The artist quest : 2.The St Martin's interview.

 I could do nothing but watch, holding on to the wooden crosses that make the back of a canvass, a painting in each hand, the heart pounding away awaiting- for what was to be inevitable destruction, of the largest painting of all, that was cart-wheeling down the long escalators into the depths of Holborn tube station.

 “Well, at least it did not kill anyone “I thought relived, as it skidded to a halt.  I must have been holding on to it with my teeth. No other limbs where left free. Ben heaped up with his own load of art works did not notice my predicament and somehow clattered out of the tube gates in one piece, while I and the appendages retreated down the escalators and up one more time, to retrieve the incredulously un damaged- run a away artwork.

Of course by the time we found the right building, having walked several miles, flapping about with canvasses, and being blown about by gusts of wind produced by double decker busses, we were, exhausted.

                                                                            I

The journey for me had begun at that twilight hour that the cows wake, in the Staffordshire farming village of Elford.

Where from, stepfather, drove me across the river and hills, trough fields and woods, across the train track, on the way to Lichfield, with him once again proclaiming his distaste for university education,

“When are you going to just get a proper job? Your mother knows I am very much against this university business, I think it is a waste of time and money”,

and his dislike of London “ I couldn’t bear to live in that horrible dirty place again, it’s now full of Pakis and blacks everywhere – did you know we used to call them niggers in my day?- I had a cat called nigger- did I ever tell you that?”

While I furious on the inside, chewed on a thread of long hair trying, to avoid being provoked into a heated discussion of righteousness against his bigotry, -which would give him an excuse to boycott completing, the single most important car ride, he had ever given me -out of admittedly plenty - and the old man knew it. –and did his best, trying to draw out a volatile slip of tongue, that would endorse his wish to turn the car around, with a decent enough excuse - to give to my mother.

 

                                                                                 II

I must have retorted some kind of smart answer back at him, once, I and the artworks made it safe to the concrete shores of the Lichfield train station, and stepfather, disappointed at my “winning “the journey, must have said, -good luck.

The important thing is Ben and I both, got on the train to Birmingham. Even though, it was an almost not- we made the coach too, and hit the road, leaving green fields and sheep on both sides of the motorway until 4 hours later it delivered us to London Victoria Station, and the city of dreams. 

                                                                             

Which there was  no time to appreciate, as we where on a serious mission. 

Though I must say, there is nothing like a long journey to create a theatrical build up to a situation.

                                                                             III

On reaching the right building finally- of course  the interview was located on no other than the 10^th floor, and there was no lift, its understood. -The last test for the hero- to see if he is determined enough to complete the quest.

,Arriving we encountered other talent competing for the few dream positions- to study at the famous St Martin’s art college.  The college was a big deal at King Edward’ the VI th s school. A talented girl I knew quite well, few generations older than us had spent 3 years trying to enter and falling, making the idea of going for it one self,  feel as exciting, irrational and stupid, as packing off to Egypt to hunt down undiscovered pharaoh’s tombs.

It was considered the top of the pyramid of all art schools, and one not to be applied for by everyone, or lightly, -the art teacher Mrs Right, discouraged people mostly form trying for it so they don’t lose their shot at something actually achievable. 

In fact, back at school that very moment remakes most likely may have been made as to whether we would get in or not, the popular opinion expecting our failure.

                                                                     IV

I was crumpled and hot, with shaky hands, and slightly demoralised faced with the fresh looking, perfumed, confident adversaries accompanied by their parents and exotic foreign accents.

All applicants where required to leave their portfolios in a room, next to their name, from which a limited number would be selected to go on to an interview later that day. The room was full of tidy organised little heaps of, portfolios, constituting expensive printed photo books.

As a contrast, two tremulous mountains of stuff upon the table, next to the table, and sliding off it, which smelt strongly of materials,  that in places crumbled, and made your hands dirty when you touched them,- where, Ben’s and mine. 

We did not bring much documentation, of artworks, - we brought the actual darn art works,  paintings ,sculptures, drawings, videos, the lot.

                                                                                       V

Considering it all from a visual perspective, seeing we where trying to get into a school where aesthetics where important, the situation to me contained, the fresh and tidy students, and us the two  crumpled things, and the tidy neat heaps of books, and our lumpy mountains. 

I’m not sure how confident- in relation to how petrified, I felt that moment. This was  the bee's knees.- From all the colleges visited before placing this one as number 1 on our university application list, only this one had the Holborn castle like entrance, with guards, and a swanky glass and metal spacey reception hall, that gave you the confidence – like this place means business.

 It was full of buzzing students speeding down corridors, in visible contrast to other art colleges which seemed wafftey , empty, lethargic. Plus this was the one art college located right in the heart of London.

 

Florence was where, I had fantasised studying, but Ben really did not want me to go Italy, the country most full of “ sleazy Italian men” the worried boyfriend mode explained,  and who would just out of their nature- he made me understand, try their sleazy best to seduce me, bringing doom ruin and an inevitable end to our epic love story.

 –And as Ben had no intention of leaving the British music scene, he asked me to pick any college in Brittan, deciding that he would apply to the same one, and study art, not music, which maybe was just a too obvious a choice for him, a true born musician and rock star of our local scene, who above all else hated complying to expectations. So he had to fight it,- and was great at art too, the choice of college was unanimous.

                                                                       VI

Around the corner was a grey little city park with two benches opposite one another. The skies where grey and it had started to drizzle. All that could have been discussed, had been already, on the coach. At that moment in time, we were one another’s everything. A young, beautiful couple, so obviously in love with one another, it would make you want to vomit -and believe in true love, simultaneously.

Awaiting tectonic changes, we took, some tragic, squashed, tuna sandwiches, and chewed to waste an eternity.

I stared at Ben, at his eyes, dark and light blue at the same time, curly black locks, and fat lips, twisting the guitar string ring he made, (that produced a rash always itched my ring finger,) and he stared back at me,  both aware that this day would determine the future to come.

Each produced, a change of clothes, -dressed their stylish best, and went to face the artillery.

Some of the tidy, neat, kids we had seen earlier, where leaving the selection room upset, some crying even, portfolios wilting in their hands.

Worried about the standard being even higher than I anticipated- I entered the room awaiting for the impending news of doom,

                                                                     VII

- to be told that I had passed the first round, to leave my work where it is, and be ready for the group interview.

As chance would have it, - Ben was told exactly the same thing.

                                                                                                                                                               

The interview was a big open table discussion composed of about fifteen people, tutors, college students and other applicants, in which each wanna-be student- had to present their work, and discuss both one’s own and everyone else’s portfolios.

It was an asset for Ben and I to have each other at the same table, there is strength in numbers, we just got going, with our typical devil’s advocate debate approach, popular among friends, and ping ponged off one another, questioning everything shown. 

And than we where sent home.