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This unfinished grisaille fire-screen sits in the dining-room fireplace at our cottage. Few people notice it or pass comment on it, perhaps because it’s so clearly an unfinished object. It dates from the period after my career in the theatre, and yet before I’d met Peter. I painted it in the little hut at Tretower Court that was my place of work for seven long years.
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In 1983 I’d written, designed, choreographed and directed a production of Humpty Dumpty at the New Theatre, Cardiff. The following year it transferred to the Dominion Theatre in London, where I re-staged it with a slightly changed cast. The production had been magnificently realised in the scenic and costume workshops of the Welsh National Opera and the Bristol Old Vic. My friend Liz Sangster, who regularly comments here on the Artlog, supervised the painting of the sets and cloths.
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In the Prologue of the production the Fairy Godmother entered the stage on a unicorn. The part was played in Cardiff and in the West End by my friend and long-time colleague Ann Morris. I wrote the role and designed the character’s wardrobe with her in mind.
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During the long winter days of that first year at Tretower, I set myself the task of conjuring something tangible from my memories of the production. (I think I needed to remind myself that I’d done it!) The screen was cut from wood by my cousin Eric on his jigsaw, using a template I’d supplied. However Ann’s likeness didn’t appear in the painting. Instead I drew on memories of my late mother as a young woman.
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Behind the equestrienne a ribbon un-scrolls. All these years on the Fairy’s opening words inscribed on it are almost too faint to read. But that doesn’t matter because I wrote them, and know them by heart:
“We are the stars in the sky, and we only come down to visit those who have been very, very good.”
I was about to write a comment here about this yesterday (but just then it was dinner time and I had to shut the computer quickly), and now I’m glad that I have come back today instead, because reading through the comments has been interesting too.
But yesterday I was going to say that I thought the firescreen was really beautiful and also that the unfinishedness of it was alluring. I think think the grisaille helps, but it really looks as if this scene is in the process of materializing out of thin air.
Also, I am putting your old job in that little place in the back of my mind which is dedicated to positions where I can earn money, but still paint all day. So far there is only lighthouse keeper and possibly toll-booth worker, since I’ve heard of someone who learned fiddle working the night shift as a toll-booth attendant and went on to be brilliant at it.
I agree with you Jodi, the fire-screen is the better for being unfinished. At this distance from the making of it, I can see it for what it is, rather than what it seemed to be when my judgement was clouded by sadness.
My own job as year-round custodian at Tretower Court and Castle came to an end when Cadw decided to close the monument in the winter months. It seems there are fewer opportunities these days for would-be hermits! I wish you good luck in finding that perfect position. Lighthouse-keeper sounds interesting, if a little more extreme than my own experience! Learning to play the fiddle would be a good way of spending the time when you weren’t cleaning the lighthouse lamp or painting. Even painters need other activities! (-;
Oh no! And I think even lighthouse keeping is tricky these days, with all the electrically-run light houses. There may be a few hangers-on though.
Maybe I could be one of those forestry people that spend their days in look-outs keeping watch for forest fires…. though I suppose I’d have to actually be actively watching the woods in that case. And then, there are jokes in Canada about those guys falling in love with what they think is a beautiful woman through their binoculars, but turns out to be a log when they actually go to find them. Ah well, the search continues.
Well maybe if you were on the look-out tower, you could fill hundreds of drawing books with the views all around you, because at least then you’d be looking! (-;
There’s a chamber opera by Peter Maxwell Davies called The Lighthouse It’s part ghost story, part psychological drama, and the music is absolutely terrifying. Hair-raising! If you get that lighthouse keeper’s job, never listen to it!!!
Oh Clive, how could I not listen to it now?
Then just don’t listen to it alone at night! (-;
She is lovely! I had to look up ‘grisaille’ to clarify what that is, thinking it was a painting on metal but I see you did this on wood in greys (as that word meant). I see BD too, since it was mentioned, but how sweet that it is your mother’s face, and the quote is perfect. How I’d love to see it in real life.
Well, Marja-Leena, if you’re ever in West Wales!
This piece is so familiar to me at the cottage that it had reached a point where I’d almost stopped seeing it. But on Sunday morning I was up and about early getting ready to take the dog down to the beach for his run, when the light caught it and stopped me in my tracks. All the many memories embodied in it reared up to catch me in the chest: the year I’d designed the production, the people involved in it and the excitement of the opening night. My parents had been so gleaming with pride and fine-looking in the audience, but underlying the brave show she put on, my mother was dying. Within a few months she had gone.
Although I’d never painted her in life… remember that at this point I didn’t consider myself a painter at all, or even a stage designer… the fire-screen became a repository of memories, showing her when young and confident. She had been a horsewoman, and my favourite photograph had always been one of her on horseback. During her last year she’d been swept away with delight at the prospect of Humpty Dumpty, and had greatly enjoyed seeing it evolve on trips to the scenic and costume workshops of the Welsh National Opera. After her death I planned the painting on the fire-screen as my tribute to her.
