Mother's Art - Ken Gibbs

 

My mother’s family displayed a considerable artistic talent pool. There were three girls and one boy in the family and between them they produced an architect, two water-colour painters and three competent seamstresses quite apart from the very fine tapestries and needlepoint work that each of the girls did. In addition, the ‘boy’ had that rare ability to sing well, play the banjo and ukulele and – best of all – had a large fund of delightfully risqué ditties which he could tailor to suit an audience of any age without offending anyone.

The boy, my uncle, who had become an architect, was a fine water-colourist:

JPN -  GRENADA 1955

JPN  -  SPAIN, UNDATED

If codebreaking was considered an art form, then the youngest of the girls was highly valued in cracking Japanese military messages even though she didn’t speak the language at all – but that is for a later article.

*****

My mother’s ability to paint is a skill that I did not inherit, sadly. When in need, I usually go to Google images. . . . .and have even been known to craft a simple picture, thus: You can Tell it, can’t you ?

KRG - WILLIAM TELL’S SON

Mother, having married a dairy farmer, produced five boys which, in dairy farming terms, was not ideal. Bull calves produce no milk so usually found their way to the abattoir shortly after weaning, and readers of this blog might wish that this fate should have been applied to me as well, but I survived, despite the odds against it.

Mother’s paintings didn’t belong in any specific art school genre so avoiding cubism which would have required code-breaking skills to interpret. No, hers was of the WYSIWYG type – for those readers of the younger generations, WYSIWYG stands for ‘What you see is what you get’, implying that one could generally recognise what she painted.

MPG  -  BUNDU, UNDATED

MPG  -  NEAR KAY’S FARM, UNDATED

MPG  -  MIMOSAS ON THE FARM, UNDATED

MPG  -  CORNISH ESTUARY, 1988

For us boys, mother’s painting became a fact of life and as it kept her occupied when she might otherwise have been micro-managing our lives, we encouraged it. 

In 1975, mother put on an exhibition in Bulawayo, of 59 of her paintings.  My youngest brother was living in the area at the time and he was able to undertake the framing of some of the paintings.  In retrospect, it was amusing that my brother was assisted in the framing venture by his wife whose job it was to clear the sawdust away from the work, so my brother could see not to saw off his fingers.  His wife, notwithstanding her ability to keep the work piece clear, is an accomplished artist in her own right, meaning that the only way that we boys could inherit the art genes was to marry into them.

Then came the day when some bright spark felt that my mother should submit a couple of paintings to the Royal Academy (of Art) for their Summer Exhibition.  We were given to understand that artists whose work was accepted for the Summer Exhibition became entitled to put ‘RA’ after their name.

At the time, we boys made light of this suggestion until mother selected two paintings which she felt might qualify.  They had already been mounted and framed by my youngest brother, and were packed in preparation for air cargo to London, and taken to Harare.  Anticipating that the ‘Customs Inspection’ to ascertain that they weren’t being used as a cover to traffic drugs to the UK was likely to take some time in the afternoon, lunch was taken at the Harare Club.

On arrival back at the car after lunch, it was apparent that it had been burgled – and the paintings had gone.  This was a pity as they were probably the best she had ever done; but my youngest brother was incensed.  “They stole my frames !” was his only comment.

The theft was reported but it was thought most unlikely they would ever be recovered.  When the thief discovered the contents were ‘only’ paintings, he would most probably burn them to destroy any evidence. 

There the matter rested until, around 17 months later, our mother received a phone call from a CID policeman asking if she had lost any of her paintings ?  He explained that he had recovered some paintings in a raid on a suspected thief, on which the signature had been koki-chalked so that it was impossible to read.  Quite how he guessed that the work was mother’s remains a mystery, but isn’t it nice to know that even policemen can appreciate art ?

Anyone who is an Agatha Christie aficionado, would realise that if the paintings had been signed in pencil – rather than only signing it with a fine brush – then turning the painting over and lightly running a soft pencil over the indentations on the back of the art-paper, would leave a reverse of what was written/signed on the painting itself.  Taking this image to a mirror would clearly show up the name or initials as the case may be.  If you don’t believe me, try it for yourself.

Of interest was that despite the heavy felt-tip pen over-writing of mother’s signature, the pictures were able to be salvaged and reframed for presentation to the 1978 Royal Academy Summer Exhibition.  They were not accepted.

There have been many and long discussions about why mother’s paintings were not found to be acceptable to the Royal Academy despite, in our estimation, being the epitome of fine watercolour technique.  We probably will never know the real reason(s) which may well have depended on what type of art was in vogue that year?  After all, Tracey Emin’s ‘Unmade Bed’ which came very close to winning the Turner (Art) Prize a few years later, is still being debated as to whether it represents ‘Art’ at all.  Perhaps mother’s timing of her submissions was ‘unfortunate’ in not meeting the ‘vogue criteria’ of the time ?

However, within the family it is firmly believed that her painting of The Devil’s Cataract at the Victoria Falls fully deserves an accolade after her signature of MPG – RA, representing ‘Recovered Art’.  Judge for yourself:

MPG  -  VICTORIA FALLS, RECOVERED ART

*****

Post-Script:  By now, you – the reader – will have gathered that I, and my brothers, all went to boarding school from an early age.  Part of the regime required that we all made our own beds every day, without fail, and they were inspected to ensure conformity with the school rules.

I became quite adept at folding my pyjamas very neatly, and this, together with my ability to make perfect hospital corners with both sheets and blankets had me gain a reputation.  If only I had known that I could have competed for the Turner Prize, I could have saved myself a lot of time by leaving my bed unmade.  Just a thought. . . .

*****