I have the first of my planned oak tree paintings accepted by Patchings Gallery, and subsequently sold to an internet friend in Canada. So that's one piece shown last year at Thoresby, and one this year at Patchings. Promising!
All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
Grandpa
The boy craned over the top of the old sewing machine which always stood in front of the sitting room window, obstructing his view of the garden gate beyond, looking to see if the old man had yet arrived. It was Sunday. The old man always came on Sundays, in his Grey Morris Minor with chrome detailing, and orange indicators that flipped out from the sides like flags.
The boy would retain no memory of the old man actually inside the house, only outside, alighting from the car, pipe in hand, a distinctive yellow cravat about his neck. Neither would there be any memory of words the old man might have spoken, apart just the once:
“Little boys should not make a noise when they’re eating”.
The boy had been sure he hadn’t made any such noise, but the pressure of being told not to do so made it hard to balance the pees on the fork. And there were other rules when visiting the old man’s house, like “little boys should not make a noise when old men are sleeping”. There could be consequences.
And yet the old man’s name would be invoked every Christmas Eve, his birthday, and be spoken of as a Saint. A onetime St John’s ambulance driver, the mender of miners’ bodies broken by machines.
Time passes.
The boy strained to see the old man tied at the waste into a hospital armchair; no chrome detailing; no orange indicators sticking out from the sides; no pipe, no yellow cravat. The old man wanted to go home to die, but the rope prevented him from either attempting the journey or simply falling out.
All text copyright ian g craig