A real artist

It must be said that most members of the Arts Council in our small town have something of a stubborn streak about them. You'd agree if you met them. One of them believed that arts meant culture with a capital K. It was there in bold letters on the opening page of the minute book. This member wasn't that hot on spelling and didn't bat an eye when I pointed the error out to her. Just nodded her head and rasped in a smoky voice: “Bugger off, smart arse,” planting the heel of her stiletto onto my left foot for emphasis. I got the point and formed the impression she was a paratrooper instructor filling in as Minutes Secretary, possibly as a punishment for bad language on the parade ground. There's equal rights for you.

The chairperson, Mrs Millicent Pemberton-Jones had real flair in making a cock-up of things, aided and abetted by all but one of her committee.

Before the meeting started I had time to read the notes re the painting covered by a cloth on an artist’s easel behind the chairperson. She'd chosen it from a number submitted by artists in the district and expected it to be approved before the meeting ended. It would have been, except for Mrs Robertson, otherwise known as Jenny.

Jenny had been voted onto the Arts Committee by my astute editor, keen on livening things up a bit and she was the reason I was there that night. He'd suggested the previous reporter chat up the Minutes Secretary for inside information and get her private view of things. Silly man. She gave him private all right. He'd not been well after the meeting and was still limping badly to boot. But I digress. Jenny took her place at meetings and said little for the first six months, luring the chairperson into thinking he had her sewn up and in the bag like the rest of the committee. Pity. It blew her a mention in the New Year Awards and trip to Government House.

Jenny had a quiet, winsome way about her. An artist in her own right, she could throw a pot on the wheel with the best of them. She had also, on the odd occasion, thrown the wheel as well. However, it was the startling freshness of her pottery, painting, cake decorating, quilt and home made wine making that won the day for her. A group of supporters who enjoyed her unusual way of doing things gathered around her; a group who packed quite a collective wallop. What the stiff backed, straight laced, long-nosed, hoity-toity so-called arty folk on the arts council needed, they suggested to her, was a “cultural shock”. Not just your average run-of-the-mill one either. A bobby-dazzler was needed. Jenny agreed and planned to deliver one at the next committee meeting, the one my editor had deviously assigned to me.

Mrs Millicent Pemberton-Jones was at her boring best that night. Owner of the Artist’s Palette Studio she was considered something of an artist by her mother, the milkman and two express seed delivery men from out of town. Just before the meeting ended, she removed the cloth from the painting, with the intriguing title: 'After-thoughts’. “This work,” she said in the confidential tone she used when elevating herself in conjunction with whatever she was promoting, “This work, commissioned by the proprietor of the Light and Bouncy Gym for ladies, is the one I recommend for the art award this year.” I contemplated asking her to place it the right way up but refrained after I'd pretending to tie my shoe-lace, and from an upside down position found it was still beyond comprehension.

She allowed some time for the animated discussion to subside before asking Jenny for her opinion. A cunning move. Several had already commented loudly on how wonderful the item was. Surely it would have been churlish for anyone to say otherwise. It was at this point that Jenny thought one of her many indelicate thoughts, the kind that makes you laugh inwardly when you're with company, but outwardly and with considerable gusto when you're on your own. Jenny knew from past experiences that telling it like it is could mean she'd get rather damp. Pissing against the wind tends to have that effect. She even pictured how and why this happened before dismissing it from her mind.

As she rose to her feet her coat slipped open and I knew I had a hum-dinger of a front-pager. All talking stopped immediately and the room fell silent. In that one act, Jenny, a real artist had succeeded in receiving the undivided attention of the whole committee in such a way that Mrs Millicent Pemberton-Jones had never done before. I forgot to mention that another of Jenny's achievements was painting on satin. The dress she wore was satin. Satin and flesh-coloured. Satin, flesh-coloured and sporting two superb likenesses of the female breast. So life-like in fact that at first glance I believed them to be her very own. “Now that I've got your attention Madame Chairperson,” she said smiling, her diction clear, her voice lilting, her eyes sparkling and her dress stunning, “I don't know how or by what criteria you rate something to be worthy of an award. I have my own, natural ideas, and…” indicating towards the picture, added, “…in my opinion, that is not art.”

Three male members of the committee burst into spontaneous applause along with several members of the public. A couple of portable phones appeared and someone offered a drink of water to the chairperson. She needed it, especially when Jenny walked up to the front, removed her coat and turned to look at the painting. Talk about your pièce de résistance. This was a beauty or they were beauties, depending on your point of view. Two life-sized buttocks painted on the back of the soft material shimmered life-like as Jenny moved slightly this way and that in the manner of female models the world over. Oh yes. It was art at its best and spelt the end for Mrs Millicent Pemberton-Jones.

For Jenny, it was a new beginning. What clinched it was the comment she made just before she returned to her seat and the meeting ended. She appeared to have an after-thought, beamed at everyone, smiled coquettishly and murmured softly, “I would like to point out that I've merely applied a little reverse order to my satin painting. You do realise, everyone here tonight, that we are entirely au naturel under our clothing?”
Changes were made, of course. A new committee was elected, with Jenny as Chairperson, and the way was now clear for art to breathe again. I'll leave you to guess who and what won the award. Jenny did enjoy her holiday in Tahiti. Fell in love with a sensitive new age guy, who like herself was into “interesting dressing” as a hobby. Lovely, eh?

Dennis Crompton © 1998
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)