A Spanish Picture Story - Every Picture tells a Story - Stuart Raine
October 2010
It was a warm summer, that summer in Spain. Unusually hot even for southern Europe and the thousands of tourists were feeling the heat as temperatures soared towards the high 90s by the middle of the day. Certainly not days for too much sightseeing, although along with some mad dogs, several English visitors were braving the streets to take in all that the country had to offer.
‘What do you think it is supposed to be?’ Daniel asked, his voice tired after the three galleries they had visited that morning full of works of art he was supposed to show his knowledge and appreciation about. Particularly if he wanted to impress Amy, the first year art student from America whom he had met at college that year. But enough was becoming enough: he had struggled in the last gallery to dredge up from the recesses of his mind some half-understood information from lectures on 17th century art and the Rococo period. And now here was this piece of early 20th century abstract art and he realised that Amy was gazing at it, obviously enthralled by the vibrant colours and the textures of this huge piece of canvas.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Amy’s voice was deadpan Virginian drawl as she desperately tried to hide the smile that came annoyingly to her lips. She turned her head slightly away so that Daniel would not see the naughty school girl twinkle in her eye.
‘Well. Yes. Obvious. Colourful. Interesting texture.’ Daniel was really struggling. Medieval and early Renaissance was fine, but the lectures hadn’t got to modernists like Picasso and the early 20th century movements so there were no lecture notes to fall back on. ‘Quite a sympathetic face, really. And that red circle with the black centre suggests the stereotypical female gender motif.
Amy successfully hid a chuckle. Why didn’t this man admit he hadn’t a clue and stop trying to impress her with his knowledge of art? After all, they had both been to some of the same lectures and she remembered them rather better than he clearly did. He didn’t have to impress her: she already liked him for what he was.
‘I think it’s a female dragon by the seaside at night made of different coloured straws and petals to suggest an ancient fertility symbol representing the hope of the renewal of mother earth each year.’ This was she hoped a deliberately provocative statement to make him laugh. But instead they both heard a voice.
‘A Female dragon? Do you mind? What a load of rubbish you have just spouted? I’m actually guarding a magic doorway.’
The two young people looked at each other. Amy assumed that Daniel was now trying to impress her with a ventriloquist performance. Daniel assumed . . . well, he didn’t know what to assume because the voice certainly wasn’t anything like Amy’s southern states American accent he had grown to like.
‘Yeah, a magic doorway. That’s cool.’ Daniel thought he had better show his quiet-male-toughness-not-phased-by-anything stance.
‘Well, if you reach up and push that black centre in the red circle you so ludicrously described a few moments ago you might see that you are wrong and I am right.’
Now Daniel might be well over six foot but even he had to jump further than he had ever jumped to reach the black centre and push. But he managed it somehow, all the time hoping that his athleticism would make up for any lack of awareness of 20th century art movements. And as he touched the black centre, something amazing happened. Hardly had his feet touched the ground and he had grabbed Amy’s arm to steady himself, than the legs of the creature parted and there was a doorway, just as they had been told.
‘Now, open the door and step inside.’ The creature’s voice was half laughing and half threatening and for the first time the two young people notice a rather sharp set of white teeth sticking out under the purple muzzle.
This was not the time to be faint-hearted. Faint heart never won fair lady, thought Daniel and so he turned the handle of the door, pushed it open and drew Amy inside with him.
The door slammed shut behind: it was very dark compared to the brightness of a Spanish summer noontime. And when they adjusted to the gloom and recovered from their surprise they realised that it was not midday but twilight. The sun was setting and against a glorious sunset was the silhouette of a windmill, not here in Spain but back home in England, in Essex where Daniel lived. It was a windmill that had always fascinated him as a boy but one that he had never been inside since it was always fenced off and, he had been told, was in a dangerous state of repair. But now the two advanced mesmerised by the scene, seemingly unafraid and gaining strength from each other.
At the foot of the windmill they stopped. The sun was even lower beneath the horizon that when they had first seen the mill and it was virtually pitch dark. A gentle breeze rustled the trees that had not completely shed their autumn leaves and somewhere in the distance they could hear the hoot of an owl. Suddenly the sails began to creek. Slowly at first and then gradually increasing in speed.
Daniel hoped that Amy could not feel the trembling of his hands: Amy hoped that he couldn’t see the beads of perspiration that began to dampen her brow. And then the door of the mill started to open. They had been frozen to the ground, but somehow found the courage or foolhardiness to move forward. Move forward into the widening gap made by the door and into the blinding light beyond. And in the light she looked down at her hand. It was intertwined with his to the extent that she couldn’t tell which were her fingers and which were his. Their hands were as one: fused together as a pulse seemed to thrill every fibre of her body and she knew . . .
‘Oh, Grandma, did you really know then that he was the love of your life. Surely it was a dream?’
Amy leant back in her chair and smiled at the young girl sitting on the floor at her knees looking into the fire banked up high to warm the room and keep out the winter chill.
‘Was it a dream, dear? You tell me! To me it was real, but yes, I looked down at our hands and felt that pulse and I knew, knew for certain, that we were made for each other and that our love would last a lifetime. You’ll know that same feeling someday I hope.'
‘And is that why Grandpa painted that awful picture? You know the one that everybody says looks like a multi-coloured dragon made out of straw and grass and says ought not to see the light of day let alone hang in the lounge over the fire place!’
‘Quiet, dear, someone will hear you. But yes, that’s why and now if you don’t mind we’ll go and find your grandfather and drag him away from his studio.’
And so they went to the studio in the neatly restored windmill to find him.