Yesterday, I…
by Lynda Relph-Knight
(written in response to the writing prompt in June’s long days)
Yesterday I set out into the sunshine filled with joy. This session would be different, I kidded myself. Optimism ruled. I’d come into my own at last.
Anticipating the bustle of the studio, a pungent whiff of thinner and the screech of charcoal on art paper. I boarded the 153 bus to Liverpool Street. I was quietly excited. New people to meet and a few cheering hellos of recognition, friendships growing incrementally as we set about a common goal. We were all hoping to paint that perfect portrait.
The bus was late. As I languished for 20 minutes at the bus stop, that familiar doubt cast its momentary shadow. Should I abandon hope now and give in to the lure of that extra cup of tea at home? Mmm… Tempting. And then the bus appeared, skimming down Hemingford Road as though nothing was amiss, its single deck crowded with Saturday shoppers heading for Chapel Market.
I squeezed in, knowing the throng would thin out after a couple of stops and confident that we were speeding along at a rate to leave ample time for a cup of tea before class started. Or would it? An announcement of diversions and delays came over the intercom at Barbican Station. A typical weekend in the City of London when cranes and building works take control, but an unplanned annoyance nonetheless.
And so we hurtled briskly down shady City streets. The names were familiar, the stuff of London history. But the terrain was largely unknown to anyone not venturing regularly into the hallowed Square Mile bent on making money.
Then suddenly Liverpool Street station sprawled ahead. Scantily clad hen-weekenders disgorged from trains more used to ferrying soberly attired commuters back and forth. Families scurried across the concourse dragging wheelie suitcases and reluctant children towards the cab rank, ready to get on with that long-planned visit to London.
I disembarked and headed off through Spitalfields’ narrow alleyways, past Denys Mitchell’s blue knight sculpture and on to Artizan Street library. I rang the bell and waited. Paulo, a vague acquaintance from a previous class, let me in, chattering about broken lifts and the need to leg it up the concrete stairs to the first-floor studio.
There, predictably, was our teacher, Kim, corralling a dozen easels into a circle and laying out charcoal, rubbers and paper for the group. There too was Anne, London Drawing founder, pinning fabrics on to models in a bid to recapture the glamour of chic nineteenth century society. Black taffeta and organza were her choices for titian-haired Lori, her glossy curls fashioned into a shock of colour atop her pale, slender face. Dusky-skinned Ziggie appeared virginal by comparison in her shimmering long white satin gown. A clutch of white silk lilies completed the demure bridal vibe.
The models were to pose seated, their skirts splayed out in front of them. We were to portray their likenesses in charcoal and then oils. Our task was to emulate the style of portrait maestro John Singer Sargent, a steep challenge we’d all signed up for that day.
Some of the would-be artists got pretty close, but that elusive skill evaded me once more – except in conveying the look and feel of Ziggie’s luxurious fabrics. I nailed her skin tone, but not her features. Next time!
What fun we had though and at the end of the we staggered on our various ways, exhausted but happy – and inspired to keep on trying. Besides, we tittered, only the gaggle of us in the room knew what Lori and Ziggie really looked like – a secret that will bond us when we convene for another class.
Ends