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Editorial

12th November 2017

As somebody who's spent the last few months looking at creative work inspired by roads,The Open Road was always going to be an interesting brief, promising as it does a wide variety of interpretations, and I was excited to see that several of the entries took the theme in an unexpected direction (pun unintended!).

One of the most eye-catching interpretations of the theme was Entry 2830: The Navajo Legacy which touched on some painfully timely themes of choice and political action, whilst also connecting with the culturally laden touchstone of Roswell. I was also drawn to Entry 2823: The Open Road, a story of personal liberation and bravery set in a very contemporary environment. As with Entry 2830, I welcomed the wider resonance of this story, particularly in today's political and cultural environment. The idea of the open road, for me, always has to reach somewhere beyond the apparent limit of the story, and I felt that both Entry 2830 and Entry 2823 did this with success.

The other entry which caught my eye was Entry 2822, a poem which sang into some tight, vivid imagery. Lines like 'cellophaned bunches of flowers' were handled well. I also enjoyed the dense yet acute imagery in the final stanzas of this piece. I returned to this poem several times to let myself fully understand and start to come to terms with the amibiguity and depth to some of the moments; a welcome task!

I was immediately drawn to Entry 2819: Sometimes A Car Crashes and Nothing Else is Near and for me, this was a clear and definite winner. Sometimes when it comes to writing, less is more and the appealing tightness of this poem, with its self-contained stories and imagery, was hard to deny. The characterisation of space within the poem was well done, contrasting the idea of the intimate space inside a car with the wider locations of the service station and the 'tidy hedge'. I particular enjoyed the final stanza: 'The rear light of a small family / car flickering through the gap, / a tiny hedge' and how it engaged both a sense of visual movement but also time.

My congratulations to everyone who submitted work! Reading your entries was a stimulating and interesting experience and I'm pleased to have been able to to do so!

Bio:

Daisy Johnson is a writer, researcher and a librarian and also the current A14 'Writer In Residence', at the Institute of Continuing Education at the University of Cambridge. Along with writing her own work inspired by the landscape, Daisy is looking for people with their stories to tell about the road, whether they're real, fictional, poetic, or avant-garde performance poetry... You can find her online at http://didyoueverstoptothink.wordpress.com and more about the A14 project at https://www.facebook.com/groups/A14stories

Ephemera

My Masterpiece

The oil painting of sunflowers was radiant with brilliant yellow strokes resembling the sunflowers in my garden. Ten tall stems with with large flower heads attracted birds and insects. I was roused to embrace a celebrated mood because I could finally do a painting of these flowers just like Vincent Van Gogh who painted them using vibrant chrome yellow. But I won't make the same mistake that he did when he used white pigments to lighten the yellow that eventually turned to brown. Surely there were better quality of oil paints today than in the 19th century. All I was thinking was to go out to the garden, cut some sunflowers, place the tall stems in a glass vase and start painting. But first, I had to go out to buy milk and eggs. When I returned home, I saw no sight of my sunflowers!

I called my son, John who rushed to my house. I had to make chamomile tea to calm my nerves. I offered him a cup and began telling him what transpired last year after his father's death. I recalled very clearly the morning when a heavy downpour did not stop me from making an appointment with an art tutor. Alan was a retiree just like me but I knew nothing about him apart from that. My wet shoes squeaked as I rang the doorbell of his art studio.

I tried to make a good impression on Alan. I had my floral dress with lace collar pressed with a borrowed iron, got my hair permed and, dyed black. I had painted my thin lips with a rosy hue to make me look youthful but I could do nothing about my wrinkled face. My petite body and slightly hunched shoulders did garner unwanted attention from strangers who thought of me as a helpless old woman. I didn't want Alan to think of me as one either.

I wanted to learn about composition, texture, colour, light so I could produce an oil painting like Van Gogh. Alan was surprised that I only wanted to learn to paint sunflowers. His composed face made him look younger although his shoulder length hair was grey. Alan showed me a workbench yet I eyed the easels with mounted canvases. He handed me a charcoal pencil and a drawing paper.

'Mastering an oil painting takes years but if you're only interested in painting sunflowers, I could certainly instruct you but first, let's see you sketch some sunflowers for me.' He left me alone to draw sunflowers using my imagination.

