Eye of an Artist is a work of fiction about a young brilliant, but naive artist, who goes to Portuguese Macau -- south China -- in search of 'roots'. The story begins in a council flat in Peckham, where Jolenta encounters Tom, the pianist, and Kris, the reporter. Meanwhile, octogenarian Cheeki dos Remèdios is the only person willing to talk about the Macanese past. This illustrated novel is funny, tragic, and at times, erotic. Scroll down and read the first 4 pages...
STOP PRESS:
Eye of an Artist, Part One, is available here, and from 25 May 2013 to the end of 29 May 2013, it can be downloaded for FREE. I would value your reviews on Amazon.STOP PRESS:
Click here for a video with 3 short readings
Click here for a culturally relevant link
FICTION OR REALITY? Cheeki was my great aunt and dear to me, but could not remember much at 89 years of age. That's why the book is largely fiction.
FAVORITE READS:
House of Spirits, Isabelle Allende
Confessions of an Unrepentant Short Story Writer by Scott Bradfield
Pitch:
Jolenta goes to Portuguese Macau in search of her roots.The Macanese* people are dwindling in number and Jolenta's family will not talk about the past. Hankering after her ancestry, she visits feisty eighty-nine year old Great Aunty Cheeki dos Remedios in Los Angeles. Thankfully the old lady is willing to talk.
“After the end of Portuguese Macau, all the memories start fading and each time an old person dies is a moment of no return. That's why your interpretation is so valid and useful.” Dr. Jorge Forjaz, author of 'Familias Macaenses'
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* Macanese people of the former Portuguese colony Macau established in 1557, now under SAR [50 year administrative rule to
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Biography:
I worked as a visual artist for 20 years+, lecturing part-time around the UK, working to commission on public art for borough councils and project-managing creative events. My work has been purchased by numerous collections including: VICTORIA & ALBERT MUSEUM | STRANG ROOM COLLECTION, UCL, LONDON [SLADE] | & | GUILDHALL ART GALLERY & LIBRARY | QUEEN’S COLLEGE, NEW YORK | PECKHAM PARTNERSHIP
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Eye of an Artist
Prologue
Before my dream ended, I peered into the drawer of a magnificent, mahogany desk. An atlas of the world lay inside wrapped in tissue paper. It told the story of Portuguese trading posts on exotic coastlines including Macau, the place of my forebears.
Other drawers began to open of their own accord. A butterfly from Hangzhou fluttered out, bringing with it the smell of camphor wood. A Chengdu panda lay curled up in another, dozing quietly, while to the right, a dugong [1] from Malacca raised its wet head for a kiss. I put my arms around it, squeezing its salty mass. Another drawer shuddered open, full of travel. I reached inside and pulled out a blue envelope, postmarked ‘Los Angeles’, which was waiting to be read one more time:
My dear dear Jolly,
It made me happy to get your phone call. You will be glad to know a new pill is working wonders at eighty-nine years of age. I have no fear of death in fact will welcome it. Weather here turned cold. 'Thinking of going to Vancouver in March, the month I can eat mangoes from Manila.
There has never been a doubt in my mind that one day you will become a famous artist.
Great Aunty Cheeki dos Remèdios, you have gone back as dust to the earth, but I will always remember you and the Macanese people.
C H A P T E R 1
IT WAS JUNE NINETEEN EIGHTY-TWO. PECKHAM HIGH STREET WAS a huddle of shops topped off with peppermint green canopies, held down by heavy sunshine. It reminded Jolenta of the painting Sunday Morning by Edward Hopper: a mix of harmony and discord. Except it was Tuesday morning in south London and the street was full of people shopping, loitering, or eating fry-ups. It was a big surprise, Hopper being everywhere. She recognised him in cornices, in lampposts, in shop facades, in social interactions, in the sharp contrast of light and dark, and it made her impatient.
She glanced up for a second -- a pigeon landed on Welch's Florist & Greengrocer, which led to Bellenden Grove -- and watched as a man in Trilby and raincoat emerged. His shadow spread across the white letters: Flowers for All Occasions, and from the window, weighing scales pulsated like an all-seeing-eye over oranges and lemons.
The scene is pure Hopper, too good to be true, she thought.
She was also a good twenty minutes early, being the kind of person who liked to arrive in advance for important occasions. This particular appointment was the most important one yet, about somewhere to live in London. She had dressed for it too: black vintage coat, cotton dress, a necklace of Indian beads, oyster earrings, and bright red lipstick.
As she stood at the corner of Peckham High Street and Melon Road, the more she observed, the more she liked the look of Peckham. Litter stuck to her shoe, cigarette stubs trailed between her feet into a taxi office, oily brown kebab smells blew out over street urine, The Paris Café was blanketed in steam, 8 Tracks & Tapes was all ripped hood with second-hand goods dangling over pavement, pots and pans glinting in the sun. A fur coat and a clump of electrics added to the collection.
