The White of the Canvas

by Richie Billing

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

After I’d worked my way through them all, I followed signs leading upstairs and there found more pictures: a tough-looking man beside a snooker table; a bleak block of flats; wooden huts upon a dark and eerie beach; an old man exhaling cigarette smoke into the camera. He reminded him of my granddad, a man who had delighted in every pull, even as the cancer killed him.

I came to a series of pictures hanging from the ceiling showing young boys and girls holding sticks. The girls, I noticed, held sticks no bigger than themselves. The boys were dwarfed by theirs. It brought back a memory of fighting with a dog over the most unwieldy stick in Croxteth Park. The dog won.

From there I went up another level and came to three canvases covered in a rage of colour, shapes abstract. I could make neither head nor tail of the first two, but in the final one saw the outline of a head and upper body. A red mist covered it, punctuated by circles of yellow. It almost looked like somebody being shot.

Beside those pictures hung more canvases, backgrounds white and covered in shapes like spirographs. I became lost in the dazzling intricacies of the patterns, seeing shapes within them. I thought I was losing it. I rubbed my eyes, yet they remained. When I changed angle, they disappeared.

I returned to the ground level, intending to go back to my room but an urge to look at the pictures of the Salvation Army gripped me. As I had before, I went along each one, noticing details I hadn’t seen earlier. After I’d looked at them all, I sat down on the floor, back to a pillar, and continued to gaze. I couldn’t say why I found them so alluring. Was it because I recognised the places? Knew how it felt to be there? Or was it how they encouraged me to think?

Dreams did not often visit my sleep. That night they did. I waded through a mire of darkness, feet and legs sinking ever deeper. Over my head flew the pictures I’d admired earlier, zipping by and disappearing into the gloom. A light flashed, white and blinding, leaving a horizontal scar in the void. It widened, and from it came a sound. Metallic. Like a shutter opening...

The sound ringing in my ears was like a jolt from a defibrillator. I scrambled to my feet, crossed the room as light began to pour in. I made it to the stairwell door, took the steps two at a time. When I got to the first floor, I realised I’d forgotten my bag. Chance going back and getting caught, or leave it? And still chance getting caught.

I hurried back, trying to make as little sound as possible. I heard the rumble of voices beyond the door. I grabbed my bag and shot back upstairs. What would they do if they saw a homeless man living in their art gallery? I expected they’d do what anyone else would do: call the police, who would remove me, one way or another.

My room no longer felt like the sanctuary it once was. Whenever I heard an unrecognisable sound, I hurried to the door to listen for anyone coming; I was becoming a paranoid mess. For a time I settled, back to the door, and thoughts returned to the pictures and paintings. I’d enjoyed art at high school, even after Mr. Wilson had rubbed out all my work and branded me hopeless. As a youngster, I’d spent many of my days scribbling in books and colouring things in. I supposed I did enjoy it.

Until that night I’d never been to an art gallery. Now I was living in one. And what I’d seen excited me. The colours of the paintings; how each brush stroke worked to create the whole. How the pictures had hooked my attention and refused to let go. How they made me think and feel. I wanted to try it myself.

* * *

When the lights below were extinguished, I began to forage. I hoped the artists had brought with them some equipment: paper, paint, brushes, even just a pencil or pen. I wasn’t disappointed. A small pile of paint tins stood in the shell of a bathroom display. Not a splash of paint covered their exterior. Either they were unopened or the owner cherished the contents enough not to waste a drop. I suspected the latter.

Amongst them, I found a couple of small brushes and a sketchbook. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t take everything; that would cause suspicion. Instead, I took two tins — one filled with black paint, the other red — a brush and a few sheets of paper, making sure to rip out the torn bits by the seam.

