CHAPTER 48
CECIL COLLINS CLASSES
1983
Days went on. The children went to school. Dinners were shared with friends. I started to paint in the little room off our bedroom. Before long, I began art classes with Cecil Collins. When I entered the classroom on my first day with Cecil, I felt as if it was a homecoming. After attending a few classes, Cecil asked me to bring in a few samples of my artwork. There was one particular painting, which held his attention.
It was a watercolor of a winged being, crouched in a fetus position. The figure sat upon the water's edge below a Greek-like mountainous scene. It was one of a being, broken and waiting in contemplation, forlorn. Cecil, peering straight into my eyes from behind his glasses, said with such clear compassion, "The nexttime she flies, her wings shall not be made of wax." I decided to call this watercolor "My Icarus." Further, into the term, Cecil said that he did not want me to do any artwork for two years except to come to his classes. So I did this as per his request. It proved interesting to wait and allow something new to grow within me. These classes were like the apprenticeship of old working under the tutorial ship of a mastering many ways. As it came to pass, I continued to come to his classes one afternoon per week for nearly eight years. I am so grateful to have experienced so many formative and inspiring moments with him and the other students. It tingles and fills me with a smile as I remember them.
One afternoon I came to the class with my abundant American spirit and smile. Cecil was sitting there just by the door in his tweed suit, yellow wool waistcoat and tie. His arms hung loosely across his chest. He sat there in his usual meditative look from behind his tortoise-shell glasses waiting patiently as we all went to our desks. Just as I came into the room, he ducked. With a Cecil chuckle laced with wisdom he said rather directly, "Ginger, you shall have a real smile on your face one day!"Boy! He put me through my paces from then on! Usually, no matter what instruments, tones, pace, or positions he put us through, my drawings were always perfect, something petite and cute. Then one day he worked us hard. He had us moving with the model, and then quickly - drawing faster - faster. My head was in a swirl! I had to let go! I struggled to hang on but there it was ONE BIG FAT BLOB of black Yuk! A new beginning.
To make matters worse, we had a male model that afternoon instead of our usual female model. I found myself working through some extra issues. I had no trouble going into the creative relationship with a female model. But a male. Gosh! I didn't know where to look. Cecil was laughing from the back corner as he often did. He remarked that on some days little gremlins popped out of our mouths, scurried across the floor and out the door. With a chuckle and a glint in his eye, he said that he wondered where they went.
CHAPTER 49
MEETING ELIZABETH COLLINS
1983
We were living in Los Angeles during the creation of The Walland I had gone to the Bodhi Tree Bookstore off Melrose Ave.
It was always an uplifting breather to spend time there. Stained glass and crystals hung in the window, casting rainbows across the room. I would often walk through the aisles of bookshelves, category to category, waiting for a book to call out for me to read. Way in the back, in the dim light something attracted me to pull out two paper pamphlets from between the hardback volumes. They were two rare documents with the final words of Madam Blavatsky, on her deathbed.
I did not know much about her at the time, but trusted the process. I added them to the pile of my other choices I wanted to buy. Putting the pamphlets away on my bookshelves at home, I forgot all about them. When packing for our move to Monksbridge they re-appeared. I sat on the floor and started to read them as an inner directive thought passed through my mind, "give these to Elizabeth." The only Elizabeth that I knew was Cecil's wife, whom I didn't know. I wondered how I could do that? I would love to meet her since I had heard such wonderful stories from the other students about her beauty of Heart.
Mrs. Tweedie often mentioned of how Cecil painted Elizabeth, that she was his muse and inspiration. I loved his wisdom I was beginning to know. I loved how he touched us within our classes awakening our innate creativity. So Elizabeth was the woman behind the man. In one of his BBC documentaries sitting in the corner of the pub he commented, "One day I discovered, as I listened to the songbird from my window in the early morn' that the song and the bird and me were one". Further along in the documentary there was a shot of Elizabeth and Cecil walking together. I felt their union. They were the songbird, the song and were one.
