Poetic painting
I remember when I fi rst caught sight of the old, grey, tattered A2 art folder, which contained the real treasure of Dad’s drawings and paintings. It was against a damp wall in his study. I would often try to push past Dad to catch a glimpse of the hidden treasures that I was certain were in that room. Occasionally, on a birthday, or when I was unwell, Dad would magic up a Barbie doll from this treasure chest. When I spotted the folder and asked what it was, ‘Never you mind. You can have it when I’m dead!’ he told me. Always a remark that would put off any further enquiry from me.
I recall being about 10 years old and would relish rare moments inside this secret room. Dad’s study was mostly locked and even if he would leave the door ajar, Mum and I would never enter unless invited. We understood and respected his privacy and we all would knock on each other’s doors before entering. I have never understood how people can barge into other people’s lives unannounced. I still feel the same now. Dad always liked to be prepared because he always wanted to present his best side to the world. To be dressed well and above all, not to appear unwell.
I collected enough information from these stolen visits to create quite a picture in my mind’s eye of his bits and pieces. He took most of these with him wherever we lived. I still have most of them dotted around. There would be empty bottles of Perequita (he was sometimes paid in wine) with a candle stuff ed into the neck, always prepared for the numerous power cuts aff ecting us all in the 1970s.
There would be odd empty bottles of Double Diamond and Whitbread Pale Ale and old pipe tobacco tins crammed with staples, paper clips, rubber bands and razor blades; there would be pin-ups of the Cadbury’s Flake girl in flowing dresses – and of Barbara Bach in less. There was Raquel Welch – and Brigitte Bardot, and of course, many photographs of his real love, my mother.
He kindly positioned some of my early drawings on the wall facing the door so that I could see them when bringing him a cup of tea. A Viking horn drinking vessel supported Pentel pens, Derwent Watercolour pencils (I always tried to get my hand on those) and 4B pencil stubs, roughly sharpened with his ancient Moroccan flick knife and a wooden six-inch ruler. (Eventually I found 14 of these scattered throughout his desk. He could never fi nd anything.)
In his last years he had become a national institution and a national treasure. Cider With Rosie ensured a continuing interest in Laurie himself, especially after it became a favourite school textbook. Everybody wanted to know who Rosie was, but as Laurie explained dozens of times: ‘There were six or seven girls in the village school she could have been. Cider With Edna? or Cider With Doreen? It could have been any of those girls, but Rosie sounded right.’
Clockwise from bottom left: Guitarist And Singers, c. 1937; Kathy And Jessy, c. 1963; Self-portrait by Laurie Lee, 1936
He would take such trouble to answer letters. School children would ask for his advice on how to write poetry or what it takes to write an interesting essay. In his archive there are piles of letters from fans. He would sometimes become ill with his eff orts to respond personally. He never wanted a secretary and as he grew older and his eyesight and handwriting were failing, he would sometimes dictate letters to Mum for her to type for him.
Dad was not so kind to himself though. His need for perfection could make him diffi cult to live with but this need certainly contributed to his exquisite use of words and how he could make them dance with colour. When I think of his words I can see some of them bundled up closely together, invoking warmth and security, and others are in stark contrast, invoking the intensity of polar opposites – still needing each other for impact. His poetry waxed and waned like his lunar moods – from the seductive to the melancholy but always richly delivered. His words and drawings were kept in an emotional envelope – some reactionary and some cathartic.
That tattered grey art folder was all forgotten until a few years after Dad had died. Mum came across it under his bed, wedged between two old suitcases upon which my cat Walter had both slept and died. I felt miserable after losing my 18-year-old feline friend but elated that Walter had led me to discover the folder. Mum then told me that years ago, Dad wanted me to have it. So he had thought about it, after all.
Throughout his life Laurie admired artists, particularly Miró, Picasso and Gauguin, and often said he wished he had become a painter. I had wondered if he had ever wanted his art to be seen and then I found a quotation from him among his papers: ‘I always wanted to be a painter – a drawer – but that sounds funny. Best of all, after music, I like to draw. But I always like to feel wanted and no one ever said to me, ‘We’d like some more of your paintings’, so this made me write. If they’d wanted my paintings, I’d be an artist now, earning lots of money, surrounded by beautiful girls.’
