The Ecliptic by Benjamin Wood

Author:Benjamin Wood [Wood, Benjamin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781471126734
Publisher: Scribner UK

‘Can’t trust a man with letters after his name,’ I said. ‘That’s what my father used to say.’

‘I tell you what—’ Victor clipped his case shut. ‘If you can make it through the next few days without leaping off any skyscrapers, I’ll let you know what they all stand for. Now, can I bank on you to make an appointment?’

At the factory, my mother punched her timecard every morning, then counted down the hours before she got to punch it out again. From the year she left school into her middle fifties, she kept exactly the same job, and if the amount a person complains about her work is an adequate barometer of her satisfaction, then she must have found great joy in it.

At the John Brown & Company yard, my father scorched the skin right off his knuckles daily, caulking ships with men he looked upon as brothers, some of whom he brought back home to share our dinner, some of whom he lent our rainy-day money. He wore down every rung of cartilage in his spine, broke several ribs, developed shin splints, and laboured through the agony, one shift at a time, for measly pay and no assurance of a future.

I admired the doggedness of my parents more than I was ever able to express to them. They grafted to accomplish things for other people, knowing all their hard work would go unseen. My father never felt what it was like to cross the ocean on a vessel he constructed with his friends, nor did he really care to—in his mind, every ship died when it left the yard. My mother never walked the aisles of the department stores that stocked her sewing machines, though she brought home boxes of the reject needles to stitch our curtains and communion dresses for the neighbours’ children.

I cannot say how much of their resolve I managed to inherit. Some days, it felt as though I had been gifted with my father’s vim, and I could stand up at my easel for long periods, forgetting where I was. Other times, I was steeled by my mother’s uncomplaining attitude, and would not let a good idea escape my grasp, even if it took me several weeks to tame it.

But doggedness in art is no substitute for inspiration. The thrill of painting turns so quickly to bewilderment if you let it, and nobody can help you to regain your bearings afterwards. Talent sinks into the lightless depths like so much rope unless you keep firm hold on it, but squeeze too tight and it will just as surely drag you under.

By the summer of 1960, I was unable to determine a clear reason to continue making pictures, aside from the dim hopefulness that kept lifting me from bed at 6 a.m. to try again. The only way to shake off failure, I thought, was by perseverance and hard work, and if I did not rise to paint each morning at my usual hour then I was denying myself another chance to succeed.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.