Running with an idea and allowing your writing to flow gives you freedom. It stops the editor in your head censoring your writing straight away. We all have a censor in our heads wanting to correct our behaviour and work. Setting a timer and just running with an idea gives you permission to be free. Set a timer. Begin. And then keep going. No editing. No corrections. No checking! This way you will find subjects and ideas that your more conservative self would not allow.
Get that timer. Begin!
Mij was insatiable for colour. Beneath her skin, she sensed tumult. Every day she felt the tight stretch of her skin, its tautness, denying the full brightness of who she was underneath. Her camouflage kept her too much in the shade. She thirsted for unleashed colour. When she imagined a wild scarlet, or a purple within a violet, everything inside her expanded. She caught fire. She felt invincible.’ ‘’Imagine your joy when you catch up with yourself, ’’ said her friend Bella. ‘I’d take your chances when you can and get reacquainted.’’
The workshops kept them both busy. Curiosity grew in South Carolina and with their successful workshops Mij tasted a new freedom from her old camouflaged ways. Each Curiosity workshop now began with the mantra, ‘’ Why survive your own life by not living it?’’ So Mij took herself to galleries in her free time, where she could celebrate colour safely. She sought out the crimson which would ignite her lost self. But the galleries’ offerings favoured the muted and the measured. Mij prowled around the pictures of pale blue seascapes and favourite pets, thirstier than ever. Bella asked her to be patient. Beauty could not be hastened. ‘Dare more,’ said Bella.
Then an invitation arrived from a new artist on the coast, promising a radically new experience and vision: ‘Nil desperandum’. He signed himself, Arthur Hallam. RA of the White Bear Gallery- near enough to visit alone.
Mij felt reckless without knowing why. Bella teased her and promised to work her even longer when she returned.The White Bear Gallery and Studio looked as if it had been built from giant pieces of driftwood. It smelt of salt and champagne. No camouflage here, Miij decided. The place was alive with conversation and laughter. How near could people stand to each other without kissing? Mij had never seen Art like this. She watched seascapes with strange creatures beckoning to sailors lashed to the mast and frescoes showing half naked, delirious mobs carrying flowers to shrines. There were ripe glances everywhere in the gallery: brazen sculptures with any combination of lovers. Mij felt fire flicker beneath her skin as she revived.
‘’Aren’t they deliciously unafraid and unabashed? ’’Said a teasing voice. ‘My heads are even better. ’ Mij turned to look at a dark haired man who had planted himself at her side.
‘They are strange,’’ said Mij aware of her need for camouflage.
”Of course, they are strange, but this artist is also special, surely? Trust me.”
”I don’t, ” said Mij and began to read her brochure, aware of his heat.
”I do like the shape of your neck,” said the man. ”Most unusual.”
Mij carried on reading.
‘’Your nose is strikingly bold for a woman too’’.
Mij stared at the speaker. His eyes were as dark as ebony and his forehead plaster white, as were both his hands.
‘Ha, of course’ she said. ‘’You’re the artist.’’
‘’I might be.”
”You might be. You are. ‘’
‘’I’m Arthur Hallam,’’ he said and he held out a dusty white hand.
Mij took it, forgetting her strength.
The artist flinched slightly, then laughed.White dust danced in the air between them.
‘’You’re Mij. I sent you and your friend an invitation. Everyone knows about your workshops’’.
‘’Thankyou said Mij, proud for Bella, trusting him even less’’.
‘’Come on. Let me show you my favourite head. It’s not for sale’’.
‘’I’ve no money anyway,” said Mij. ”Is she unfinished?’’
‘’You can advise me. And you’re curiously intuitive’’.
Games, games, thought Mij, yet followed him.
He led the way up to the mezzanine, where plaster splashed over tables and chairs. On the one clean table, sat a solitary head. The head was smaller than the other sculptures in the exhibition and infinitely more beautiful. The eyes of the woman held onto a suffering, that all the noises within the building couldn’t dispel. Her mouth was extravagantly wide and slightly open as if she had just spoken or was about to speak, or even pray.
‘’Why’s she unfinished? She looks perfect to me,’ said Mij.
The man sighed, very still beside her. ‘’It’s her hair. ‘’
‘’She hasn’t any hair’’.
‘’Exactly so.’’
His heat provoked her again. Who was this man?
‘She’s made of plaster’’.
‘’She’s made of love Mij. Why don’t you ask me who she is? ‘’
Mij flashed her eyes at the artist, holding him with her gaze. ‘’What do you want Arthur Hallam?’’
‘’A simple cast’’.
‘’Is that all?’’
‘’Of course. She’s incomplete as she is. ‘’
‘’You can make a cast of my left hand. ‘’
‘’Thank you, most generous of you,’’ and he bowed. ‘’ I’ll take anything. Your hand will give her a contemplative look.’’
‘’It’s her hair you lack.’’
”No. She’s far better without it Mij. More beautiful. Her hair tormented her. Villified her. My art heals. I revise the past.’’.
‘’Just my hand,’’ repeated Mij. ‘’Only my left hand’’.
‘’I’ll ration myself, I promise.’’
Mij held out her left hand. The artist drew a curtain around them. ‘’My improvised studio for today, ’he smiled, especially with his eyes.
His plaster cooled her. The cast felt chilly. Damp. Mij struggled to adjust her own temperature. ‘’How long does it take to set?’’
‘’Please don’t worry. This is a plaster I developed for moments like this. It’s more like a heavy skin- porous, yet strong’’.
Downstairs people were still drinking, laughing. No one looked up.
Mij’s hand felt heavy now. She leant forward, aware of the weight. Her eyelids began to drag, her head to droop. What was this man?The ebony eyes began to speak to her. His mouth remained closed. ‘Shall I content myself with only your hand?’
