Now Where Is He? (I.P.)

Now Where Is He? (I.P.)

“I’m off now, love. I don’t suppose I’ll be long but if I’m not back in time, put my dinner in the oven.” With that John closed the door and walked down the path leading from his house to the track he needed to follow.

“John, John…you’re not off out again. I thought you would give me a hand to clean this place up a bit, the whole house is a tip.” But there was no answer so Maria tut- tutted to herself as she realized her husband had gone.

That is so typical of him she thought. Here I am, left with all the children to look after, the dinner to cook and the house to clean while he’s out gallivanting. Self! Self! Self! I’d like the chance to take myself off and sit in the sun.

Meanwhile, John was battling with his own problems. He was struggling to carry everything he needed and he still had a fair old walk to get to Dedham Vale. First, his easel kept slipping then he nearly lost his palette and twice he’d dropped all his brushes.

That aside, one couldn’t move for artists all with the same idea, all making towards the same destination and all no doubt intent on getting the best positions. He jostled and pushed with the best of them till he got where he wanted to be. Yes, from here he could see Dedham Vale but that was not what he was here for. No, today was to be a day devoted to cloud formations.

He had left home this morning because the sky was suitably overcast and so was perfect for his purpose. He set up his easel, sat down on his little canvas stool and worked up the colours on his palette before finally giving his brushes the once over. With mounting excitement and anticipation of what awaited his glorious talent he glanced up expecting to see at least one or two fine examples from each of the four main groups.

F*** me, he said to himself, the bloody sun’s come out and there’s not a cloud in the sky. I’ve just lugged this lot all the way from home, fell over no end of lesser artists, jostled for position and just when I’m about to start painting, would you believe, the sun’s made a late appearance and cumulus, stratus, nimbus and cirrus as they like to be known, have done a bunk. He was tired from his journey so he cast about looking for a subject that he could paint now that he was here.

He saw a women of very ample proportions bending over her pet dog. For two pins, I’d paint that woman’s fat arse, he thought to himself but,lucky for us,he didn’t have two pins so that is why The National Gallery does not have a work entitled 'Fat Arsed Woman on a Fine Day' exhibited with his other works.

So, thoroughly fed up, he thought he might as well return home...though if Maria started going on at him about the kids or the house or him not pulling his weight then he would just have to make some excuse and get himself out of there sharpish. Shouldn’t be too difficult, he could say he had to paint something on the hurry up for the Royal Academy.

These days, The Royal Academy would hang more or less any old thing. It didn’t really matter what the subject was so long as it was considered suitable by the hanging committee. John always imagined them sitting in judgement on a painting with a judge’s black cap on as they sentenced it to obscurity. So why not try to paint something that the Royal Academy would accept. Turner had been getting away with second rate stuff for years so, he reasoned, why not me too? There must be something I could paint that the hanging Committee would consider.

Even before Turner old, Sir Sloshua Reynolds, as he was known in the trade, had kept them well supplied with a load of old masters as long as each piece had a classical reference in the title such as The Three Graces or The Muse, in fact anything that sounded remotely classical could be sure of a hanging. Come to think of it, old Sloshua hadn’t done too bad for himself either.

Then there was his old mucker, Gainsborough, bit older than himself but he was another one who fell on his feet with that Andrews family. Though John had his suspicions about that because it would come as no surprise to him to learn that Gainsborough, the dirty old sod, had sampled a bit of ‘how’s your father’ with Mrs A, judging by the smirk on her face. Enigmatic they call it! Enigmatic my arse, thought John, it’s obvious by her face he’s been giving her one!

By this time John had not only packed up all his equipment but was almost home. On reaching it he opened the front door, in olden days it wasn’t necessary to lock your front door, no, that only became necessary when council houses started to be built but that was of no concern to him because they were still a goodly time away.

“Honey, I’m home,” he yelled once inside.

“‘Bout bloody time,” said his wife, standing with legs akimbo. Well, Akimbo had never come back for them so why not use them Maria thought to herself.

“Hello darling, how’s your day been so far?” he enquired cheerfully.

“How’s my day been? You’ve got the blooming nerve to stand there asking me how my blessed day’s been? How do you think it’s been? You did a quick step out of here this morning with not a thought for me. You left me with all the kids to look after, the dinner to cook and the house to clean and now you waltz in here and have the brass neck to ask me that?”

