Blue is not my favourite colour, but I'm glad I picked it. Royal blue it said on the tin. I imagined it cascading down the rough-hewn timber steps of Mdme Guillotine as the severed head of yet another French aristocrat thudded into a wicker basket. Now I admire the wild brushstrokes which crisscross the wall, furrows ploughed by wayward horses across a bluebell field. I picture myself laying on my back staring up at a cloudless cobalt sky, slender stalks swaying all around me. I see a fat drip slowly rolling down from beneath the plug outlet, a huge regal tear. I think to brush it away but figure that even the fixtures should be allowed to show their emotions sometimes. I get up and go into the kitchen. There is an old jam-jar, half-filled with white-spirits, sitting on the draining board amongst dirty cups and plates. I dip my brush into it and thin azure tendrils snake away from the bristles and form a complex spiders-web for a moment before dissipating and fading away into a turquoise soup. Not so regal now eh? I switch the kettle on and go back out into the room. Sunlight glints from the ridges of still-wet patches on the wall, the dry areas are flat and solid. The tear is frozen a quarter of an inch above the bright-white skirting board, threatening, but not daring, to trespass onto that virgin territory.. I hear water bubble frantically and am pouring it into a cup even before the kettle switches itself off. Coffee turns the water black and I kinda like how it looks alongside the jam-jar. It is darker in the room. The day is drawing to an end and there are fewer wet spots to reflect the waning sunlight. I poke the tear. It feels like a blister, and I regret doing it. I sit down on the rough floorboards and watch as the last of the moisture is drawn out of the paint by the warmth of the day. In the fading light of the summer dusk the surface slowly becomes an imperial landscape, fit for a king. It is broken only by a rectangle of dark navy sky which seems desperate to match the majesty of the wall, but fails. The coffee, like the day, is colder now but I drink it anyway. I glance at my watch. It's time to go, start afresh tomorrow. Maybe see about starting the tiling in the bathroom. I wanted to begin that today, but time seems to have flown. I feel a little guilty, but I smile. It’s been a good day.
I've slept on it but don't have much to add except this would appeal to anyone who's been involved in painting a room and is a beautifully developed meditation on the colour. That it's a melancholy colour adds to the general feeling of the piece, because painting can be a solitary task. The unwashed cups and the sunset add to the poignancy of the scene without being overdone, I thought, and there is a sense of cheerfulness about the royalty resurrected, as it were - no heads rolling, now, but a wall like a purple cloak or 'imperial landscape'. It goes against the grain of my own replublican leanings, but is a pretty conceit, as they say.
I'm going to paint my workroom/study in the hols and this has been most inspiring.
3 comments:
It’s Like Watching Paint Dry
Blue is not my favourite colour, but I'm glad I picked it. Royal blue it said on the tin. I imagined it cascading down the rough-hewn timber steps of Mdme Guillotine as the severed head of yet another French aristocrat thudded into a wicker basket. Now I admire the wild brushstrokes which crisscross the wall, furrows ploughed by wayward horses across a bluebell field. I picture myself laying on my back staring up at a cloudless cobalt sky, slender stalks swaying all around me.
I see a fat drip slowly rolling down from beneath the plug outlet, a huge regal tear. I think to brush it away but figure that even the fixtures should be allowed to show their emotions sometimes.
I get up and go into the kitchen. There is an old jam-jar, half-filled with white-spirits, sitting on the draining board amongst dirty cups and plates. I dip my brush into it and thin azure tendrils snake away from the bristles and form a complex spiders-web for a moment before dissipating and fading away into a turquoise soup. Not so regal now eh? I switch the kettle on and go back out into the room.
Sunlight glints from the ridges of still-wet patches on the wall, the dry areas are flat and solid. The tear is frozen a quarter of an inch above the bright-white skirting board, threatening, but not daring, to trespass onto that virgin territory..
I hear water bubble frantically and am pouring it into a cup even before the kettle switches itself off. Coffee turns the water black and I kinda like how it looks alongside the jam-jar.
It is darker in the room. The day is drawing to an end and there are fewer wet spots to reflect the waning sunlight. I poke the tear. It feels like a blister, and I regret doing it. I sit down on the rough floorboards and watch as the last of the moisture is drawn out of the paint by the warmth of the day. In the fading light of the summer dusk the surface slowly becomes an imperial landscape, fit for a king. It is broken only by a rectangle of dark navy sky which seems desperate to match the majesty of the wall, but fails. The coffee, like the day, is colder now but I drink it anyway. I glance at my watch. It's time to go, start afresh tomorrow. Maybe see about starting the tiling in the bathroom. I wanted to begin that today, but time seems to have flown. I feel a little guilty, but I smile. It’s been a good day.
Wow! What a fantastic story! I loved it, but will comment only after I've had time to sleep on it and re-read tomorrow.
Sheila
I've slept on it but don't have much to add except this would appeal to anyone who's been involved in painting a room and is a beautifully developed meditation on the colour. That it's a melancholy colour adds to the general feeling of the piece, because painting can be a solitary task. The unwashed cups and the sunset add to the poignancy of the scene without being overdone, I thought, and there is a sense of cheerfulness about the royalty resurrected, as it were - no heads rolling, now, but a wall like a purple cloak or 'imperial landscape'. It goes against the grain of my own replublican leanings, but is a pretty conceit, as they say.
I'm going to paint my workroom/study in the hols and this has been most inspiring.
Sheila
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