DICKDick Donaghue has worked with many of the Arts Groups in Galway over the past 30 years, mainly, GalwayArtsCenter, Macnas, Galway Theatre Workshop and The Film Resource Center. He has published two children’s books with An Gúm, one of which was featured on RTE television. His play “Explorers” was produced in the Town Hall Studio and many of his short stories and articles have appeared in newspapers and magazines both locally and nationally. His first novel “Dance of the Mocking Birds” was published in 2010 and in 2011 he designed and published a book on his wife, the artist, Marja van Kampen. He is currently editing a book of short stories. He lives in Galway, Ireland.

 

HANGING IN

Dick Donaghue

“They’re very interesting, of course,” the Gallery proprietor said, turning away from Angela’s paintings and, adjusting his bowtie, feigned interest in passers-by through the window. She studied his narrow back, her artist’s eye automatically dividing the play of light and shade on the back of his shirt, while waiting for him to speak again.

She knew she had taken a chance bringing her work to this gallery. Landscapes and portraits by established artists, none of which strayed from the conventional, surrounded her. Their cozy commercialism indicated that her work was unlikely to be accepted here but she was determined to approach every gallery in the city. There must be at least one who would recognize her talent.

Angela’s paintings, lined up along the bottom of the white wall, were a stark contrast to the existing exhibition above them. From her pictures the features and limbs of imaginary people, stared at the viewer, superimposed on clothes they might have worn, hung out to dry on clothes lines in a multitude of settings. They hung upside down, some dangling limply, some twisted as if in agony, others entwined like lovers; in back yards, gardens, the balconies of high rise flats and draped across bushes at the roadside camp of Travelers. This was the first time since graduating from art college a year ago that Angela had been able to sustain a theme in her painting and was excited by the potential. The raw edge she sought in her work was beginning to manifest itself.

The proprietor swiveled from the window. His eyes opened wide in surprise when he saw Angela and her paintings still there, as if she were expected to vanish while his back was turned. He rubbed his small hands together briskly to cover his irritation. Angela took a deep breath in anticipation of rejection. The man’s eyes flicked to her rising breasts then, meeting her gaze, quickly slid past her to the door. She let her breath out slowly, suppressing her anger, remembering someone telling her once that she was much too pretty to be an artist. Stubbornly she stood her ground.

The proprietor cleared his throat. “We’re booked up for quite a while,” he said, his gaze now focused on some point in mid-air behind her. “In fact it would be at least … oh, six months, before we even begin to look at new work again.”

She nodded, accepting the obvious rejection in his tone, knowing it would be the same story in six months time.

As she bent to retrieve her paintings she was aware of his eyes appraising her again now that she was no longer watching. Sod him, she thought angrily, if he’d paid more attention to my paintings … ! Shrugging off her annoyance, she stacked her work carefully into the portfolio and zipped it shut.

He walked with her to the door and, opening it to let her out, paused in the entrance to squint up at the sky as if checking for rain, although the sun shone brightly on the mid-morning street, so that Angela had to squeeze past.

“Come back in a few months time, dear,” he continued, resting a hand momentarily on the small of her back. Her teeth clenched in fury at the man’s effrontery. “Let’s see how we’re fixed by then,” he concluded, swinging the door closed behind her.

I don’t think so, you bastard, Angela swore under her breath as she hurried down the street..

In the past week she had shown her portfolio to five gallery owners. The reaction was much the same. ‘Come back in six months.’ ‘You don’t do landscapes by any chance?’ ‘Not developed enough for us, I’m afraid.’ or, ‘We may mount a group show early next year, perhaps then.’

Disheartening though the process was she had no intention of giving up. There were hundreds of artists ahead of her but, she reminded herself, they had had to start somewhere too.

Back at her flat Angela threw herself on the bed with relief, breathing in the familiar creamy aroma of paint and linseed oil which always had a soothing effect on her. Time, give me time and I’ll hang with the best! It’s just a matter of hanging in there, she reassured herself, smiling at the pun.

The screech of Tony’s motorbike pulling up outside woke her from her daydreaming. Before she had time to swing her legs to the floor he had bounded up the stairs and flung himself beside her enveloping her in his arms and an aura of petrol and warm grease.

“I can see it went well for you,” he teased. “Resting after a hard morning’s bargaining with the arty-farty galleries, huh?”

“Same old story,” Angela said, snuggling closer to him. “Give them pretty landscapes. That’s all they want.”

“They’re only shopkeepers, like you say.” He kissed her ear. “They’re not ready for you yet.”

