The smell of colour

It was the first time I had shared a piece of writing with my bi-weekly writing group.

Even though the other members always offer fair and constructive criticism, I had to work to keep my voice strong from behind my laptop screen.

I read out a piece I wrote for this blog last year, about working backstage at the theatre. And the others said some great things. For example, that they felt they were really there. That the nature of the piece was cinematic. A couple of people picked up on some turn of phrases I'd used that they liked.

But one thing I'd forgotten to add in was a description of smell. It's true that I usually think very visually. And sound is always a big part of working at an opera house, obviously. But smell... I tend to forget about that one.

The next night while I was at work, I kept checking in to see what things smelt like.

Hot dust around the stage lanterns. The waxy, floral perfume of make-up. The thick and cloying, boiled-sugar smell of stage blood. Hair spray and deodorant in the dressing rooms. Freshly laundered costumes. Instant coffee in the kitchen. The slightly mouldering scent of an old parasol prop.

It was a fun experiment, which led me to wonder if smell is something that can be ascribed to colour.

I love the smell of my paints – they have rich, slightly chalky, oily scents. But does cadmium red smell slightly spicy? Does Prussian blue bring to mind the earthy, water-lily smells of a moonlit lake? Does chrome yellow smell like a zesty, sun-bleached afternoon? Magenta, like a massive bowl of curling rose petals?

Probably not, but in my mind they do, and it's been interesting to take note of how much a smell can influence a mood. Maybe one day, they really will make scented paints.

Pearl

Picasso and the gangster

'You can't call yourself an artist and not f**king like Picasso!'

He had contacted me on the pretext of wanting a commission, which may or may not have been true.

He was a successful businessman, but the scars on his face and the flinty fire in his eyes belied a tough background. He had the bullet holes in his leg to prove it.

He'd left school with one O'level (in art) but took the opportunity of a stint in prison to catch up with his education before forging ahead with his own businesses. And developing an unnerving habit of dancing and driving at the same time while flying women around in his screaming black Ferrari.

'How did you do it?' I asked.

'I put myself in situations where there is no option of failing,' he replied. 'There is no Plan B.'

He also opened my mind to a whole new level of reality that I didn't know was there – a reality of big ideas, no limits and the magic of humankind. He gave me a copy of Don Quixote, printed in 1861. 'Keep believing in your dreams.'

The day after I admitted that I didn't really 'get' Picasso, I found myself on a plane heading to Barcelona, where we visited the Picasso Museum.

Of course, the liaison didn't last, but my appreciation of Picasso has.

Pearl

'Le Rêve' (The Dream), Pablo Picasso 

Finding grace in preparation

I started painting on board towards the end of last year, and have discovered that it works well for me.

 Because my paintings usually begin with quite a detailed drawing, I've found I'm much happier with the smooth surface of board rather than the knobbly surface of a canvas. The smaller the canvas, the more annoying the knobbles.

Pre-made, pre-stretched canvas always comes ready-primed, which means you are free to start slapping on colour right away. But I get my boards cut for me at the local timber merchant, which means I need to prime them myself.

At first I found this irritating – I have to wait quite a while between coats, and also it takes a fair bit of patience and a steady hand to ensure the primer goes on smoothly.

But today it struck me that this practice of priming my boards is actually quite meditative – akin to taking a breath and tuning into whatever it might be that will appear on those boards. Like a dancer preparing her shoes, or when Martial Arts students bow for a class, as a gesture of respect for their practice.

I suppose what I'm talking about is mindfulness. Or, to quote Edina from Absolutely Fabulous: 'I'm trying to do my mindlessness!' 

Pearl