Sinister: sad eyed lady of the lowlands

[andrew thorpe]

Paint takes an awfully long time to dry, and isn’t that fun to watch, so 
while it does I thought I’d take this opportunity to write to you.

How are you this autumn morning?

I am in good spirits.  I woke up this morning and leaped from my bed, to my 
surprise, with an eagerness I haven’t felt for a long while and at a 
shockingly early time.  10 o’clock may not sound like a time that would 
prompt phases such as “the early bird catches the worm!” from passers by 
with little else to do but quote useless axioms, but for me, on a Saturday 
morning it is quite unbelievable that I’d be in any state other then 
slumber.  For the past couple of months I’ve been finding it very hard to 
sleep, even more so then usual.  Recently the only way I’ve manage to break 
down the barrier of my endless consciousness is to turn to a rather vulgar 
stereotype.  However according to this computer it was 11:02 when I started 
writing.  Normally I’m still twisted inside my sweat soaked bed sheets - not 
up, out of bed, fully dressed, with caffeine pumping through my veins half 
way through an essay.

Ok, that’s not entirely true – my essay only measures three paragraphs, but 
three great paragraphs!  Sentence after sentence that have an almost poetic 
beauty, a fine, superb introduction, the reader is instantly hooked, their 
attention is fixed, you want to find out more.  No!  You need to find out 
more (which is quite an amazing feat as the essay is comparing the work of 
the Italian Expressionist Painter and Sculptor Amedeo Modigliani (who 
according to microsoft word doesn’t exist, seeing as how his name is now 
adored with a red squiggly line) (1884-1920) and Louis Corinth, who so far I 
know little of, apart from that he’s painted a very nice postcard which has 
been stuck to my bedroom wall for many years, although I hope by the time I 
reach the end of the essay that will have changed).  Yet still it is only an 
introduction.  It seems that there is only 626 words inside of me that can 
say about Modigliani and Corinth, that I have already exhausted all possibly 
avenues of interest within three paragraphs, that I have run out of ideas, 
out of ink.  I hate writing, and yes I’m aware of the irony saying that 
through a letter!  I suppose I just hate art history, or ‘contextual 
studies’ as my college prefers to call it, don’t ask me why.  True, it does 
have its advantages, I once impressed a girl by telling her about the effect 
Ancient Greek sculpture has had on modern society, that the reason we all 
strive, some more actively and successfully then others, to this one shape, 
to this one ideal can be traced directly back to Ancient Greek sculpture.  
But I don’t think it really impressed her all that much, and it’s far more 
possible that my art history lecturer was talking a load bollocks and 
consequently I was to her, and she knew it.

But even though I have only managed a few paragraphs I suppose it’s better 
then being at collage, where each and every day seems to be a plaster cast 
of the one before.  Or at least it always feels like it in the morning.  I 
arrive in to collage at half eight, stroll through corridors, past the 
library and down to the cafeteria, where I purchase a disgustingly tasting 
and priced coffee for half an hour until I climb the cold stone staircase to 
the studio, where I wait to be patronised and bored till five o’clock, the 
only variety seem to be in which book I pick up from my bedroom floor to 
gulp down with my coffee.  Unfortunately over the past two months there was 
been an unpleasant addition to this harmless routine.  Each morning my 
bitter coffee is interrupted by the banal chatter of a history student.  The 
girl in question is a greasy Goth that as kind friend pointed out, most 
likely has a crush on me.  But I suspect the only reason she comes up to my 
table in the morning, interrupting me from my cup of coffee and book, is 
that she thinks I’m ‘cool’ whatever that is.  I think she like the fact that 
I’ve read Russian literature, that I’m an art student, that I have long hair 
(well long for a boy) wear clothes which differ from the almost regulation 
Reebok and Nike outfits of the collage, listen to bands which she has never 
heard of, can often appear be having vicious arguments about Marxism, 
globalisation, and other things which she recognises the words of yet knows 
little about, and even for my almost constant sarcasm.  Maybe its because I 
can’t take a compliment, or that I at least don’t know how to react to one, 
but she really annoys me, especially when I start to think about it.  She 
ambushed me again on Friday, while I was having my lunch, she talked a lot, 
I didn’t, like most of the conversations I’m unfortunate enough to have with 
her, and then she fixed me with a quizzical stare and asked me if I was gay. 
  I haven’t laughed so long and hard in a very long time.  She couldn’t see 
what was so funny though.  From what I remember, I don’t think I actually 
answered her, but I think she got my message.  Thinking about it again, I’m 
tempted to say yes.  I’m glad I didn’t give her a proper answer, that I 
remained ambiguous.  I can see why she might think such a thing; I suppose 
to certain people I could appear to have an effeminate manner.  I’m not a 
lad, and I hope I never become one.  I like music, I like poetry, I like 
art!  I can some times come across as condescending - as bitchy.  I have 
long hair, which my college buddy jokes that it makes me look like a girl, 
and she knows (a mistake on my part, forgetting to think before I open my 
mouth) I’ve just come out of a long relationship that I refuse to talk 
about, and is complicated, which she will no doubt hear as ‘complicated’.  I 
find it offensive though that someone’s sexuality, someone’s identity can be 
determined from a minor list of superficial details.  But the reason I don’t 
mind her thinking I’m gay, is not because she might now leave me alone 
(although I can’t deny it is an advantage, but I hope I would never do 
something so vulgar on purpose) or that I am secretly - it is because I’m 
not gay, it is because I’m straight.  If she believes I’m something I’m not, 
if she thinks this, if she knows this then she doesn’t know me.  She will 
then, and presumably the rest of the college in a few days time, only know a 
lie, like or hate a lie, but not me.  I will merely turn into a figment of 
her imagination.