The lights of the corridor outside my room worked now they’d turned the power back on, and it lacked windows; nobody could see from outside. I found a coffee table in a neighbouring office and set it up in the corridor. Sinking to my knees, I laid out a sheet of paper, cracked open the paint tin with my Stanley knife, and dipped in the brush. I felt giddy. Grinning like a toddler. But I struck an obstacle. Faced with the blank page, I didn’t know what to paint. Corridor devoid of inspiration, I opened the door to my room, hoping the light wouldn’t illumine the windows too much. Before me was a desk, casting a long shadow in the light. I decided it a simple shape to start with.

I took great care with each stroke, eyes glancing back at my model. When I’d finished I stepped away. It didn’t look much like the desk. I didn’t care. I started afresh, this time blending some red with the black, playing around with the harshness of the edges. When I held it up, it still didn’t look like the desk, but it was better than my first effort. I smiled.

Over and over I painted the desk, each time finding a new detail to include. Each time the resemblance slightly better. When the sun rose over the peaks of Liverpool, I picked up my painting table, as I had now christened it, and locked myself in my room. I ate a sandwich to the harsh morning song of gulls.

When I closed my eyes to sleep, I saw the table before me, paintings upon it. When I awoke in the afternoon, my first thought was to paint. It was as if I’d caught an illness, a compulsion akin to instinct. I went for my paper, only for my heart to sink: one sheet left. I’d need to steal more.

I bit at my nails, waiting for dusk, for the artists to go, hoping that somewhere in this building there was paper to paint on. What if there wasn’t? I will paint on the walls. I wasted no time after the shutter went down, returning to the spot I’d plundered the day before. I found even more paint tins and a couple reams of paper. More brushes too.

Knowing how it felt to go without what I needed, I took nearly all of it. Back and forth, I ferried it to my room. Then I painted. Anything and everything I could see around me: staplers, hole punchers, filing cabinets, food wrappers, sleeping bag. I experimented with new colours, with different types of stroke. And with each of those strokes, I sank deeper into my own world. Forgetting my grumbling stomach, the dryness of my mouth, the aches and pains. The only thing that mattered was there on the page in front of me. I was in love.

My life fell into a pattern, sleeping through the day, painting through the night. I left my room only to get more food and water or to use the bathroom. Every other moment I filled with painting. My room stank of paint, but I’d grown fond of the smell. Sheets of paper littered the floor of my room; I made piles, but I liked to compare what I’d done. In one of the desks, I found a ball of blu-tac and hung my favourites upon the walls of my room.

The time came when I’d painted everything in the offices. I returned to the exhibitions, began to paint what I saw before me: the images of the Salvation Army, portraits of the people photographed, the bleak highrise and the eerie huts.

* * *

Days became weeks. Curiosity turned to obsession. Confidence blossomed. Some days I snuck about in the arteries of the building — false walls once used for displays and fittings — and watched the people walking around the exhibitions. The more I watched them lauding what was on display, the more I wanted them to see my work.

I chose the painting I was most proud of, one that had stuck with me above all: of the lounge in the Salvation Army hostel with the security camera above the TV. After plenty of trial and error, I’d learned how to mix the paint to achieve the right shades. I was still unable to quite believe that I’d produced it. They’d like it. I was sure of it.

I hung it at the end of the exhibition, hoping none of the artists would notice. In a hollow wall, I crouched down and waited, peering through tiny holes once plugged by screws. Two older women approached, carrying shopping bags. They didn’t linger long at each piece and turned back before they reached mine. I sighed.

The following hours went the same way. Until one man came into view. He was alone, a flat cap covering his bald pate, brown coat fastened up to his chin. He studied each picture as if making a point of doing so. Hope fluttered in my chest.

He drew nearer. Then he was looking at it. I could see him squinting, moving closer to examine details.

“Jesus Christ...” he muttered before leaving. His words, like bullets, shot down my hope. My best piece. Scorned.

I didn’t paint that day. Desire fled and showed no sign of returning. Has it abandoned me altogether? I wondered. I pulled out the bottle of Powers Whiskey, Mum’s favourite. I no longer drank or tried not to, at least, but some nights were too cold and too painful, and sleep would not come without some numbing. I wanted to feel numb now. Numb to the disappointment.