How can anyone earn a living inside this gloomy pit, she wondered, peering through the doorway.
She stepped inside 8 Tracks & Tapes, and tightened her eyes until shapes began to form. There were wall clocks with pendulums; tarnished jewellery in glass cases; layers of dust; old radios; and landscape reproductions in trashy frames. Behind the counter, a blonde woman was sitting with an Alsatian dog sprawled out across her feet, and looked about as lively as a jar of cabbage. Only the dog responded by panting.
Perhaps it's a secret gambling den, Jolenta thought. It’s dark enough and when night arrives, Cabbage Face comes alive, fed on a diet of nicotine, vodka and dice, while next door, The Bouncing Ball Reggae Club joins forces, thudding base out into the black sky.
She gave up on the woman, returned to the high street, and walked past an off-licence and a car lot. Traffic milled around a small island at the junction of Queen Street and the Old Kent Road. A shop called Manze's Eel, Pie & Mash Shop stood out, harking back to a London of long ago, ready to tickle bellies with green liquor.
It was now eleven fifty. She had better get a move on.
She hurried back to Melon Road, an alleyway boxed in by high walls and barbed wire, and told herself not to worry. He was sure to like her.
There’s The Alliance, the landmark Margo mentioned, she murmured. She was in the right place then.
She gave up on the woman, returned to the high street, and walked past an off-licence and a car lot. Traffic milled around a small island at the junction of Queen Street and the Old Kent Road. A shop called Manze's Eel, Pie & Mash Shop stood out, harking back to a London of long ago, ready to tickle bellies with green liquor.
It was now eleven fifty. She had better get a move on.
She hurried back to Melon Road, an alleyway boxed in by high walls and barbed wire, and told herself not to worry. He was sure to like her.
There’s The Alliance, the landmark Margo mentioned, she murmured. She was in the right place then.
Jolenta entered an empty courtyard named SUMNER ROAD ESTATE, LONDON BOROUGH OF SOUTHWARK, and found herself confronted by layers of balconies, a motorbike, and punctured tyres. She took a staircase to the left. Number thirty-three was a corner property on the third landing. It had a plain door with a peephole and letterbox. A cable had been tied to pipes to form a line for laundry. Jolenta took a deep breath and knocked. A slender man in grey opened up.
“Hello. I'm Tom,” he said, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. “How do you do? Come in. Lunch is ready.”
The most immediate thing about him as far as Jolenta was concerned, was his appearance, a surprising contrast of the feminine and masculine, with soft white skin -- an albino peach or a baby’s skin came to mind -- and a heavy fringe over black glasses with a strong chin. His accent startled her too. It was a voice full of privilege: May I take your coat? Margo speaks highly of you, while her own voice spilled out northern working class undulations, lacking weight and vocabulary. She listened to the dullness of her vowels. They had never sounded so pathetic.
Tom smiled broadly and ushered her into the living room. He whisked off her coat and pointed to a chair by a polished table. He asked about her journey and declared lunch ready. The ‘interview’ lunch had begun.
Tom dashed to the kitchen, moving swiftly between the rooms with a tea towel draped over his arm. In a matter of minutes, he leant over Jolenta, held out ivory dishes, and laid them down. She studied a network of cracks in the bowls.
“I’ve made a cheese soufflé with salad and a strawberry meringue for dessert,” he declared, every word pronounced with the clarity of an Oxford don.
Jolenta stared at him, and then at the food. She had never met anyone like him in her entire life, and was terrified.
Oh, my childhood, she gasped inwardly, unhappy meal times of Spam and fatty meat that made me gag, a kitchen out of bounds too damp for shelves, everything piled onto one Formica table...
“Would you like some salad dressing? I used walnut oil,” Tom said cheerfully.
“Walnut oil?,” Jolenta echoed.
She resumed the inner horror of life as she knew it: No fridge, the oven roof collapsed onto my mince pies the one time I tried to bake. Everything tinned: tinned peas, tinned peaches, tinned milk. What do I do with a soufflé?, she thought, torturing herself. Eat it in the dish or spoon it out next to the salad? Mother never passed on any English tradition. A man who makes meringue, is that possible? And what's filter coffee?
She made sure not to dribble or spill any food. Tom helped himself to potato salad with red onion, tomatoes and fresh oregano, and poured vinaigrette over lettuce. Every time she took a sideways glance at him, he radiated goodwill and impeccable manners, while she found herself begrudging him his juicy red strawberries.
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Works of art mentioned in the book exist. They were purchased by public or private collections many years ago. I'll get specific links later... when the curators decide to do put them online...!
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