My desire to meet her increased so much that I decided to give the pamphlets to her. I wrapped them in brown paper with a string tied bow and a rose from our garden. I carefully put them into my leather art satchel and set off to class. I was still a newcomer to the classes, but I overcame my shyness as I approached Cecil. His eyes always penetrated from behind his glasses as he listened to my request, "Cecil, may I ask if you would give this package to Elizabeth for me? It is something I bought in Los Angeles and feel strongly I need to give it to her". He looked down at the parcel attentively, "Certainly, it would be a pleasure." My face flushed as I walked away. I did it! I forget how long it was for Elizabeth to respond or who passed on her message to me, but she asked if I could come for tea. I felt so honored, when their private telephone number was given to me so we could arrange a time. The day arrived and I set out for Paulton Square, just off the Old Kings Rd. in Chelsea. I knew where it was for my favorite boutique was on the corner. I asked the taxi to drop me off on the corner and slowly walked down the street to their house. I rang the buzzer and was let in. They lived upstairs and the hallway was narrow. It was quiet, almost too quiet as I was nervous but excited. As I entered, I wondered silently to myself, "What am I to experience?" It isn't Rock 'n' Roll but I like it.
Kathleen Raine lived on the first floor. She was a poet, a philosopher, a critic and a scholar who wrote mainly about William Blake (the renowned British artist of the 17th -18th Century), W.B Yeats (Poet) and Thomas Taylor (English translator and Neoplatonist who was the first to translate into English the complete works of Aristotle and of Plato) . The Collins and Kathleen used to be close friends but had a falling out. Therefore, there at the top of the stairs was a white door separating them from each other.
As I climbed the steep stairs, my attention held as I passed from one William Blake print to the next. I was very fond of his work and his philosophy. Elizabeth opened the door to greet me. She was tall, sylph-like and a rather beautiful elder woman. Her hair was graying with an updo Gibson style. She had Parkinson's and her body was frail but her blue eyes shone as bright as the sun reflecting upon a pool of water.
Their living room was on the top floor, another two flights to go. Cecil's artwork covered every wall. There were little canvases and larger canvases, many I was familiar with from his book. Sadly, the narrow space and the amount of paintings hung so close to each other, made it difficult to take in the sheer delight of the moment. Nor could I as I was following Elizabeth and needed to stay focused.
On the first floor, we passed a room filled with canvases and papers piled high in the corners. Paintbrushes of many sizes in containers and paints were everywhere. The energy of creativity and poised inner silence oozed out from the door. I could feel the timelessness that would engulf me had I entered. I assumed that it was Cecil's studio. He was not home that day. I passed the doorway as if a ship in the night, graced, allowed to witness part of their life.
We entered their living room where the sunlight cast its beams of light onto the colorful pillows and carpet. Elizabeth motioned for me to sit at their small table while she made us tea in their little French maisonette kitchen just outside the door. Her first question was, "So Ginger, why have you sent me these pamphlets?'"I shook my head as I answered her question, "I do not know Elizabeth. They just called me inwardly to give them to you. Perhaps you might tell me?"She only said, "They are curious'"and poured the tea. That day began a special friendship. Over time, she would share m
any stories about the evolution of their relationship, which gave me insight into mine.