Angela pulled away from him and sat up. “What time is it, anyway? It must be lunchtime. Are you hungry?”

“Constantly,” Tony replied, pulling her back in a fierce hug, kissing her hungrily and unzipping her jeans.

After their lovemaking, Tony lay naked in the sunlight streaming through the window, blowing smoke rings towards the ceiling. Angela, wrapped in a dressing gown was brewing coffee in the small kitchen.

“Hey, listen,” he called, “why don’t you paint me? Y’know, reclining ‘Adonis’ and all that? You could pretty it up in a landscape for them.”

Angela carried the coffee into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. As she handed him a mug she glanced down the length of his well defined body which he kept in shape by working out twice weekly in the gym

“No,” she sighed, “too small. That’s the problem.”

“Too small … ?” he snorted. “That’s now, after the deed is done. But not before, remember?”

Angela laughed and slapped his muscled thigh playfully. “No, I don’t mean that, you eejit. It’s my work I’m talking about.” She stretched out her arms, slopping coffee onto the bed, causing him to jump back. “Bigger canvasses,” she explained.

Tony flexed his muscles and winked at her. “Think big, that’s what I always say.” And, swinging himself off the bed, downed his coffee and zipped himself back into his clothes. “Gotta get back to the garage,” he said, kissing her goodbye.

As the bike roared into the distance Angela was seized with sudden inspiration. Whisking the white linen sheets off her bed, oblivious to the fact they were a recent and expensive gift from her mother, Angela tugged until they ripped down the centre. Satisfied, she dropped them on the floor and raced outside to the garden shed where she remembered seeing a few lengths of timber and some rusting tools.

It was hard going with the old rusty saw but she managed to hack through them. She hammered the laths together into rough frames then stretched the sheets tightly over them. Working quickly she primed them, throwing the windows wide open to let out the pungent smell, then stood back viewing her work with satisfaction. Four large canvasses stood against the wall.

A bit rough, she thought, but they’ll do for now. I must find a studio, this bedroom is too cramped. Maybe that’s why I work so small. I need more space.

While waiting for the primer to dry Angela wondered how she could get her hands on some big brushes. Then she remembered seeing several old household paintbrushes at her mother’s. Without pausing to put on a jacket she raced out the door. Along the canal a woman and child threw crusts to the ducks. Angela watched as diamonds of light scattered along the gentle ripples. Pretty pictures, she thought ironically.

A sudden outburst of squabbling and squawking pierced the air as a flock of seagulls swooped out of the blue sky, dive-bombing the crusts and trying to scatter the ducks. On their home territory, and bigger than their scavenging sea cousins, the ducks chased them off, running along the top of the water screeching and spreading their wings in anger. The gulls soared and wheeled in preparation for another attack.

Angela watched the running battle in amazement. The gulls don’t usually come this far inland, she thought, unless a storm is brewing. She checked the sky behind her and could almost feel the weight of the large electric-grey cloud, pregnant with rain, blowing over the rooftops from the sea.

It was one of those summer squalls that springs unexpectedly out of the Atlantic. The excitement of the battle in the water below and the approaching storm above thrilled her. For a moment she stood, transfixed against the canal railings, filled with a fusion of the beauty, power and violence of nature.

This, she realized, was the missing element in her paintings. The instilled passion of life. A storm didn’t ask for permission to blow; it raged regardless, sweeping all in its path. Seagulls swooped unceremoniously; aware only of the dictations of hunger. Tony didn’t seek approval to make love to her; he took his pleasure brazenly. But the final thought made her wince. Perhaps she should be more stringent with him. Perhaps he was beginning to take her for granted. She put the thought to the back of her mind deciding to think about it later.

As she watched the scene before her, Angela recalled her early childish drawings hidden in the back of her copybooks. The pleasant little paintings to please her father. Praise for neat, careful work from teachers. Never really letting herself go. All through life, all through art college, Angela saw now, how she had tried to please everyone except herself. Talent was not lacking, she knew, but somehow the fiery passion rumbling deep inside her had always been doused by a desire to please others. Even her brushes were small, her drawing boards manageable, as if she had a fear of what she might do if that passion was given its head. It did not hinder her graduating with a distinction. But that was college, she mused, out here is real life.

The rain, suddenly unleashed, pelted the canal water like pellets. Seagulls wheeled. Ducks thrashed. Mother grabbed her screeching child and ran for the shelter of the trees. Only Angela danced with joy as the wind squalled and rain soaked her.