Framed works of minimalist paintings hung on the four walls of the studio. Large glass windows let in the morning sunlight after the rain had washed the broad streets. Some of the window glass pieces were in shades of red, blue and green. The beautiful architecture of the front studio connected with the landscape. Through a glass window, I saw maple trees shedding their leaves and standing naked while the ground was scattered with yellow, red and orange leaves while some were turning brown. Raindrops and dew on the leaves would make a perfect canvas but I stubbornly devoted my heart in painting sunflowers.

Several art students were working on a still art arrangement of green wine bottles, a glass bowl of black grapes and, a white linen napkin. Soon they left after picking up their coats and umbrellas. Only Alan and I were left in the studio with an instrumental music playing softly in the background. I concentrated fully on my sketch. Working on this art was like a therapy as I could keep loneliness at bay. Being a widow was not easy for me as I missed my husband.

Alan lifted his round rim glasses to his forehead and said, 'Are these sunflowers? They look more like daisies to me.' He heaved a sigh and said, 'Come back on Saturday at sharp 9.00am, not a minute late.' I was kind of perplexed because I still had half an hour more. He apologised saying he had to close early and asked me to bring a bouquet of sunflowers next week if they're still available in fall. I heard him say under his breath that daisies cannot bloom into sunflowers in a day or ever. I walked out as gracefully as I could. I contemplated on quiting but I was determined to learn.

It was weeks before I could actually master drawing sunflowers that looked "alive" with their own characteristics and I loved the ones that tilted their flower heads to soak up golden rays of light. I also fancied the flowers that drooped shyly. I admired the pencil sketches but I could not wait to paint.

One evening when I stepped into his studio, I noticed that all the framed paintings were missing from sight. I closed my eyes and imagined the minimalist painting of squares of different sizes and lines on the bare wall. I startled when I saw just one easel in the studio and there were boxes piled at one corner. I thought Alan might be redecorating his studio.

'I'm ready to paint in oil,' I said.
'Yes, I think you are.' he said and led me to an easel with a white canvas. There were tubes of Ultramarine Blue, Cadmium Yellow, Titanium White and Burnt Sienna alongside turpentine, palette and paint brushes. Using a charcoal pencil, I sketched the sunflowers that I've mastered. I was excited in doing my first painting.

After instructing me on painting in oil, he said, 'I'm afraid this will be our last class.' I was dumbfounded.
I fumbled, 'I've not even started painting yet and even if I do, I won't be able to finish my painting.'
'Girl, sorry..Freda, tell me what you see outside.'
There was a blanket of snow, rows of trees dressed in snow and a Christmas tree adorned in lights. A family strolling by with their hands full of shopping bags. I didn't describe what I saw instead I waited for him to continue.
'I miss that!'
'You miss snow?'
'No, I miss my family in London. I'm closing my studio to be with them.'
My eyes once again glanced at the almost empty studio. I asked him, 'Are you not coming back?'
'Yes, I've sold my studio. I'm sorry. I'll refund your money!'
We said our farewells. I did not paint that day! I felt the biting cold wintry weather as I lumbered along the snowy street with a heavy heart.

In spring, I received a delivery from a florist here in Manchester. They were sunflowers from Alan with a message saying: 'When you've finished your masterpiece, let me know. I would like to exhibit your work at my studio.' My eyes welled in tears and my legs sprang to twirl around.

John interrupted my thoughts, 'Did you call me over to tell me your sunflowers were gone? I left my job because I thought that something dreadful happened .. I thought you had hurt yourself!' He did not stop but continued nagging for the next two minutes.

I stared blankly at him.
'Someone stole my sunflowers!'
'So, what's the big deal?'
'Stealing a million pieces of my heart!'

John felt sorry for me and comforted me. We went out together to the garden.
'Are you making a police report?' I asked.
He scratched his head and said sheepishly, 'If that makes you happy, mama.'
'Mama, why do you love sunflowers very much?'
'The best thing that ever happened in my life is your father. He always got me sunflowers. He left me a letter saying that even when he was gone, he would still be here in spirit in the presence of sunflowers!'

I stood in admiration of a painting at an art gallery in London. It wasn't as good as Van Gogh's Sunflowers but I felt it was a masterpiece, my one and only love-abiding work.