I gazed at the paintings upon the wall. Slowly a smile grew on my face. A break in the storm clouds. I’d enjoyed painting each and every one of them. No matter how bad they looked. Not one of my troubling thoughts had broken through that veil of happiness. And who cared what anybody else thought as long as I was happy?

I found desire returning. It could not be squandered. I gathered my things, set up my painting desk in the corridor. This time I didn’t hesitate when thinking of what to paint. Images flooded my mind: Crosby Beach with Mum on one of the hottest days on record; eating tea in front of the TV, using cushions as tables; playing football together because I had no one else to play with, even though she could barely kick a ball. All the memories I longed to relive.

When I’d finished I felt exhausted. Outside, the sky was pink with the rising sun. I went to replace the lids on the tins. Most were empty save for bits of paint clinging to the sides. I was too tired to care.

Even the gulls scratching at the windows did not stir me. I awoke in darkness: 20:18. I’d slept for fourteen hours and still felt groggy. I looked at my paintings. What I saw blew me away. I didn’t recall painting in such vivid detail. They almost transported me back to the memories. Despite what happened last time, I wanted to share them. Felt compelled to.

I hung all three next to each other in the same spot at the end of the exhibition. Tomorrow seemed an eternity away. I could paint at least... only I couldn’t.

I checked the spot where I’d found my trove. Bare. All through the night, I searched the building for more paint. Nothing. Helplessness consumed me. I could paint no more. It was like dropping out of university again: wanting to do something but being physically unable to do it. I hadn’t lamented that first time. How could I have left my sick mother alone? She had needed me.

Excitement did not greet me the next morning. The prospect of painting was face down in the Mersey. I had my paintings on display, though. A light in the dark. I brushed my teeth, ate, and snuck to my hiding place. Rain pattered against the skylight windows, driving people indoors: parents with kids wheeling about them, groups of young people, older couples. Many turned back before reaching the end and where my pictures were hung. Those that didn’t looked with cursory glances: no expressions, no comments.

A couple of women, about my mother’s age, if she were still alive, stopped and looked.

“I like this one,” said one of the women, hair short and blonde, pointing at the image of eating in front of the TV. “We always eat like this in our house. I’m ashamed to say it.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of. So do we. I like them, too. They’re really raw, aren’t they? I love the little details. Does it say who painted them?”

“Nope.”

Me. Stuart, I wanted to shout. And they wandered off.

I leant against the wall, unable to quite believe it. Someone liked them. Two people liked them. I laughed a silent laugh, punched and kicked the air in celebration. When elation settled, I realised something: I can do this. I can be a painter. But to do it I knew I would have to leave my palace. To go out and find more paint, other artists to learn from, new and exciting things to paint. I feared none of that.

I almost skipped back to my room. I rolled up my sleeping bag, stuffed my things in my rucksack. I gathered my brushes, pens, pencils, paper. The paintings I left. A surprise for whoever found them. When it came to the paintings hanging below, I hesitated. They were more than just paintings. They were pieces of me. I wanted to keep them.

With all my gear I returned to the end of the exhibition. For the first time in the light of day, I stood, unafraid of being caught, looking at my work. What would Mum say if she saw these now? She would be proud. I went to take them down.

“Excuse me,” said a voice behind me. I turned around to find one of the bearded artists looking at me, face a mask of confusion. He approached. “Can I help you?” His eyes went to the paintings, and he frowned. “Whose paintings are those?”

I hesitated. “Mine.”

The artist studied him. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“I’ve been living here.” It made no difference now.

“And you painted these?” His tone was more curious than anything.

I nodded.

“They’re really good.” He studied them, pointing out the details he enjoyed. “What’s your name?” the artist asked.

“Stuart.”

“How long have you been painting, Stuart?”

“Not long. I’ve run out of paint. I’m going to find more.”

The artist’s eyes flicked over me thoughtfully. “Perhaps I can help you out with that.”