How to live with loud art - by Ken Gibbs

Salmon by Lucinda Gibbs

Readers of this blog may just remember an article on a particular painting by my mother which was stolen and found some considerable period later; was submitted to the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition in 1978 but was not accepted despite, in our estimation, it being worthy of the approbation ‘R.A.’ To refresh your memory, click here.

In that article, there was a painting by my mother of a Cornish Estuary, dated 1988. Remember this date, because it is important.

In 1988, my wife was in Quetta while I had been diverted to go behind the Russian lines in Afghanistan to find out what facilities existed in the country – and what did not – so that a reasonable return could be planned for the millions who had fled the country when the Russians invaded. There was a widespread belief that the Russians were going to withdraw quite soon.

Six UN groups were mounted from horse/mule ridden animals; to small groups of individuals who were expected to walk the same paths that the Mujaheddin trod as they moved about the country to harry the Russians. An account of the group to which I had been assigned may be read here.

In 1988, our ‘home’ in Britain was a cottage in Kent, and we had no plans at that time to move to Cornwall. That came later. However, my mother, who was visiting the UK and was staying with my eldest brother, apparently was included in an invitation to stay at someone’s second home in Rock, in Cornwall. She was driven from Kent to Rock by one of my eldest brother’s children (named Lucinda) who had only recently earned the right to drive on the motorways. My mother was a poor passenger and demanded that Lucinda drive no faster than 40 mph which terrified her lest she be rammed by a driver who did not expect anyone to drive so slowly on a motorway.

Happily, my mother fell asleep and Lucinda was able slowly to increase speed - for their joint safety.

On arrival in Rock where they were to stay for a week, it transpired that Lucinda had to sleep in the same bed as my mother (rather than sleeping on the floor) as there were no spare beds anywhere.

Only when everyone had retired for the night did Lucinda discover that my mother snored like a fog-horn and there was no way she could fall asleep with this noise a scant few feet away - so she sought a sleeping draught, which she found elsewhere in the form of whisky. It worked.

Lucinda is an excellent artist in her own right – check the painting of the salmon. She was given the task of looking after my mother while she sketched and painted. Perhaps there was too great an age difference for my mother to take instruction from her grand-daughter ? Judge for yourself.

My father did not feature in this account, so I am assuming he stayed in Kent from where he could meet up with his family, whom he rarely saw.

Father had been held under house arrest after the Ian Smith rebellion in Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), and sanctions had a pronounced effect on everybody. He knew full well that it was going to happen and that sanctions would be instituted against the regime, so he bought a new car to ensure that he could remain mobile without the flow of spare parts for older models, and he also bought a case of Grouse whisky - in case it ran out.

When finally father died in 1990, we five sons flew in from wherever we were to attend the funeral service in support of our mother. After the service, my eldest brother was given the task of clearing my father’s room of things likely to upset mother, and the first thing to be disposed of was the case of whisky which had been kept under his bed. We all believed that it had been placed there in case of need – but after my niece’s experience of sharing a room with my mother, this case of whisky took on a very different role – a necessary analgesic against the volume of mother’s snoring.