Page 156 of The Pearl Sister
Over lunch, my grandfather and I discussed it in more depth, and after we’d eaten, we sat side by side in front of a fresh canvas as he showed me his technique for painting the dots and then softening their edges so that from a distance, they didn’t look like dots at all.
‘Everyone has their own personal way of painting, and their own techniques,’ he said as I gave it a go, ‘and I’m sure you will develop yours. It really is a case of trial and error, and there’ll be a lot of the latter. It’s a part of the process as we improve.’ Then he turned and stared at me. ‘The most important question to ask is whether the painting style itself – never mind the result – felt right?’
‘Oh, it did, definitely. I mean, I really enjoyed it.’
‘Then you have found your metier. For now, at least, because an artist’s life is all about finding new ways of expressing themself.’
‘You mean, I might have a weird Picasso moment at some point?’ I chuckled.
‘Most painters do – including me – but I always came back to the style I felt most comfortable with.’
‘Well, I’ve certainly had a few of those moments in the past,’ I said, and told him about my weird installation last year.
‘Don’t you see that you were just using real objects to study shape and form? You were learning how to position the components on a canvas. All experimentation teaches you something.’
‘I’ve never looked at it like that before, but yeah, you’re right.’
‘You’re a natural-born artist, Celaeno, and now you have taken all those important first steps towards finding your own style, the sky is the limit. Just one thing, I noticed you haven’t signed the painting yet.’
‘I never do usually ’cos I don’t want anyone to know it was painted by me.’
‘Do you with this?’
‘Yeah. I do.’
‘Then you’d better get practising your signature,’ Francis advised me. ‘I promise that it’ll be the first of many.’
Later that afternoon, I took a thin brush and a tube of black oil and stood in front of the painting, readying myself to sign it.
Celaeno D’Aplièse?
CeCe D’Aplièse?
C. D’Aplièse . . . ?
Then a thought struck me and I wandered over to my grandfather, who was sitting on the veranda, whittling at a piece of wood.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Having a “Picasso moment”,’ he smiled at me. ‘Seeing what shapes I can create. It’s not going well. Signed your picture yet?’
‘No, ’cos the thing is that “Celaeno D’Aplièse” is a bit of a mouthful and I get really irritated when everyone pronounces the “D’Aplièse” wrong.’
‘You’re asking me if you should have a nom de plume?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t know what.’
‘I wouldn’t mind at all if you took my surname, even though that was a made-up one.’
‘Thanks, but then I’d be trading on your name and being your granddaughter and all and . . .’
‘You want to do it by your talent alone. I understand.’
‘So, I was thinking that, if your biological father had married your mum like he wanted to, your surname would have been Mercer?’
‘Yes, it would have been.’
‘And my mum’s, at least until she got married.’
