“The
first step is the hardest”
A cliché, that’s true. But he said it so
convincing, I couldn’t blame him. He owned a little shop of fine arts and
graphic materials in the old center of the town. A place of perished glory,
situated near a historic canal. Due to the high humidity the walls of the canal
were overgrown with algae and ferns. To
get into the store, you had to descend an old, granite stairway with worn-out
steps leading you down to a basement. An impressive chestnut tree had chained
itself to the rusty banisters of the stairway. Over time, the bark of the tree
and the banisters had become one. The massive crown of leaves blocked the
sunlight from shining through the only window, creating a mystical atmosphere.
Even at high noon in the midst of summer the lantern on the wall automatically
lit as if it was midnight.
During weekdays the basements was visited by
students of the nearby Academy of Arts. As if it was fixed by a genetically
determined dress code, they were all easily recognized by their eccentric
clothes and specific hair fashion. As a matter of fact the shop was always
busy. The shelves reached to the ceiling. Even the floor was fully used. A
colorful palette of graphic materials and hobby tools jammed the last remaining
walking space. Pencils and brushes, charcoal and glue, varnish and Arabic gum.
There was hardly enough space for more than four customers at the same time.
The early Saturday mornings I visited the shop, it was usually very quiet. Thus
I dared to ask some unnecessary questions without embarrassing myself.
William, or Bill as most customers called the shop
owner, was a tremendous conversationalist. A chatterbox who appreciated and
enjoyed the fine art of small talk. Ready to answer a question about the ideal
size and thickness of watercolor paper with an exhaustive lecture about the
industrial process of making paper which unnoticeably went over into an essay
about negative aspects of recycling paper. Ever since the day environmental
activists had plastered his window because he sold martyr-haired paint brushes,
he had become a notable opponent of anyone and anything related to the word
environment.
We soon found out that we shared the same
interest, or maybe I should say we shared the same obsession, for paper. We
became friends visiting expositions and galleries. On several occasions Bill
told me how he appreciated a certain type of paper. For that reason he had
bought some of these papers himself. Without asking I assumed he made
watercolors or at least black and white pen drawings himself.
Together we went out to see the real thing in
museums and galleries. That’s how I became familiar with the astonishing
watercolors of the famous British painter Turner. But our fascination also
included completely different styles like the Art Nouveau posters made by
Alfons Mucha of early 1900. He talked endlessly about the exposed works.
Usually with another point of view, a way to improve the original idea. I think
I owe it to him that I can look at my own work in a different way, which
enabled me to improve my technique considerably.
I started to question him about his own work.
Became curious to see some of his, undoubted, creative and interesting ideas.
Cautious inquiries did not lead to results. Not even after showing works of my
own, which really was a big step to me, there was the slightest hope that he
would let me see some of his works. Until the day I told him that it sometimes
caused me problems to work out my ideas just because it scared me to be
restricted to a certain shape from the beginning.
“The
first step is the hardest” he said. “It doesn’t matter how you do it, as long
as you do it.” I have noticed it before. People talking as much as Bill usually
end up in repeating themselves or quoting others. Obvious nobody would ever
miss Bill as a great philosopher.
“Well, how about you?” I asked him. “Do you
start drawing, just hoping it will result into the picture you had in mind?”
He sighed softly, creating a gentle vibrating
whistle through his nostrils. He closed the cash register, shut the door and
waved his hand, asking me to follow him. We took the aluminum stairway in the
shop upstairs. Somehow I never realized there would be such a large room above
the shop. I was impressed by the clean, white, almost empty room. A bigger
contrast with the fully packed store downstairs seemed impossible to imagine.
“I
must confess” said Bill, “drawing causes a lot of trouble to me. For nights in
a row I have been sitting at the table, staring at a nice piece of blank paper
in front of me. Every night I was sitting here. My mind was filled with ideas.
I was ready to create. And every night I was caught by an incredible fear which
withheld me to use the white paper in front of me. Possessed by the pureness
and virginity of the whiteness. It made me realize that every thought, every
theory can be caught on paper and only time will qualify what is worth
treasuring.
I looked around me. The walls were covered with hundreds of sheets, white blank paper. From the smallest note paper to poster format. Some of them with a scent of yellow, touched by sunlight, some framed as valuable treasures. And one of them with a signature by Bill. True art.
["Carte Blanche" a short story by Eduard Meinema. Previously unpublished. Originally written in Dutch, July 1989. English translation by the author April, 2015. Words: 932]