But inevitably it represented other, darker things too, because I was already in full flight from a life on the stage when I began making it. In it, regard for my mother and doubts about having turned aside from the career she’d made sacrifices to support me in, collided. Word had reached me that one of the original team still linked with the production, had laid claim when auditioning for the Henson Organisation to having been the designer of it. These things happen. People occasionally distract from the deficits of their CVs with a little borrowed lustre. It shouldn’t have mattered because I’d already turned my back on the theatre, but when I heard of the deceit I felt terrible, as though I’d died and a thief had plundered what little was left of me. So to ease the pain and to privately re-stake my claim, I started painting the equestrienne Fairy riding down from the stars, and the face I gave her while I worked at the task in my custodian’s hut, was that of my mother.
I never completed it, feeling that I hadn’t the technical ability to do the memory justice. I’d never had much confidence with a brush, always feeling the lack of training and skill. At which low point, Peter came into my life, and thereafter, everything changed.
Oh, that is a lovely accounting, Clive. I knew some of it, but it’s all magically different here, in this context.
No wonder saint and hermitage mean so much to you–the desert place where one transforms.
Out of life comes the art. Painting is my way of taking chaos and turning it into something manageable. It gives me at least the illusion of being in control.
And a very beautiful illusion it is.
You have certainly become so well-known and so distinctive in style (and yet this piece and other early work still are recognizable as by you) that I would imagine that anybody who tried to take credit for your stage sets now would rapidly find himself fuddled.
Oh Marly, some people lack their inner Jiminy Cricket, and this man was a complete and utter stranger to conscience! (Neither was it the only bad thing that he did to me.) I’m sure he thought I wouldn’t find out about it, but of course I did, because Brian Henson is a friend of a friend, and unwittingly spilled the beans. As it happened the offender never did get that job with the Henson Organisation! Mmmmmm! Schadenfreude!
I think it is exquisite even “as is”!
I don’t plan to finish it. It was arrested at this stage over two decades ago, and so it must stay as it is, tantalisingly incomplete. I’m glad you like it Elizabeth. Maybe one day you’ll come and stay at the cottage and see the fire-screen for yourself.
oh, how cool!!! she is gorgeous…i love the tilt of the horse’s head, and the ribbons and finery. it’s wonderful
…and the two little angels/cherubs in the bottom corner
Thank you Zoe. It summons memories of my first career in the theatre, and of the time immediately afterwards as I found my way to a new life.
Hello Clive, gosh that takes me back, I remember the grisaille lady so well, but never realised that she was modelled on your mum, and now, of course, I see, yes-that IS your mum! How come I didn’t see it before? and artists are supposed to be observant! I use grisaille work when making faux old masters, ( for theatre purposes or panels for interiors, I might add, not for forgeries!) The glazes can bring things to life very quickly, and they act almost like magic before your eyes.
I remember your grisaille work. In fact, come to think of it Liz, I have a feeling you may even have suggested I try it, all those years ago! How extraordinary. Am I having a recovered memory episode here? I think I recall talking to you about the fire-screen, telling you I didn’t know how to proceed, and you suggested grisaille! Yes, that’s how it happened. Oh my! That was over twenty-five years ago! Imagine!
Well rest assured I would certainly notice this beauty, in fact your very description of it piqued my interest. Any mention of grisaille and fire screen and I am eager for a peek. She is very fine, beautifully painted, what a lovely tribute to your mother. From your monograph I read of her flair for fashion, I’m sure she would be tickled with this get-up (-:
On a personal note, you just solved a problem, I will soon start a painting based upon my maquette sketches, a bit troubled by color, and medium. I now have the answer,grisaille underpainting ( acrylic), and the exact final color by means of oil glazes.Thanks.
LG
Why not make grisaille studies and then make a separate painting when you’re clearer in your mind about what you want? Grisaille can be beautiful in its own right, and it would be a shame to add colour to something that was already working.
I made a grisaille study for Christ before I knew the way the colour would go in the finished painting Christ Writes in the Dust, and I’d be very sorry in hindsight had I added colour and lost the tonal work underneath.
I agree grisaille can be dazzling (although the use of oil glaze over grisaille can also be dazzling). I mis-spoke, I was more anxious about medium. I did progress, which makes me happier and less anxious-for now.
Christ Writes in the Dust is very beautiful, as is the “study”, I do love your palette, grisaille or not. Thanks for the reminder .
LG
There is a hint of Bette Davis …..perhaps thats the era?
yes, I see what you mean, Miss Davis as the Virgin Queen (-:
spooky role, scared the dickens out of me.
People said she looked a little like B D, and I could see it at the time, particularly when she wore make-up. The same eyes and mouth. I think she was rather pleased when the similarity was pointed out.