“Yes!” she whooped triumphantly, “tearing those sheets was an inspiration!” It was as if ripping them was an act preempting the storm, renting the sky, with its unbridled force.

When she arrived at her mother’s house her clothes were saturated.

“Holy God, Angela,” her mother scolded, when she saw her standing inside the kitchen door, a pool of water gathering at her feet. “Have you no raincoat? Quick child, run up to my room and change into something dry before you catch your death …” Her mother, a smaller, plumper version of her daughter, draped in a flowery apron over baggy slacks, ushered her up the stairs.

It was she who had recognized Angela’s need to express her talent and argued in her favour, against her husband’s reluctance, to send his daughter to art college. Fortunately Angela won a scholarship so that he could not harangue her about throwing his money away on, what he called, a wasted life. He would have preferred to see her use her aptitude in maths to follow him in his profession of accountancy. Unfortunately he did not live to see her graduate four years later.

“Mam,” Angela said as she traipsed downstairs and bundled her wet clothes into the dryer. “I need to get some things from the garage.”

Her mother gazed at her in amusement. Dressed in one of her old cotton dresses, her daughter looked more like a younger sister.

“It’s a long time since I was able to squeeze into that,” she remarked, laughing. “But what things do you want from the garage. I can’t remember when I was last out there. You’d better ask Francis when he gets home. It’s his domain now.” Francis was Angela’s younger brother and training in furniture design.

“Oh, just saws and hammers and …” Angela thought for a moment. “Have we still got the large paintbrushes ?

Her mother shrugged. “I suppose so. Francis would know. But wait, I’m sure some of the old things are still in a box under the stairs. I don’t think he’d like you taking his things.”

“Thanks,” Angela said and went out to the hallway to rummage in the cupboard under the stairs. “They’re here all right,” she called and dragged the box into the kitchen. She selected what she wanted then said without looking up. “Mam. I’m thinking of leaving.”

“Leaving?” Her mother turned from the sink and stared at her. “The flat?”

“No.” Angela took a deep breath before continuing. “Town. Maybe go abroad.”

“When … Why? But I thought you were happy here?”

Angela shifted uneasily seeing how this sudden announcement had shocked her mother. It had taken her by surprise too, the words were out of her mouth before she realized what she had said herself. “I need to get out. Find a proper place to work. Y’know, this place is too small.”

Her mother laughed disconcertedly. “Well,” she began, then stopped, not knowing what to say next.

“Not right away,” Angela hurried on, backpedaling now, to take some of the sting out of her decision. For herself as well as her mother. “I need more space to work. I need to … Oh I don’t know. Travel a bit … See more …”

The ideas came tumbling out of their own accord and, as they did, taking Angela more and more by surprise, the excitement of getting away and seeing the world stimulated her. It was as if the decisions were out of her hands now. As if some other authority had taken over.

“And what about Tony,” her mother started in alarm. “What will he think. He seems such a nice lad. I thought …” She let the words trail off.

“Well, maybe I’m getting too attached. Oh, I dunno … It’s … ” Angela shook her head and hurried on as if to shake away any guilt feelings before they took root. “Y’know. I need time … space … to develop. See the rest of the world. There was no chance when I was at college. And then Dad …” She stopped abruptly. She did not want to drag his reluctance to pay for foreign travel into the conversation. And then his sudden illness … She could see her mother’s mounting anguish at these old wounds being resurrected.”

The older woman slumped against the sink, entwine her hands heedlessly in her apron watching the growing excitement on her daughter’s face as she elaborated her plans. She shook her head in bewilderment. Going to collage was one thing but she could see no reason to traipse around the world. That, to her, who never had any desire to be anywhere else but where she was, was only looking for trouble. She put on a brave smile. “If that’s what you want dear,” was all she could say.

Angela rushed to her and hugged her “I knew you’d understand,” she cried.

Tears welled up in her mother’s eyes. “I’m sure I don’t,” she said, sniffing and dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her apron. “But you seem to know what you’re doing.”

“It’ll only be for a while,” Angela said, trying to soften the blow.

“And what about money? How will you live.?”

“Odd jobs, I suppose. Everyone does it.” This had been the main problem during college holidays. Her parents had refused to finance or allow her to go off with other students to work part-time in Europe. Angela could never fathom their reluctance to do so. Then, when her father had become ill, there was no point in arguing. She had had to make do with local Summer jobs. The exciting stories brought back by her friends, of foreign cities and galleries, had almost brought her to tears. She was surprised that her mother had given in so easily this time. But how could she object. I’m old enough to make my own decisions now, Angela thought. Or perhaps the suddenness of the decision and my excitement has caught her off guard.

