Smile

Early this morning I took the Shogun up the western side of the gorge, on the new "road" - as yet a bulldozed trail, zigzagging up the cliffs.1

The driving exhilarates me - it always does. Men hew these tracks from living rock; two huge plates of the earth's crust meet under this range and where they collide, the mountains rise.2

Tremors are frequent, so debris litters all high-country roads in Cyprus. The huge forces at work beneath mock any and all human endeavours - the massive bulldozed banks can slump without warning. Every day, labourers clear the hazard; overnight, more rock falls. Closures and detours make travel between the villages arduous and slow - and In winter, it's worse.3

But someday these mountains will stand as high as the Himalayas. It's a fine piece of luck to attend their birth.4

Around noon I pause atop a dragon-backed ridge. I've seen no-one for over an hour, so, leaving the Shogun in the shade, I stand astride the deserted road, stretching my arms out, palms down. I'm at the apex of the world - the sea extends to the horizon in both directions, starting right under my feet. 5

A resin-scented wind stirs the pines. All else is silent.6

I stand many minutes, fixing the illusion. Then I head down.7

At a crossroads in the pitch forest I select the nearest of three unknown villages from a crooked signpost. An hour later, after another battle with yet another gorge, a flash of azure sea; twenty minutes more and I allow myself to feel some relief, for I've regained the tarmac’d coast road.8

I study the scene before choosing my route. Mountain meets sea here, forming a scalloped, scimitar-shaped edge three miles long. Where the slopes are most acute, every kilometer or so, scree-fields stretch up from the waves like the fingers of the drowned.9

Turning left, I pull the Shogun onto a dirt track, heading towards a crumbling black bluff I can see, thirty meters high. To one side, a new breakwater protects a few fishing boats and part-conceals a stony beach beyond. Local eyes are on Europe: a blue flag and neat stone wall dignify an entry-point.10

I am hot, thirsty, weary, yet I hesitate: this is a tourist-beach. Everything I value about this island – all that makes living here valuable - is missed by most of those who bring in so much of its revenue. The locals are patient but generally despise them; I make them the subject of my work but avoid their company for many reasons, and crowded beaches disgust me. Like anyone sensible here, I live by the sea, and swim every dawn - but alone. 11

Yet the time of day for work has come – and for now I’ve had enough of the unforgiving road. My clothing, like the Shogun, is streaked with rust-coloured grit; and the struggle with the mountain has depleted my reserves.12

I consider the options.13

Two tavernas look down from different points along the bay, far enough away to blend in rather than feature. Yes, those will do for later. All I need to work lies in the back of the jeep… and it is a tranquil spot... Promising.14

I leave the car at the top of the bluff and head toward the water, grateful that there’s no bar to draw the very worst species of visitor. As I reach the bottom, two Greek Cypriots in khaki shorts and straw cowboy hats, like my own, are grinning, looking my way.15

The concessionaire is the taller – slightly stooped, long-haired, forty-something, a 70’s throwback.16

“Hello, welcome. I like your hat.”17

He greets me in English. I ignore his presumption. “Where would you like to sit? I know, come with me, at the far end it is quiet, that’s for you.”18

He takes money and sets me up at one end of the beach with a sunshade, two striped chairs and two canvas stools, just a few feet from the water. Others, not many, read or swim nearby. This pleases me; I can paint here, perhaps, without detection. 19

Sitting, I unpack the black canvas bag: water, sun-block, suit, sarong. For a few moments I breathe deeply and take in all that surrounds me.20

The light… This September day, the light is a force - not harsh, as in June or July, but dazzling and diamond-clear. The colours blaze, lit from within. 21

I recognise I must work in colour today. 22

Decision taken, I shed my soiled clothes. Picking up my mask I enter the water.23

I am a good swimmer. I clear the shallows without effort, and swim out to explore deeper water. I shiver as I cut across a cold thermo-cline, and then settle to float, in pure pleasure, along a surface layer, warm as a bath.24

A reef and many strange black and pale shapes signify that molten basalt once intruded into these beds of white limestone. Both are now defeated by the sea.25

(Stone smashes scissors… water wraps stone…)26

I swim until refreshed. After a final look at the forms under the water-line, I head for shore. Like the others I must struggle free of the sucking, graded particles at the water’s edge, but it’s quickly done. I reach my chair and use the tan sarong to towel dry. 27

I close my eyes, and allow the sun kiss my skin, Time stops for me. I breathe until…28

I realize I am revived.29

I am shaking with excitement when I sit down, my deep black bag in my lap, and draw out my materials. Water-colours first, then paper, and finally the silver box of Japanese pens. 30

I open the colours to admire them. They are new; three blues, three greens, three earths - plus navy, umber, black and titanium both yellow and white . Any colour can be mixed from these. I am pleased with the selection.31

I slip the wash and fine sable brushes out of their transparent sleeves. Laying the box out flat on one of the stools and removing the blotter, I add water to the lid. Then I breathe again.32

Ready, now. Hunting begins.33

The line of the horizon must be placed first.34

I look around me, making my selection.35

Ah. There.36

A beefy sunburn-and-pale man, dark-haired, splashes nearby with two small boys, miniatures of their father. Their mother sits on her deck chair pretending to read, glancing up irritably every few moments as if it is their fault she cannot concentrate. She blames them for this, visibly, as if her distraction has nothing to do with the overwhelming lure of her surroundings or the unquiet state of her relationship with her husband.37

I watch them a moment, fascinated – her anger towards the man is palpable. As the trio leaves the water and approaches, she grows more hostile still , puffing herself up like an angry kitten in front of an unfamiliar threat. 38

