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
10th 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.
