This is my own copy of what was drafted and signed today. My signature, Ralph Parry, in thick, black pen. First on the list of signatories, for these are my own words. For the most part I’m happy with it, though I didn’t see the need for the clause about acknowledging our debt to past artists. Clive insisted on this through, I’m sure, his disapproval of our appropriation of the term sweetness and light. What is a slight failure in Clive, I’m afraid, is this unwillingness to take ownership of concepts boldly and fearlessly. He’s limited by what I can see to be his timidity and what he would, doubtless, reassure himself by naming honour.
Never mind: it’s signed and we’re the better for that. There’s no use in an informal grouping. That sort of feebleness of association will manifest itself in a feebleness of thinking and, it directly follows, of artistic output.
To our critics, and there would be many, I’m sure, were our goals more outward facing, I would say just this: that there’s no shame, no loss, in being unfashionable. That by its very definition, that which is fashionable is that which is transient. Art does not set out to be transient. That is not its truth. To those who would have us involved in industrial design, graphic design or other such fripperies, I say we are pursuing beauty and truth not the pound note.
This building that we have inherited is a gift in many senses. Of course in the sense that we have been granted it, through birth, for just a peppercorn a year. But that is not the way that I think. It shares its unique qualities with us every day. The even, pale northern light is a gift to all of us – painters, goldsmiths, cabinet makers; we all benefit from its cool, blinkless stare. But more than that – there’s a warmth in the wood, in the plaster, in the terracotta tiles. It soaks up the sun – the light and the life – and it radiates them back gently throughout the day. We’re in an incubator. We cannot fail to be exceptional. Our work cannot fail to be infused with warmth and feeling.
Today after our meeting we sat in the vast, dark, vaulted cellar space, lit only by candles, the glimmer of rough stone catching the soft light and fracturing it. I looked around the handful of people in the huge space, watched their faces and saw trust there, and confidence, and even a little admiration, but their expressions shifted and fractured like the light reflected by the rough walls and I saw other things there too – a holding back, a restraint, a slight disquiet.
I handed out the signed copies of the foundation principles of our association and I dissolved the meeting. When they’d gone back about their business, I unlocked the door at the back of the room and I climbed two flights of the narrow, windowless wooden stairs, my breath a drum beat.
At the top of the second flight I took a key from my pocket, tarnished brass with an elaborate, heart-shaped bow above the simple blade. I turned it in the small lock – a rough hole that you’d hardly see if you didn’t know where to look; and indeed, who else could? Then I crawled along the narrow space, pushed open another hatch and stood in the large, empty space of our one disused studio. Bathed in the late morning light of this early summer’s day after my time crawling around in the dark like a mole, I couldn’t help but close my eyes and lift my arms heavenward. Then I pulled back a corner of the woven rug and put my eye to the slit in the floor. The aperture that had once seen vast canvasses lifted and dropped from floor to floor, now just had my own small eye pressed to it in the hope of being let into some of this beautiful building’s secrets.
I wasn’t disappointed.
Soon enough there was movement below. The gold-red head of Clive – a Norse God by looks, a feeble mouse by nature. Next to that, the rabbit brown of Annie’s sparse locks. Now, she has the appearance of the mouse, but does she have the nature of a passionate Norse God? Only time will tell. It was an interesting thought, one that held my attention for a good few minutes before I realised that, far from witnessing the building’s secrets, I was merely witnessing these two begin a somewhat joyless coupling. After a suitable interval I drew the rug back into place and sat back on my heels.
Perhaps my building hadn’t revealed any of her secrets today, but if there were secrets to reveal and she was ready to show them, she would. I made my way through the narrow passageway again and back the way I’d come.
Enough of this. The association has been formally founded and this day is an important one in our own small history: and who knows, perhaps its importance will one day be recognised beyond these four walls.
In the meantime, we sit here quiet and unassuming as mice, going about our labour with both humility and pride. Navigating this tautology shall strengthen our souls and our resolve.
Here good works will be created.
And on these pages of mine our little efforts shall be recorded, for no-one’s eyes but my own – least of all those who appear upon them.