I’ve not
had many art lessons. The two classes I took with Meriel Gold in the village
hall in Froyle, deep in the Hampshire downs were by far the best.
Meriel Gold
studied with Cecil Collins. At the turn of the 1960s and 1970s, Cecil Collins,
by all accounts a sweet natured and gentle man best known for his mystical
landscapes, invented a revolutionary way of teaching art. His methods were so
bizarre, even by the relaxed standards of the time, that the Central School of
Art in London fired him. His students protested and in those days people took
student protests more seriously than they do now, so Cecil Collins was
reinstated.
The village
of Froyle looks like a Cecil Collins painting. The hall is beside an archetypal
green with cricket sight screens. The instructions were to bring a roll of
wallpaper lining paper. We put it on the table in front of us, and pulled it
like a roller towel when we wanted to begin a new drawing, so that at the end
of the it was curled and tangled around our feet. Meriel suggested we roll it
back up and take it home with us for study. During the tea breaks the models,
who were considered participants like everyone else strode around with an
Edenic splendour that would have made Jean-Jacques Rousseau blush. During
sessions Meriel sometimes asked the models to dance rather than stay in a
conventional pose; we were encouraged to dance as we drew.
My first
class was a disaster, it exposed all my failings and incidentally exposed that
the only qualities that I had as an artist were failings. I think Meriel was
quite surprised that I came to the next one, although she was too polite to say
so. But I had been practicing at home. After the first class, Meriel I had
suggested that if wanted to work at home I should only use real subjects, and
flowers for preference. All the better if the flowers were dying: “capture
their submission” she said with passionate soulfulness which erupted with an
unexpected suddenness from beneath her brisk but jolly English manner.
So I bought
cut flowers and practiced, in spite of being very busy at the time. Meriel’s
methods challenged everything: the way to hold a pencil, which hand you hold it
in. The idea, and this my way of putting it not hers, is to undermine all your
habits, so that you look at the subject and not the drawing. Even with the
practice my next class was scarcely more successful, but at the end of a day,
which at one point had all of us painting with mops with paper on the floor,
there was a shortish still pose as Jean, the model knelt on the floor, her head
bowed, her hands before her cupped open; I splashed with diluted Indian ink on
my wallpaper lining and found an outline with a heavy graphite pencil. The
seesion was over and Mieiel walked around the room to see how everyone had
done, and when she saw my final effort her face lit up. There was still much
work to do (there still is) but I had got it. It was that moment of
transference (in the Zen, rather than the Freudian sense) when master and pupil
are finally on the same page and there is not much more to be said. Jean was
impressed too. It is unusual to have one’s work assessed by someone who is
stark naked. Then Jean got dressed and gave me a ride to the railway station.
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