Goodness, this is becoming very self-indulgent and absurd.  Maybe it’s the 
Bob Dylan I’m listening to, but I doubt it.  Don’t you think Just Like A 
Women, and Sad Eyed Lady OF The Lowlands are just simply  beautiful songs?  
Although I must admit that at 11.20 mins ‘Sad Eyed Lady’ does get a bit a 
repetitive, but it is still wonderful.  Listening to songs like that makes 
me want to be able to play the guitar even more, its like this tremendous 
itch I want to, no, need to scratch but can’t.  I’ve been listening to 
Blonde on Blonde quite a lot recently; I even slipped a quick sketch of the 
record sleeve into one of my sketchbooks.  I’d gambled on the top honcho of 
the department having good taste, like stereotypical art lovers should, and 
he’d be less harsh to one of his own kind, but if he did recognise it (as my 
parents both did) he didn’t show it (as he didn’t make fun of me for it as 
my parents both did).  It was part of a last ditch attempt to bulk up my 
portfolio for Assessment, if any scrap of paper with the slightest scrawl on 
it came within my eyesight I stuck it in.  Assessment was last week, it last 
all week long – everyone is interviewed, our work is reviewed, we’re marked, 
and if it isn’t all there, or if it isn’t good enough you’re out.  My 
interview was at 1.00 p.m. on Friday, it was late in the week as we were in 
alphabetical order, for the first time in my life I’d been truly thankful my 
surname is Thorpe.  All week I’ve been working my balls off, trying to get 
everything done, trying to get it good enough.  But I’d been working for the 
past 3 months, since college started, trying to do this, and I knew I 
couldn’t turn everything around in a week, but I kept on trying to.  By 1.00 
I hadn’t finished everything.  I had the interview; I’m not sure how it went 
though.  I hadn’t had time to arrange any of my work in any sort of order, 
but it seem that must of my drawing and painting work was at the top of my 
portfolio (there are four sections – drawing + painting, ideas, 3D, and 
another which is sort of like textiles but isn’t).  They were very 
complimentary of my drawing and painting, especially my life studies.  But I 
never know who to take compliments, from anyone, I never know who to 
respond, and I never know how sincere they are being, as they never seem to 
be sincere at all.  I noticed though they, my lecturers, said less the 
further we got through my portfolio, I hoped it didn’t mean anything.  They 
then started to ask me questions, about my work, which is quite easy to 
comment on (there is only one way to comment on it after all), and well art 
in general.  I have lots of ideas, lots of opinions, but when I speak, 
especially in situations like this I suddenly have no opinions, and 
certainly no conviction.  Once I got started, it was ok.  I was standing up, 
they were all sitting down, which was quite weird, I’m sure all the other 
students had a chair.  I considered sitting on the floor but I thought it 
wouldn’t make the right impression.  The only real problem came when I’d got 
have way though my answer and realised I’d only heard half the question.  I 
was talking about contemporary artists at one point, only to realise that 
both artist I had started to talk about were dead.  Anyway I got through, 
everyone got through.  Sometimes I wonder why I worry so.

Well I reckon the paint will be dry by now.

Cheerio


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