“So, apart from that, you’ve had a good day then?”

He went to walk in to the drawing room, though he never understood why his wife called it that because he never did any drawing in there. The light was too bad.

“Don’t make yourself too comfortable, now you’re back, you can give me a hand.”

“Sorry love, no can do, I’ve got to go and work in my studio now because I’ve still got clouds to sort out.”

“Oh, yes, there’s always something with you. I thought when we met and you said you was a painter I imagined that at least I would always have a nice bright scullery! But no…and then there’s the outside privy, now that could do with a lick!”

“I’ve told you before I’m not that sort of painter. My work hangs in The National Gallery!”

“And mine hangs on the line outside in the yard, so what!”

“I’ve got an idea, how about I take you to the theatre tonight? Will that go some way towards making it up to you, my sweet?”

“Well…it might,” said Maria, relenting just a little. “What’s on?”

“HMS Pinafore!”

“I’ll bloody swing for you,” she said chasing him round the chaise longue but he was too quick for her.

“Okay, what about if we take the kids to Wivenhoe Park? You would like that…what do you say?”

“Yes, all right,”

“Good, I’ll just get my easel and stuff, won’t be a mo.”

“Oh no, you’re not bringing all that stuff with you. Not if it’s supposed to be a day out for the kids.”

“I have to work, my petal, and I really must sketch or paint some clouds. I need them for my next piece.”

“Clouds, bloody clouds, that’s all I ever hear about these days. It was just the same when you were on the wagon.”

“When you say ‘on the wagon’ my dear, are you making reference to 'The Hay Wain' one of my most acclaimed pieces of work?”

“Acclaimed it might be but did it put food on the table? No. The only time my poor kids see a bit of fruit is when you’re doing a still life. I tell you I’m proper fed up with it. If people only knew what I had to put up with, why only the other day I bumped in to Mrs Turner and she said to me,

‘I don’t know how you manage with all those children and a painter for a husband. It wouldn’t be so bad if he was a painter and decorator but he’s just like my old man, he won’t get his hands dirty either. You should see the state of our outside privy. I’ve been on to him for months but all I get is he’s got a rush job on for the Royal Academy.’

Then I told her how, rather than give our privy a lick of paint you suggested hanging one of your paintings in there to brighten it up.”

“’What did you say to that?’ she said.”

“Well, just as long as it’s not that blooming monstrosity ‘The Lock’. Of all John’s paintings that has to be the worst, I can’t stand the thing.”

“Thank you, sweetness, for that recommendation. You are far too generous with your praise.”

“Well, it’s no secret that I’m not fond of your paintings. They look all right from a distance, I suppose, but up close you can see there’s paint on ‘em.”

“Yes, my beloved, I can see why that would offend. Shall I get some paint stripper and turn 'The Lock' back into a blank canvas and then I’ll offer it to The National Gallery with the title ‘No Oil On Canvas’. How would that suit you, my precious?”

“You can be such a sarcastic sod.”

“One does one’s best.”

“Actually, thinking about it, the privy does seem to be the ideal place to hang your work because all our friends know about your drink problem. So, not only are you a piss artist but you’re a crap painter as well so the Privy would seem to be the perfect location to exhibit your work especially that monstrosity ‘The Lock’.

“Mock all you like but one day that painting will be worth millions.”

“In your dreams, sunshine!’

Eventually, the warring couple died and are in Heaven sitting on separate clouds, Constable is moaning to the heavenly bodies sharing his cloud.

“This is just so typical when I needed a cloud could one be found? No. But I see there’s no shortage up here. See, it’s not what you know…It’s who you know.” Suddenly a newcomer arrives on the cloud. Next thing Constable calls excitedly to his wife.

“Maria, Maria,” She didn’t hear him at first because she was further away…on cloud nine!

“You’ll never guess, I’ve just heard my painting ‘The Lock’ has just sold for £22.4 million pounds. What do you say to that, my sweet?”

“Heavenly Father, Can't you get him in to therapy? He’s delusional again!”

End

John Constable’s painting ‘The Lock’ has not long been sold for £22.4 million pounds