She watched her mother dab at her eyes and turn away to fill the kettle. A cup of tea seems to be her way of concluding any disagreement. Over the sound of splashing water her mother said, “I can manage a few hundred pounds.”

“No, please. I’ll manage.”

“You’ll need it,” her mother said flatly and Angela, overcome with gratitude at this sudden change of attitude hugged her again tightly. “Thanks Mam. I love you.”

Later, poised with a four inch paint brush in her hand and pots of paint ready on the floor, Angela stood before the four blank canvasses in deep silence, waiting for the rush of inspiration. Waiting for the creative dam to burst and overflow, she was unaware of Tony entering the flat until his hand rested on her shoulder, making her jump.

“Swimming,” he said, grinning and waving his togs and towel in front of her face.

“Oh.” Angela jumped. “You gave me a fright.”

Tony pointed to the four canvasses. “What’s this?” he asked. “The Opus Magnus. Big, huh!” Then he noticed the bare mattress. “Jesus,” he exclaimed. “What happened the sheets?”

Angela pointed distractedly at the stretched frames.

“You’re mad, Angie babe!.” He shook his head vigorously. “Anyway, get your togs. The tide’s in.” He checked his watch. “In … four minutes. Let’s go.”

“I can’t.” Angela bit her lip.

Tony grinned and eased the paintbrush out of her hand. “The sun is shining,” he sang. “The tide is full. It waits for no man, or woman.”

Angela reached for the brush but Tony held it behind his back. “Come on.” He danced away from her. “This will keep. The tide won’t. I need a swim.”

Angela shook her head. “I have to work.”

“Sure,” Tony said. “But later. I’m bursting to get into the water. I need to get the grease out of my system. I’ve had a tough day. Hot as hell.”

Angela glared at him. “And I’ve had it cushy …?”

“Angie. Angie,” Tony pleaded, coming and putting his arms around her.

“No, Tony. Don’t.” She pushed him away gently.

“What?” Tony looked at her, bewildered.

“I don’t mean that.” Angela said. “I have to do this,” She indicated the canvasses.

“Yes,” he said. “I know. But let’s go swimming first. Okay.”

Angela frowned in anguish. How could she refuse to go swimming? But she had to start painting. It was important. “I have to do this,” she said adamantly.

“Angie?”

“Look, you go on ahead,” she said, forcing a smile. “I can …”

But Tony did not wait for her to finish. He dangled the paintbrush between his thumb and forefinger, before her face, then dropped it at her feet. Turning abruptly, he stomped from the room without a word.

“Tony.” Angela took a step after him. “Tony …!”

The only reply she got was the street door banging shut behind him and the roar of his motorbike engine snarling down the street.

“Oh, damn,” Angela cried. She picked up the paintbrush and turned to the canvasses and glared at them.

“You,” she hissed angrily between clenched teeth. Then, filling her brush with paint, she flung it with all her energy at the first canvas.

It struck and splattered like an exploding firecracker, before sliding down the surface, leaving a thick stream of deep vermilion in its wake. Angela stared at it through hot tears welling up and stinging her eyes in frustration. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. The deep gash of red, cutting the white ground like an open wound, danced before her. She stooped and picked up the paintbrush once more and filled it. As she began to spread the paint, elaborating on the gash, opening it out as if searching for a definition, her anger slowly dissipated, leaving a void which gradually filled with excitement.

Time evaporated. Swabs of colour in thick impasto gathered force, producing shapes that boiled up inside her, taking her unawares, merging and molding together in swirling abstract mass. Weighty purple storm clouds fought for space with pink streaked flocks of birds. Hovering menacingly, motorbikes roared through electric skies, underscored by bejeweled rippling waters. Working feverishly, brain and limbs stretched to their limits, Angela was drawn out of herself and transported, mesmerized by the shapes and colours emerging before her.

Finally, every ounce of energy drained from her, she dropped her brushes and fell exhausted on the sheet-stripped bed. The four large canvasses stood against the walls, transformed and triumphant, as she herself was by the power of latent forces which had taken her over and, it seemed, sucked the very substance from her soul.

The voice inside her trumpeted, “I am an artist. And I must be free!”

Exultant, throwing wide her arms as if to embrace the ceiling – the walls – the street, the feeling inside her swelled until she could almost feel herself enfold the whole world.