I cannot hear the discussion from this distance but behind my sunglasses, I watch more closely. Ah… They argue about the division of labour – why she, who is sitting reading, is contributing greater effort, and why she, therefore, should continue to evade the burden of child-care.39

It is a good scene for me… the man, so pale and pink – someone should warn him to apply more sunscreen, already he is badly burned – but also feckless, like a large garden slug caught out in the sun… the woman, a scrawny harpy, a chain-store Medea, caring nothing for the feelings of her sons so long as her own needs are met…. the two boys - the older resentful, sullenly kicking the sand, while his depressed younger brother buries his sorrows in a family-sized bag of potato chips.40

Their domestic drama reminds me, ironically, of that sculpture – what is it? Laocoon and his sons, trapped in the coils of Apollo’s serpent.41

How apt, the sun-god.42

Dipping the brush in the water I lay down the line of the horizon – the ochre bluff behind, with the mountains – raw sienna - a higher and darker mass, behind. The marine blue of water and paler sky, a fine white line between. Watching my subjects intently, working as fast a I can, I block the group in imagination and then faintly in pencil, identifying the essentials – this shape, that, the single line or detail that expresses each personality and reveals the whole. I study the group in relation to their surroundings – forget the black basalt, bad for the composition , keep the encircling breakwater – and finally, with the Japanese ink, begin the capture in strong black line, straight to paper, no thinking, the image sure and swift, a little visitation of genius, so easy, the brush gliding across the textured surface, perfect economy of line, a portrait, bold and growing effortlessly, just a few more strokes now and -43

"Hello there."44

I am so started that my pen skips across the page, slicing Laocoon in two.45

"Excuse me? Are you an artist?"46

My beautiful drawing…47

The feeling of rage is so pure, so, exquisite, that I smile. It is a smile of recognition…years have passed since such a feeling has visited me, like this. I welcome it, like a very old and dear friend, come to call. 48

I lift my head and turn towards the voice. A shapeless, ginger-speckled woman in a sun hat stands behind my shoulder. The flat vowels link her to the north of England – Manchester.49

"I’m sorry, were you speaking to me?"50

"I was just saying to my husband – we’re sitting over there , I hope you don’t mind, what are you working with, water-colours, are they?"51

My smile broadens. She cannot see my eyes.52

"What else might they be?"53

"What are you working on? Oh, that looks –"54

Checking first that it’s dry, I close the pad firmly.55

I look towards the family who are my subject, only to see them packing their picnic things into a cool-box. Wrapping himself in a blue-striped towel the pink man lifts the box onto his shoulder and trudges towards the exit while the younger child helps his mother gather the litter of their belongings. 56

The elder is nowhere to be seen.57

I’ve lost them. I’ve lost them, because of this foolish woman.58

"Do you often use watercolours? I thought I might try my hand, you know, on holiday, I tried on that cartridge paper but it wasn’t right…"59

Ah. that’s what she wants.60

"At the very least you'll need paper then. Let me give you some."61

"No, I couldn’t."62

"You must. It’s of no consequence. You must take it."63

"No I couldn’t, really, it’s so expensive –"64

I look at her, conceal my impatience. The beautiful white paper I use costs less than a starter at one of the tavernas nearby.65

"You must. "66

"No."67

I drop the subject and rise, begin to pack up my work-bag. My hand encounters the camera on the bottom of the bag.68

I freeze.69

I smile again.70

"Time for lunch. I wonder, would you mind if I took your picture? I’d like to remember this beach, a picture of you and your husband would be help me recall it. Perhaps I could send it to you later?"71

"Oh, why no, I wouldn’t mind, that would be very nice."72

"Why don’t you go check with your husband? I’ll be over in a minute."73

I remove the digital camera, eight million mega-pixels, from the bottom of the bag. It is no substitute for the ruined drawing, but at least I won’t go home empty-handed. 74

The sarong is dry; I loop it around my waist.75

Tearing the ruined drawing from the pad, I place it between the leaves of my sketchbook. The pad fits into the top of the black bag, which I sling over one bare shoulder.76

Checking that I have everything valuable, for I will return – briefly – later, I approach. She is combing the frizzy ginger hair excitedly and now wears a red-blotched sundress, tied at the neck. 77

"This is Jim."78

I smile79

"Hello Jim. You don’t mind if I take your photo?"80

"Not at all. That’s not an English accent."81

"No. Canadian."82

"Sheila says you’re an artist? What do you do?"83

"A little of this, a little of that...84

Could you get a little closer to Jim, there, Sheila? That’s better."85

I look at them through the viewfinder. The man is about sixty, arms and legs tanned a deep mahogany. He wears green shorts that strain over his white belly. Her paler skin looks mottled and blue beside him.86

"Smile."87

They do. So obedient.88

Before me sits forty years’ quiet prosperity: long hours working in a factory, then getting that job – finally – working for the Council. Buying their bungalow, which she keeps spotless, picture windows over the garden - front and back, yellow curtains in the kitchen, tie-backs, a table, white china cat climbing the kitchen wall, new bathroom, all white tiles, brand-new KIA on the freshly tarmac’d drive. Only her blue-veined legs evidence the children and grand-children whose photos, all possible sizes and shapes, grin and gurn from every flat surface in the house.89

In an instant I have it all.90

I smile, and hand her the white watercolour pad. 91

(Paper wraps stone...)92

"You must take it. It’s not my medium, really. Please."93

"Oh. Well, thank you…. Are you staying here long?"94

"No, just today. Well, Lunchtime. Goodbye."95

"See you again."96

A few minutes later, as I am approaching the nearer of the two tavernas I turn to look back. I check the photo against the scene, and begin to climb the steps. As I reach the top I hear a woman’s cry from the beach.97

I smile.