Art for Fuchs Sake
Since Brexit, the trains have got worse and worse, haven’t
they? They don’t run late anymore, they crawl. So it was without any sort of
expectation of arriving on time that I boarded at Truro.
My seat reservation confidently spoke of a forward facing
seat with a table; next to the window. In reality, it was, of course, a cramped
affair with no leg room whatsoever and facing the rear.
You don’t waste any time, do you? I looked down the aisle,
found an unreserved table seat and swapped the tickets, pleased to notice I’d
have no company until Newton Abbot and that was hours away.
Watching the passing countryside meander and the towns
dawdle, I reflected how fast and how quickly things had slipped since the vote.
Conductors on zero hour contracts, train managers who didn’t anymore and
rolling stock rusting itself into oblivion. No one bothered and those who once
did had been repatriated years ago.
A journey to London might take eight hours or eight days. It
was impossible to predict and depended on a brisk tail wind anyway. You put up
with it.
As Newton Abbot approached, I wondered who might get on and
keep me company all the way to Paddington. Nobody noisy, I hoped. Lots to think
about and I’d booked the quiet carriage on purpose. I always book the quiet
carriage.
When they boarded, you could tell straight away. They fussed
all the way down the aisle with too much luggage, those mini suitcases on
wheels with extendable handles bashing into exposed ankles ignoring the barks
of pain and raised scowlbrows. Already making no friends, both were trifling
around with cell phones as they sat down opposite me, placing hefty raffia bags
on the small table.
All available space
was lost.
“Well, you know, she set up her easel on the beach by
Slapton sands…”
“Slapton? No!” The younger of the two snorted.
“I mean, I like her, but…”
“I know what you mean, she thinks she knows everything, she
won’t be told.”
“Well, I can’t work with her. I don’t want to…”
“Yes, yes, she’s just impossible.”
“And we have to put up with her all weekend.”
“We’ll be polite, of course.”
“Well of course, but if she starts with her outdated
opinions, well, I won’t be responsible, you know?”
The conversation paused. As I rested my elbow on the tiny
ledge, palm pressed to my temple, they flicked through glossy art magazines. I
didn’t catch the titles. Possibly ‘Vital Art’ or ‘Sake, Forsakes Art.’ Who
knew? The way these two were flicking and sneering, they were either skilled
speed readers or were using the pages as fans.
“What do you think?”
“Oh awful, ostentatious, no attempt at subtlety.”
The younger lady, possibly sixty years, looked sideways at
her friend and pursed as if about to make some terrible confession. “You know
it’s my first visit to ‘The National’?”
“Yes. Well there’s a first time for everything. I think
you’ll love it. I have been many, many times and I’ve been blown away; quite
entranced.”
“By what, particularly?”
“Oh, you know, the paintings. And the sculptures. Yes, the
paintings, definitely. I love the paintings.”
“She wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“God no. I saw her take oil paint to Exmouth once. She set
up on the beach and painted the sand. I didn’t want to say anything.”
“Did she?”
“Oh yes. All over the rocks and the weed, too.”
And with that, the two ladies set to; hissing, flicking and
tapping cell phones.
By now the train was slow approaching Taunton and the sun
was high in the sky. I guess I’d been on for three or four hours since Truro.
I’d wandered up to the all British buffet and was
unimpressed by slaps of dry fruitcake, bacon rolls and I had spotted the dick
and run from custard. I’d wandered back. I’d wondered how much longer I’d be stuck
listening to two artists.
I was shocked awake from my stoic sulk by a sudden
commotion. A large, red faced and sweating man was barging his way down the
aisle. In his left hand a paint brush, his right an easel and over his shoulder
a large sack like back bulging with jagged objects. He was flailing about with
a stick and wore darkest shades.
He was drawn to us as if by a a magnet, although, to be fair, most
of the passengers had left the quiet carriage in search of silence. He plumped
himself down opposite and offered a dripping, filthy hand, at the same time
smearing his brow with a soiled cloth. He was generous with spittle as he shouted. “Fuchs! Emile Fuchs! Is my name. I am artist, yes!”
My two ladies had been staring in contempt at the entrance
but now their expressions changed entirely and they leaned forward, braving the
spray.
“I am blind, yes, blind. God has removed my vision entirely.
But like your British bat, I don’t fly, I use my sonar, no?” He removed the
hand then glared at me. “You. You must move, move away. It is these two artists
I wish.”
I moved. But, you know, I was intrigued. So I made sure I
could see what the Fuchs would happen.
So were my ladies. Magazines put to one side, they leaned
towards the seat and frowned. “Who are you?”
Fuchs ignored the question because he was busy removing a
variety of implements from the sacks he was carrying and pretty soon equipped
for an assignment in art. “You are on way to National? You win British Rail
star Brexit prize. I paint portrait, yes? Only thing – must be finished before
Bristol Temple Meads. My ticket run out. Quiet please.”