This is an edited extract from Laurie Lee: A Folio, by Jessy Lee, published by Unicorn Press, priced £24.99.
I recall being about 10 years old and would relish rare moments inside this secret room. Dad’s study was mostly locked and even if he would leave the door ajar, Mum and I would never enter unless invited. We understood and respected his privacy and we all would knock on each other’s doors before entering. I have never understood how people can barge into other people’s lives unannounced. I still feel the same now. Dad always liked to be prepared because he always wanted to present his best side to the world. To be dressed well and above all, not to appear unwell.
I collected enough information from these stolen visits to create quite a picture in my mind’s eye of his bits and pieces. He took most of these with him wherever we lived. I still have most of them dotted around. There would be empty bottles of Perequita (he was sometimes paid in wine) with a candle stuff ed into the neck, always prepared for the numerous power cuts aff ecting us all in the 1970s.
There would be odd empty bottles of Double Diamond and Whitbread Pale Ale and old pipe tobacco tins crammed with staples, paper clips, rubber bands and razor blades; there would be pin-ups of the Cadbury’s Flake girl in flowing dresses – and of Barbara Bach in less. There was Raquel Welch – and Brigitte Bardot, and of course, many photographs of his real love, my mother.
He kindly positioned some of my early drawings on the wall facing the door so that I could see them when bringing him a cup of tea. A Viking horn drinking vessel supported Pentel pens, Derwent Watercolour pencils (I always tried to get my hand on those) and 4B pencil stubs, roughly sharpened with his ancient Moroccan flick knife and a wooden six-inch ruler. (Eventually I found 14 of these scattered throughout his desk. He could never fi nd anything.)
In his last years he had become a national institution and a national treasure. Cider With Rosie ensured a continuing interest in Laurie himself, especially after it became a favourite school textbook. Everybody wanted to know who Rosie was, but as Laurie explained dozens of times: ‘There were six or seven girls in the village school she could have been. Cider With Edna? or Cider With Doreen? It could have been any of those girls, but Rosie sounded right.’
Clockwise from bottom left: Guitarist And Singers, c. 1937; Kathy And Jessy, c. 1963; Self-portrait by Laurie Lee, 1936He would take such trouble to answer letters. School children would ask for his advice on how to write poetry or what it takes to write an interesting essay. In his archive there are piles of letters from fans. He would sometimes become ill with his eff orts to respond personally. He never wanted a secretary and as he grew older and his eyesight and handwriting were failing, he would sometimes dictate letters to Mum for her to type for him.
Dad was not so kind to himself though. His need for perfection could make him diffi cult to live with but this need certainly contributed to his exquisite use of words and how he could make them dance with colour. When I think of his words I can see some of them bundled up closely together, invoking warmth and security, and others are in stark contrast, invoking the intensity of polar opposites – still needing each other for impact. His poetry waxed and waned like his lunar moods – from the seductive to the melancholy but always richly delivered. His words and drawings were kept in an emotional envelope – some reactionary and some cathartic.
That tattered grey art folder was all forgotten until a few years after Dad had died. Mum came across it under his bed, wedged between two old suitcases upon which my cat Walter had both slept and died. I felt miserable after losing my 18-year-old feline friend but elated that Walter had led me to discover the folder. Mum then told me that years ago, Dad wanted me to have it. So he had thought about it, after all.
Throughout his life Laurie admired artists, particularly Miró, Picasso and Gauguin, and often said he wished he had become a painter. I had wondered if he had ever wanted his art to be seen and then I found a quotation from him among his papers: ‘I always wanted to be a painter – a drawer – but that sounds funny. Best of all, after music, I like to draw. But I always like to feel wanted and no one ever said to me, ‘We’d like some more of your paintings’, so this made me write. If they’d wanted my paintings, I’d be an artist now, earning lots of money, surrounded by beautiful girls.’
This is an edited extract from Laurie Lee: A Folio, by Jessy Lee, published by Unicorn Press, priced £24.99.