Cecil often told us of how, in his early life, he had a sword that he often used upon his paradisiacal heart. Then one day he awoke and saw its true purpose was to protect his paradisiacal heart, not to destroy it. While speaking to Elizabeth and listening to her stories, I learned her part. She said, "Ginger, I came to realize that there was a bigger story we were participating in, for humanity. From that day onwards, I sought to do my part creating the vision, that Cecil and I were given to do. As a result, all the little conflicts between our personalities disappeared. We both woke up and dedicated each other to it from then on. That is when our relationship changed." She shared with me the time when they were drawn into the teachings of Ouspensky. He was a Russian philosopher who rejected the science and psychology of his time under the strong suspicion that there had to exist a superior system of thought . He felt there was a wall everywhere . Cecil and Elizabeth had also been exploring together with Kathleen Neo-Platonism, along with other great thinkers of past centuries in search of becoming conscious. One day, Ouspensky invited the Collins to a secret meeting somewhere in London. Elizabeth said that as they approached to knock at the front door, it opened by itself. The hallway was dark and painted a dull red as she recalled. As they climbed the stairs to where the meeting was, she said, "It was rather eerie. I felt a chill course through my bones." She went quiet for a bit and went inwards. I sat still honoring her quietude and waited. As she returned from her memories looking at me from her crystal blue eyes, she said, "Ouspensky is not a path for artists!" It was a special afternoon, the sunshine, the cakes, the tea and Elizabeth. On one of the walls, Cecil had drawn in his unique way a caricature of her. He called her Bell. Mrs. Tweedie was right when she said that Cecil painted Elizabeth. Sadly, it was time to depart for I had been there for hours. It was time to descend down the stairs back into my daily life. My mind and soul tingled from being with her.
I was inspired to walk more along the path she walked with Cecil in their marriage. It was wonderful and yet could we, that is - David and I? As I was leaving, she stood at the top of the stairs silhouetted by the light and called out to me, "Ginger." I stopped and turned around to listen. She said, "don't forget your Angels!'"The truth of her voice held me for a moment. I smiled, turned and left with my heart uplifted. Her final statement was to guide me silently within, as its seed grew over the years.
CHAPTER 50
CECIL EXHIBITION
ALDEBURGH, SUFFOLK
June 1984
Cecil was exhibiting in the Festival Gallery in Aldeburgh, Suffolk. Many of his students were going so I got a ride. He was exhibiting 44 paintings and I so wanted to see them in the flesh. During class, he often spoke of the Journey to the Lost Paradise. That within each individual, there is this secret place, often untouched, under-nourished. He sought through his art to unlock the door, to feed and sustain the viewer. He wanted us to dwell within its mystery, within its poetic symbolism and intention. He wanted to catch the soul in its return to Paradise.
His journey had not been easy, but his vision held fast. Within the intellectual and artistic communities, he found he was alone except for Elizabeth. He challenged both the conservatism of traditional religion for he drew Christ's Resurrection full of Light and Freedom. He challenged the iron clad, "Art for Art Sake" with his symbolic images and expressions of the Spirit within us, which they denied its existence. On that day, I stood within the grace of his struggle and the Beauty he attained for us all.
I was especially moved by the painting called The Hymn of the Night. Cecil approached and said with a wry tone in his voice, "This painting always seems to make people pause and some even raise their umbrellas to it!" I asked "Why?" for the images didn't seem offensive. He chuckled in his Cecil way, which always seemed to put me at rest. He continued telling me in a whisper of confidence, "I think it had more to do with the Anima." I stayed longer pondering his words. And as I did so, I felt a mysterious chill about the painting.
Before me, was a young girl standing in front of a bountiful tree, arms crossed between her breasts, eyes glowing beckoning one to enter. The full moon, capturing the time of our entry, guided further by an Angel, while Swans floated below the mountains in the distance. Was this mysterious chill drawing me into the "Woman" in myself? Was I ready to look? Could I dare to go further to reveal what lies deep within? Was my Animus aligned to support this process? I saw and was inspired by the power of Art to challenge the viewer through symbolism and intent to the journey of return and holism.
These questions did not evoke a desire to raise my umbrella and spit at the painting. What it did do was place the experience deep into my sub-conscious memory of the day that someone would raise an umbrella at my work. And they did. My work also created tears of Joy. It has helped me to remember that this was a good response and not to get discouraged.
This witnessing of his work was a very important exhibition for I awoke that day with a strong desire to be open and create artwork, which uplifted and sometimes even stirred the viewer to question. Cecil gave me a tool to weather the storm and create the Light within just a few words, the colors, the images and his chuckle. I bless him every day for daring to follow his soul purpose to serve God through his Art and his life. I am grateful he chose to be our teacher and make his wisdom accessible for us all whether rich or poor.
