My Grandfather's Studio

My grandfather’s studio was high in his dustless Tudor house,
the twisting stairs steep, mysterious and panelled in dark oak,
an intimidating climb, cause for clutched teddy-bear reassurances,
but the room itself was full of both light and fascination,
intermingling smells of cigars, paints, turpentine and linseed oil,
whole flowerbeds of paint-laden palettes I was forbidden to even approach,
jars of brushes, palette knives, stick pens, India ink,
things incomprehensible ad infinitum.

He would tickle my ears with brushes softer than the kitten’s fur,
draw my fingertips in tactile expeditions across the virgin potentiality of stretched canvases,
talk of proportions, shades and hues, light and its absence,
make me feel his equal, if only for the instant.

My grandmother would appear periodically, bringing me lemonade and
him the tart, chalky green plum wine she concocted every year,
each time as she left casting a withering glance
at an unframed oil painting of what I thought of then as merely
a pretty lady and not, as I now suspect,
a prickly reminder of a perhaps-imagined affair with a long-overtaken model.

With his own hands he matched his grand easel with one fit for diminutive aspirations,
provided me pencils, immense sheets of heavy, rag-edged paper and
a brightly-coloured tin box of child’s watercolours,
ones I never did learn to use to advantage.

I could soar then on pretences, scratching and whispering
toddler visions crawling onto my easel
while his easy genius coaxed hallelujah imagery to flower on his own.

The moments children take for granted…