Chapter Eight.

I was warned: get to the school Christmas play early and grab a front seat.

Now to me, someone suffering from the kind of warped time sensitivity that only prolonged sleep deprivation can offer, getting to the play ten minutes before it would start seemed early enough. But to the parents who had occupied every single seat in the first few front rows, obviously long before I arrived, ten minutes beforehand was tantamount to “you may as well have come ten hours late because now you won’t get a seat where your child can see you from the stage and you obviously don’t love your child or you would have gotten here earlier.” This is the first play my daughter has been in (she is only four after all), so let’s chalk up my tardiness to inexperience.

What are the repercussions of not getting that front row seat? Well…if your child can not see you from the stage, he or she may not know you are in the audience. In fact, it is almost certain that he or she will believe you are not there. This is bad, you see, because then your child may do things like pick his or her nose and eat the product, right there in front of everyone. Again and again. Or, if the child sees you there, he or she may be less likely to ad lib his or her lines. I’m convinced my daughter did this. I did not check with her teachers afterward, but I doubt her lines truly were: “I have stage fright,” or “is my mommy here?” or “ Mommy are you there?” These last two really gutted me, because I was always sure my daughter would cry out for me and not for her mommy…excuse me…her mummy…if she were frightened. I guess there is a little vanity in every man.

And so, this was the beginning of our Christmas, our first in England.

Merry Christmas, Cornwall!

An American in Penzance, Chapter Seven

 

Here is why Penzance reigns supreme, at least for me: for all of the silly comparisons made between Penzance and her sister cities, none of them has such a beautiful place as Penlee House Museum. Or Penlee Park, for that matter.

I discovered them completely by chance heading out for a stroll with my infant son in his pushchair. A short meandering uphill, instead of down, took us to the foot of Penlee Park with its wonderful, lush playground, vivid with the sounds, colours, and kinetic frenzy of happy children. We continued uphill, past surprisingly exotic verdure, and at the top of the park we discovered Penlee House, sitting like a proud Cuban villa presiding over its plantation. And since those first few moments that I walked in and was nearly crushed by the power of the Dame Laura Knight exhibition, Penlee House has been like the beautiful girl who gives me heart palpitations and makes me want to see her again and again. Great painting will do that for one. At least for this one.

And for many others also, I’m happy to say. If you go there this December, you will see an exhibition which hangs the work of contemporary artists who have been inspired by works from the museum’s collection, side by side with those very works. Happily, the exhibition has accepted a painting by this artist, a portrait of his landlady’s daughter. Can you imagine what it must be like for us living artists, to be in such a show? In popular terms: it would be like a soccer fan…er…excuse me…football fan sharing a flat with David Beckham. For six weeks.

I’m no football fan, I confess, and would probably be irritated by David tracking his muddy sneakers…er…trainers all over the flat…and that he would constantly leave me to load the dishwasher. Happily, however, rooming with Elizabeth Stanhope Forbes for six weeks in this exhibition will leave me with no such predicaments. Victorian women are so much tidier than twenty-first century male athletes!

CHAPTER SIX: ENGLAND NEEDS THANKSGIVING

400 years ago, Native American Indians partook in a feast with English Puritans who wanted to give thanks for having survived their escape from…um… England…which they wanted to leave so badly that they risked their lives sailing to the New World rather than stay. Now, hasn’t that got “cozy English holiday” written all over it? Americans will celebrate this apocryphal feast today by gorging themselves on turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and pumpkin pie.

Okay, maybe the thought of England adopting this American holiday is insane, but consider: in America, Thanksgiving marks the beginning of the Christmas shopping season; the day after Thanksgiving is the busiest shopping day of the year. In the US, by Thanksgiving day, I usually had generated several thousand dollars in sales. I’m certain that Thanksgiving could save England’s economy. Or at least my own.

This, at least, is what I wish for as I sit at my easel at a weekly craft fair, hoping to sketch portraits for passersby. With zero business. For two weeks. Whilst regretting turning down the minimum wage job at the retirement home. The attractive, young lady next to me apparently does not need Thanksgiving to generate business; she makes sale after sale after sale with her jewelry. The other vendors, however, like me, complain of slow business. Even our director tells me he feels guilty charging me rent because I have not made any money.

I’m flummoxed. Could it be that, here in the UK, without Thanksgiving, I’ll never have a lucrative Christmas season again? Come on, England. You’ve already adopted Halloween. And my neighbors, after treating me to a wonderful Guy Fawkes night, are anxiously awaiting the Fourth of July. Which is another American holiday celebrating freedom from the rule of…uh…you guessed it. Americans celebrate this day with fireworks, hotdogs, and patriotic American music. Hasn’t that got “blatantly obvious English holiday waiting to happen” written all over it?

To be continued. 

