It’s been five days since and it’s time. I don my wellies and stride through the wet grass and up the Scrabo stone steps to my heron house, so called on account of my love for the birds that wait silently at the water’s edge without rush or rhyme.
I fumble with the keys. The door is warped after the hot and cold of the seasons. And there he is on the wall – a study in pink and cobalt oil scrapings – the paint thick and textured. The water shimmers in the background – an ice blue lake flecked with indigo shadows. The bird’s head is hunched to rest the long heavy neck, his eyes alert to movement in the nearer distance. He looks away towards the window, towards forever. Does he know his maker is dead?
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I found it in his studio, on the ground leaning against the wall. ‘A heron?’ I said. ‘It’s yours,’ he said. ‘I did it for you but I wasn’t sure if it was good enough.’
It is good enough. You were good enough.
It was our last conversation. Is the heartache of the artist embedded in his art? I have been standing in front of his paintings since I heard the news looking for answers, looking for questions. In one abstract, a brown strip separates grey strokes from hues of deep marine. There are splashes of ochre and a bright red speck – a boat’s sail, a flag, a deck chair on the beach? I asked him about the painting and he hesitated. ‘You see what you want to see,’ he said, smiling mysteriously.
In another painting, we are looking out across Strangford Lough to an island. I don’t know which one; there are so many. ‘It’s from the gates of Mount Stewart,’ he said, so I go there and stand, looking for him. Can I feel his presence in this space? The beauty and texture and colour are him as much as the final moments of despair. He cannot be defined by the manner of his passing. Van Gogh’s sunflowers still scream life and beauty.
There is a wall beside the lough. I climb onto it and walk along its flat but uneven surface. The tide is slowly seeping in. A cheeky seal pops up and gives me the once over. I am nothing to him; for me it is a wild encounter. Like the heron who soars suddenly overhead and settles gracefully on the rocks below. Thank you, thank you. He gazes out to sea. Waiting. He only stirs when the spirit moves. He is standing on one leg, like in the painting.
I too am just about standing up – one spindle holds me steady, keeps me connected to mother earth. The other is curled beneath me in a crippled spasm of guilt and fear. If he cannot go on, what life is left for me? For all of us who loved him?
Some people cannot live with the 'tormented mind tormenting yet'. Hopkins lifts his eyes to the 'skies betweenpie mountains,' but sometimes the heart is just too heavy.
In my hideaway, I caress the bird’s lumpy feathers and am overwhelmed by a grief that threatens to steal my very breath. ‘Please, please don’t be dead,’ I plead. The heron is silent as the grave.
‘It’s not the sea at all,’ he said, holding the painting at arm’s length. ‘It’s a study of daylight playing on a rusting iron pole. It’s about contrast.'
I laughed. ‘No red sail, then.’
‘No red sail.’
‘It’s still a thing of beauty,’ I said.
There is only one creator, all else is imitation. If an artist can transform death and decay into roaring life and colour, so then can his God. With him, there is no ending. I rest in the transformative power of unfailing love and gently close the door of the heron house behind me.
It was our last conversation. Is the heartache of the artist embedded in his art? I have been standing in front of his paintings since I heard the news looking for answers, looking for questions. In one abstract, a brown strip separates grey strokes from hues of deep marine. There are splashes of ochre and a bright red speck – a boat’s sail, a flag, a deck chair on the beach? I asked him about the painting and he hesitated. ‘You see what you want to see,’ he said, smiling mysteriously.
In another painting, we are looking out across Strangford Lough to an island. I don’t know which one; there are so many. ‘It’s from the gates of Mount Stewart,’ he said, so I go there and stand, looking for him. Can I feel his presence in this space? The beauty and texture and colour are him as much as the final moments of despair. He cannot be defined by the manner of his passing. Van Gogh’s sunflowers still scream life and beauty.
There is a wall beside the lough. I climb onto it and walk along its flat but uneven surface. The tide is slowly seeping in. A cheeky seal pops up and gives me the once over. I am nothing to him; for me it is a wild encounter. Like the heron who soars suddenly overhead and settles gracefully on the rocks below. Thank you, thank you. He gazes out to sea. Waiting. He only stirs when the spirit moves. He is standing on one leg, like in the painting.
I too am just about standing up – one spindle holds me steady, keeps me connected to mother earth. The other is curled beneath me in a crippled spasm of guilt and fear. If he cannot go on, what life is left for me? For all of us who loved him?
Some people cannot live with the 'tormented mind tormenting yet'. Hopkins lifts his eyes to the 'skies betweenpie mountains,' but sometimes the heart is just too heavy.
In my hideaway, I caress the bird’s lumpy feathers and am overwhelmed by a grief that threatens to steal my very breath. ‘Please, please don’t be dead,’ I plead. The heron is silent as the grave.
‘It’s not the sea at all,’ he said, holding the painting at arm’s length. ‘It’s a study of daylight playing on a rusting iron pole. It’s about contrast.'
I laughed. ‘No red sail, then.’
‘No red sail.’
‘It’s still a thing of beauty,’ I said.
There is only one creator, all else is imitation. If an artist can transform death and decay into roaring life and colour, so then can his God. With him, there is no ending. I rest in the transformative power of unfailing love and gently close the door of the heron house behind me.
Written in memory of my friend and fellow creative, Robert Robinson.