CHAPTER 51
GUY FAWKES
1984
Every November, we had a bonfire party with fireworks. At the time, I never quite understood why, on 5 November, England celebrated the burning of the effigy of Guy Fawkes until years later thanks to Wikipedia. Its history begins with the events of 5 November 1605, when Guy Fawkes, a member of the Gunpowder Plot, was arrested while guarding explosives the plotters had placed beneath the House of Lords. Celebrating the fact that King James I had survived the attempt on his life, people lit bonfires around London, and months later the introduction of the Observance of 5th November Act enforced an annual public day of thanksgiving for the plot's failure.
Within a few decades Gunpowder Treason Day, as it was known, became the predominant English state commemoration, but as it carried strong religious overtones, it also became a focus for anti- Catholic sentiment. Puritans delivered sermons regarding the perceived dangers of popery, while during increasingly raucous celebrations common folk-burnt effigies of popular hate-figures, such as the pope. Towards the end of the 18th century reports appear of children, begging for money with effigies of Guy Fawkes and 5 November gradually became known as Guy Fawkes Day. (1) Fortunately, all this had changed by the time I landed in the UK. I also think very few understand the symbolism behind their firework parties. (Around the late 90s, I decided to discontinue having them for I think Guy Fawkes had paid his dues.) Nineteen eighty-four was a special year for Michael Kamen, a dear friend and composer. He asked if we could make a recording for the latest Monty Python movie Brazil with everyone singing in the studio. There were always many friends and children invited so it was a perfect setting for his request. I remember our girls at the edge of the stage in swirly skirts and sneakers, hand in hand bopping to the music of the band throughout the night. Nick Laird- Clowes and his band the Dream Academy played because David was producing their album. Their song "Life in a Northern Town,"released later in 1985, still fills my heart with nostalgia as I often listen to it. It was a crisp evening and the lyrics caught the flavor of England and the night.
George Harrison, who had become a close friend, lived in a nearby village and came. We stood by the fire warmly wrapped. Slipping into the joy of the evening, we watched David absorbed with the fireworks. David had been on duty creating the firework display with helpers throughout the day. He loved setting off the fireworks each year. We organized bales of hay in the field next to the fire for people to sit on with marshmallows on sticks waiting to be toasted.
Kegs of Beer sat on the edge of the field next to the coal fi
red barbeque, which Rita and Jack tended. The smell of Hamburgers, sausages and cooked onions filled the airbetween the smoke of the fire and sulfur. This was one of David's favorite times of the year. I could see he was full of joy when the fire light touched his face each time he passed to set-off the next firework. There were lots of Ohh's and Ahh's. Our house was open to all who came and I must say that over the years nothing was everdamaged orstolen. We didn't even have wine spilled on the white carpets. During the evening, I was walking out from the kitchen with more cups, when a stranger grabbed my arm gently pulling me into the corner. Looking me into the eyes, she said to me from behind her long gray hair, "Ginger, I have a message for you. I have come from far to tell you. You must start to listen to your American Indian Guides." It was a curious moment. All I could say was, "Oh, Thank you,"but it did awaken a memory as I proceeded on my way out to where most were waiting for the cups to fill with beer.
***
When I was about twelve, Mom started to tell me some of our family stories of when she was living with her grandparents in Boston. In those days when a family member passed over, their body would be placed in a room so their loved ones could say good-bye. The house was a very Victorian Bostonian house with tall windows and wooden paneling. The rooms were dark with velvet curtains. The light filtered dimly through the room from behind the hanging lace.
Her Great Aunt had died, and in one of the large rooms on a table, lay her body, which was the custom. Mom was a teenager and had just returned from school. There within the dim light was the silhouette of an elder American Indian chanting, the room filled with the smell of burning sage. She stood on the edge of the doorway watching, wondering. She discovered that part of our lineage was of the Cree Tribe. What did they want to tell me? The mystery continued.
Memoirs of the Brightside of the Moon Page 23