Chapter Five: It Takes Two To...Nevermind

          

A note to the gentlemen who read this column: never criticize your wife’s dress-up clothes. She’ll never forgive you.

You may think you are helping by hinting subtly that something is too tight here or there, but your attempts at subtlety and gentleness will have the same effect as throwing a kettle of boiling oil on her. You may just as well be telling her: “I want to really, really make you hate me for the next two months.” Take heed, O you with wife…or girlfriend. Hell hath no fury.

This is a mistake I made recently, moments before my wife and I left to go Argentine Tango dancing in Penzance. Yes, in our old life in the New World, before we began our new life here in the Old World, Argentine Tango was a huge part of our lives. And we could say that Tango has been good to us. It was at an Argentine Tango class that my wife-to-be and I met. She was the student. I was the teacher.

It’s true. I teach the Tango. And, you might not know it, but Cornwall has a small, dedicated community of Argentine Tango dancers, which my wife and I were delighted to discover when we arrived here. Classes, however, are scarce, and having arrived here two months ago and still not having sold any paintings or been hired to teach art, I have decided to hold Tango classes. In St. Ives.

People’s faces really light up when they know you dance the Argentine Tango, with admiration or amusement, I’m not sure, but mainly because they’ve seen it danced by young, gorgeous (and child-less) stars on shows like Strictly Come Dancing. This always makes Tango-teachers feel as though they ought to be teaching acrobatic tv steps, which cause one to fall. With one’s partner. In front of other people. Not that this has happened to this one. Ahem. But for now, I’ll be teaching less flamboyant steps, crossing my fingers, and hoping for a good turnout.

                    

To be continued. 

Chapter Four

My wife wanted to write my column this week. I wouldn’t let her.

She wanted to tell about our trip to Mousehole and how we were refused entrance by a restaurant which clearly advertised itself as being “Open,” and yet told us that it had closed for the season.  What can you expect from an establishment whose signs say that dogs are welcome, but children must be kept on leashes? Imagine! 

On the other hand, she thought she would spend a little time writing about the kindness of the people we have met here, who have brought us cooked meals to our home, who have cooked us meals in our home, and who have invited us for cooked meals in their homes. One such woman we met at the Cornwall Council offices (and I am glad we did; she is an excellent chef and bright light). She has since dropped in on us three times with mouth-watering dinners! We have yet to return the favor. A well-known painter and her charming husband whom I met at the St. Ives School of Painting Cabaret Night last month, invited us to their home for a wonderful, dreamy, unforgettable afternoon feast with their friends and family. And, would you believe, we were invited to the very American holiday of Thanksgiving Dinner by complete strangers who had read this column two weeks ago?

I’m sure she would have written a very nice column, possibly the most amusing one yet, but this is not why I refused her. I refused her because artists are territorial, like dogs. It’s my column. Mine. I’ll bite anyone who touches it. No, what I am going to write about this week is…heck! Somehow my wife always gets her way.

To be continued.

Chapter Three

If you want to have a really good laugh sometime, I mean a fabulous wet-your pants-good-laugh, then put an American friend behind the wheel of your car and watch his facial expressions as he drives from Lands End to Penzance.

Remember, Americans drive huge cars. The thought of yielding, or having to back up, to let another car pass is not something an American driver has ever had to do in his or her life. We Americans simply don’t acknowledge that anything exists on the roads other than ourselves, especially other drivers. Now you begin to see the possibilities for a grand time.

For the American driver in Cornwall, navigating the serpentine labyrinth through the hedgerows of the western farmlands is like being in a video game. You can’t see anything. There is no telling what might pop out from behind the next curve: car, tractor, cow, clueless hikers, double decker bus, tank.  The hilarity will climax when your friend drives from the top of the hill at the Newlyn School of Art down the mere trickle of a road to the crossroads below. If your friend has not had a heart attack or knocked the mirrors off a passing car by the time you reach the bottom, then you have won the game. Or lost… I’m not sure which.

Of course, if one’s eyes are constantly straying from the road to the beautiful landscape and skies which one is desperate to paint, then that makes the driving all the more harrowing. My wife is a non-stop dispenser of complaints when she is in the passenger seat. And even though I drove our children without incident to Chapel Carn Brea one Saturday to see the ponies and climb the hill (which was truly magical) she still threatens to hide the car keys.

To be continued.

copyright 2012 Cameron Bennett

My Old Life in the New World

Before I was born anew, thrown up on these English shores by the hands of fate (my wife), I had a relatively busy artistic life in the USA, painting, illustrating, and teaching.  This is not to say that my life in Cornwall is not rich, because it is, just in different ways.  Hopefully it will become richer still.

The point of this entry is merely to give a better representation of the drawing and painting that I do, or did, when living in the USA.  My goal, and one of the purposes of this blog, is to chronicle my success, or lack of it, in securing more of this kind of work in England.

Click here to visit my portrait blog.