he could keep up this level of effort. He decided, though, that he too should finish for the day. Out of a recently developed habit he walked over to the window and watched the tutor leave.
Tiredness suddenly swept over him. It was eight in the evening and it was the simplest of calculations to work out that he had been in the studio for twelve hours. He had not eaten since breakfast, but the thought of going out to find food suddenly seemed beyond him. He slumped down on the overstuffed sofa. Without much thought he looked around the studio before him. It was always a mess there, but the bizarre collection of objects they had all brought in for their still-life compositions gave the place the look of a bric-a-brac shop. Eddison’s large, stuffed parakeet was probably the most outrageous thing there, he decided.
Before he could think about getting up and leaving he fell asleep, dreaming about the brightly coloured bird.
According to the clock on the wall to his right it was just past midnight when he awoke. A few of the studio lights were still burning (nobody would come and turn them off; it was common for the students to work very irregular hours), and from the floor above he thought that he could hear a radio playing. He rubbed his eyes and stood up shakily before going to collect his coat and satchel. He noticed as he walked over that there were lights on in Locke’s studio and his first thought was that somebody was in there without permission. He did not consider that Locke might have returned.
He walked warily over to the door but glimpsed the tutor himself inside, and he appeared to be quietly talking to someone. Well, that saved Justin the trouble of confronting anybody who shouldn’t have been there. He wondered what Locke would think if he saw Justin still working! But he could not carry that off; when he had returned the tutor was more likely to have seen Justin sleeping over on the sofa. He decided it would be best to unobtrusively leave.
He switched off the lamp by his desk and bent down to pick up his old satchel. As he did so he saw a movement at the edge of his vision and turned to see a woman’s face. It was only there momentarily, and he wondered if it was some optical illusion. He realised what had happened when she reappeared a second later, only to turn her head away. Through a glazed panel of the tutor’s studio he had seen her reflection against the window to the night sky outside. The light inside had made a mirror of the window, and at that angle he had seen her reflection.
Almost immediately he saw her again. He moved closer to the glazed panel and watched Locke and the woman walking around the studio, talking. It looked as if the tutor was considering where he should get her to pose so that he coul
d draw or paint her. Justin could hear their voices indistinctly, for they were still talking quietly, almost conspiratorially, but he felt no unease about spying on them. He watched as Locke decided where she should be placed, and then found a chair for her and arranged her pose. She was wearing a black dress of some silk stuff which had a high neck and bare arms. She was slim but had a full figure, and he was appalled to see Locke manhandle her; he forced a cushion between the back of the chair and the small of her back, thus pushing out her chest. He hated the way the man’s big hands took her arms and moved them apart, pushing back her shoulders. Locke knelt down in front of her and with one hand under her foot he unceremoniously lifted up her left leg and put it over her right. He retreated out of Justin’s view, and then came back and placed a lamp to her left, going back and forth to get the light correct from where he would be standing at his easel. The quiet talk continued between them, and the man must have started drawing. Justin could not quite see him from where he stood outside the studio, but he thought that if he went around to the door he would be able to look back over the man’s shoulder and see him at work.
Justin, however, quietly moved his stool over to where he had been standing watching. Carefully, so as not to make any sound, he took his pad and a thick Hb pencil out of his satchel. He sat down, and for a while he simply stared at the model. Then he drew a few tentative lines; he sketched the oval of her face and framed it with her short, dark hair. A light line showed where her eyebrows would be, and then he drew in the eyes and nose. The mouth came easily, but her jaw-line proved troublesome. He went back to the eyes, the dark shadowed eyes, and then to her cheekbones which suddenly brought the drawing alive. The jaw-line, when he came back to it, appeared quite naturally. They had been quiet inside for a few minutes, but there was a muted conversation again. When Justin looked up from his pad she had moved and then Locke was at her side, changing her pose.
Literary Remains Page 3