He turned to me and raised his shades. “You!” he shouted,
rudely. “Stupid fellow – how long is Bristol Temple Meads?” Then he turned back
to my fellow passengers. “He will not know, he is not artist.”
“How should I know? A couple of hundred yards?” I snapped
and pretended to read the paper.
“Fool!” he screamed. Then he eyed up the ladies once more,
raising his thumb and brush. I’d seen artists do this before. I had no idea
why. A bit like a mason’s handshake. Still, I did wonder how useful a blind
painter might find it.
My two companions were flattered to find themselves the
subject of attention, it had to be said. I could imagine them composing letters
to the local galleries, universities and art journals. And their absent friend
who painted the Slapton sands, the rocks and the weeds would be put in the picture and made
aware of her stupidity in being absent, I felt sure.
“Please to remove blouses, Ladies.”
“What? We can’t do that!” The older one looked appalled at
Fuchs’ suggestion and the younger blushed and looked coyly at her sandals.
“Yes, please to do so. This painting for British Rail,
glamour, no? Beautiful titties. Poster on London Underground, next to MacDonald’s,
splashed all over world.”
“MacDonalds?”
“Yes, we put you on the Big Mac boxes, plenty exposure. You
famous.”
Fuchs had now mixed himself up a mess of oil paints and his
brush was poised. The two ladies sat unmoved, still in their shirts. It looked
as though they had no real desire to be immortalised, topless, on the used
boxes of ‘Chicken Royales’ or ‘Big Tasties’. I wouldn’t have minded. But he had no interest in me. “Don’t do it,
Maureen,” I heard the older one whisper.
“You can paint us as we are, or not at all,” declared the
other, firmly.
Fuchs shrugged. “OK, if what you want. Not sell so many, but
if it what you want.” And with that he
raised his brush like a pistol.
The screaming was
horrendous.
Sharapova and Azarenka combined could hardly have been
louder. It bought my tinnitus right back on with a sharp slap, I’m telling you.
Fuchs had raised his brush and was flicking large gobbits of
paint at the two ladies. They were being systematically sprayed in huge splots
of colour, from their heads to feet. And not just them. Windows, seats, baggage
racks were showered randomly and with vigor.
Escape was impossible. Every time one of the ladies
attempted to bolt for the aisle, another missile would drive them back. They
cowered in the corner, wailing until, finally, Fuchs finished.
My two artists were drenched. And the blouses had received
the most attention. They looked like two giant Pollocks.
Fuchs flung his materials to one side with a satisfied smile
and stretched his arms wide apart. “Beautiful, beautiful!” he exclaimed,
beaming like a set of headlights. “Wonderful!”
The older lady spoke at last, crimson oils dribbling from
her spectacles onto her lap. “What on earth are you doing?” she spluttered with
admirable composure, I thought.
“I blind. I paint in braille, yes?”
“What?”
“Yes, Braille for British Rail. Is gimmick. Sell many
tickets for trains. MacDonalds, too.”
“You can’t paint in braille,” screamed the other, with less tolerance,
I thought, drooling colour all over her magazine and cell phone.
Fuchs disagreed and reached forward, grasping the nearest
ample chest with his sweaty clams. He moved his hands over the frontage,
prodding with his fingers and twiidling with his thumbs. “Yes, braille, this
say ‘nice titties’,” he replied, firmly.
“Get your hands off me, you filthy old pervert!” screamed
the affronted painting, in fury.
But Fuchs grabbed and ripped. Off came the blouse which he
held up to me in triumph. Another grab, tug and off came the second. “Masterpiece!
Worth thousands. Which you buy?”
“I don’t want either of them.” I replied, shocked, as the
two ladies covered themselves. “I’m reporting you.”
“Not good enough for you? Ah. You no like art. You not
artist.” suggested Fuchs, disappointed. “OK, I sell British Rail.” Clutching
the two blouses in his fist and seizing his materials, Fuchs disappeared
up-train. I doubted he would get very far.
I would have pulled the emergency chain, but it probably
wouldn’t work due to the cut backs and the train was ambling into Bristol
Temple Meads anyway. I fully expected to see police lining the platform. The
two ladies were texting on cell phones and it wasn’t hard to imagine the gist
of it.
“Terrible. Humilation. Arrest,” I heard them, muttering and
typing feverishly.
At Bristol the door of the quiet carriage was flung open. But
no police. Instead, a third lady appeared. She too had magazines, cell phone,
suitcase on wheels and copious baggage and she made her way determinedly towards
the bespattered seats where my two companions sat. Ignoring the smeared paint,
she sat down opposite in the seat I had previously occupied with a smile.
“Cynthia. Maureen. How nice to see you. And to see so much
of you, too,” she smirked. “Now what an earth have you been up to, for Fuchs’
sake?
