The Artist (1/7) By The Silver Fox

(1/7), (2/7), (3/7), (4/7), (5/7), (6/7), (7/7).

Pencil in hand, he stands immobile. His eyes are locked onto the pristine expanse before him as though searching for some secret buried within the paper itself; an image that his pencil will simply be highlighting rather than creating. Above and beyond his eye line, the graphite point gleams dully in the harsh light that cascades down onto the easel. It is pointing forward and downward at the end of an arm that is stiff both with purpose and melodrama. The psychology of those in thrall to the visual arts is a mystery to the chronicler of these events, but a guess could be hazarded that any resemblance between the pencil and the obsidian blade used by Aztec priests during human sacrifices is not entirely coincidental. This then, is to be a moment of creativity touched by something of the divine; the first stroke of the pencil a votive act.

Except... There are signs of hesitation rarely seen on top of those ancient stone temples. The pencil shakes slightly as though reluctant to take the plunge onto paper; the eyes are clouded with doubt in a way those of one hepped up on (very) old-time religion and coca leaves seldom were. A long, low sigh escapes from between lips pressed tightly together in a thin line of determination and the moment passes.

Released from the tension of imminent Art, the artist's pencil drifted down towards his right ear to deal with an itch that had - loftier considerations having been momentarily shelved - become the centre of the universe. As he worked the point gently against his troublesome lobe, the artist acknowledged out loud the truth that he had realised before he'd even sharpened his pencil: "I'm just pissing about, aren't I?" Displacement activity, that's all it had been. He had simply wanted to distract himself from what he knew was coming, to bury the awareness beneath work.

It was a transparent, cheap ploy, he knew, and he felt bad about it. The sad truth was, however, it was - short of facing up to things - all he could think of. And there was no way he intended to face up to things until he absolutely had to. In search of further distraction, he looked at his immediate surroundings. The large living room (he could never bring himself to call it a studio unless he'd had a few and was on the pull) was liberally sprinkled with items deliberately chosen to provide any amount of inspiration.

Peering into the dimness that hemmed in the little cone of light in which he stood, he saw, on an overcrowded mantelpiece, a Popeye the Sailor Man alarm clock. It wasn't the most comforting sight. There was nothing particularly unpleasant about it in and of itself - though perhaps to an aesthete conditioned by the more sophisticated tastes of the early 21st Century, its lurid colours and robust execution may have looked a little crude and tacky. To the artist, it had always seemed rather charming; a bright and kitschy evocation of childhood innocence, and all that.

At least, he'd thought that when he'd bought it from a jumble sale several years ago. A fleeting comment from a friend had changed all that, however. As soon as he'd glanced at the design on the clock's face - a idyllic scene, in which the much-loved mariner and his chums disported themselves in a meadow, he had noticed something that he had pointed out with an eagerness that bordered on the macabre: "It looks like Swee'pea's giving Popeye a hummer." Eight simple words, but they'd tainted the whole business forever. The artist had dismissed his friend's remark at the time, of course, and had resolved to leave the clock where it was (in case, by removing it, he was tacitly admitting the truth of the chap's squalid statement), but once again, he had to admit that he'd had a point: it wasn't just the fact that the baby's head was positioned near the old salt's groin; nor was it that the recumbent Sailor Man wore a blissful expression of nigh-on moronic contentment.

Continued...Next Page (2/7)

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