Eye of an Artist

Hi Authonomites, I reached 103, and was short-listed.

My 245 comments from Authonomites have been saved. Many thanks to all who commented.

So far I have had feedback from established writers: Scott Bradfield, Jacob Ross, Romesh Guneskera, Stella Duffy, Mary Micheals [poet], Paul Magrs, Dr Natalie Teizler [poet], and Dr Jorge Forjaz, and numerous developing writers in London.

The first three pages of Chapter 1 after the Prologue:

Prologue

Before my dream ended, I peered into the drawer of a magnificent, mahogany desk. An atlas of the world lay inside wrapped in tissue paper. It told the story of Portuguese trading posts on exotic coastlines including Macau, the place of my forebears.
Other drawers began to open of their own accord. A butterfly from Hangzhou fluttered out, bringing with it the smell of camphor wood. A Chengdu panda lay curled up in another, dozing quietly, while to the right, a dugong from Malacca raised its wet head for a kiss. I put my arms around it, squeezing its salty mass. Another drawer shuddered open, full of travel. Inside, a blue envelope, postmarked: ‘Los Angeles’, was waiting to be read one more time:

My dear dear Jolly,

It made me happy to get your phone call. You will be glad to know a new pill is working wonders at eighty-nine years of age. I have no fear of death in fact will welcome it. Weather here turned cold. 'Thinking of going to Vancouver in March, the month I can eat mangoes from Manila. There has never been a doubt in my mind that one day you will become a famous artist.
Cheeki

Great Aunty Cheeki dos Remedios, you have gone back as dust to the earth, but I will always remember you.

..............................................

1 Peckham

IT WAS JUNE 1982, AND PECKHAM HIGH STREET WAS a huddle of shops topped with peppermint green canopies held down by heavy sunshine. It reminded Jolenta of the painting Sunday Morning by Edward Hopper: a mix of harmony and discord. Except it was Tuesday mid-morning in south London, and the street was full of people shopping, loitering, or eating fry-ups. It was a big surprise, Hopper being everywhere. She recognised him in cornices, in lampposts, in shop facades, in social interactions, and in the sharp contrast of light and dark. And it made her impatient.

A pigeon settled on the roof of Welch's Florist & Greengrocer, a brash, green shop dominating the street. Suddenly, the shadow of a man in Trilby and raincoat swept across the bold, half-moon shape of white letters: Flowers for All Occasions. From the window, weighing scales pulsated like an all-seeing-eye hovering over oranges and lemons. After that, Bellenden Grove, a soft curve of residential housing, took over.

He's everywhere, she said, stopping to check her watch.

On the ground she could see a trail of cigarette stubs ending at the door of a taxi rank office. Oily, brown smells blew out of a kebab shop underlining a scent of urine. 8 Tracks & Tapes was all ripped hood, second-hand goods dangling over warm pavement and used pots and pans glinting in the sun. A scraggy fur coat and clumps of tangled electrics added to the collection.
.....................................

How can anyone earn a living in this fleapit? Worth investigating, that's for sure, and she might find a bargain. Inside, there were wall clocks with pendulums, tarnished jewellery, old radios, framed reproductions, and slices of dusty clutter. There was also a blonde woman sitting behind a counter with an Alsatian dog sprawled out across her feet, looking about as lively as a jar of cabbage. Only the dog responded by panting expansively. Perhaps it's a secret gambling den, Jolenta mused. Its dark enough, and when night arrives, Cabbage Face comes alive fed on a diet of nicotine, vodka, and dice. Next door, The Bouncing Ball Reggae Club joins forces, thudding base into the black sky.

Jolenta gave up on the woman and went back to her investigation of the High Street, which ended at the junction at Queen Street, The Old Kent Road, and Manze’s Eel, Pie and Mash Shop. It was eleven fifty-five. She hurried back. Anxiety was starting to creep in.

She found Melon Road, which was more of an alleyway than a road boxed in by high walls and barbed wire. It led to Sumner Road, where The Alliance, a pub, was the most noticeable landmark, facing a large housing development with a prominent stone archway. She was in the right place. She entered the courtyard surrounded by balconies and flats, climbed three flights of concrete steps, stopped in front of a door numbered thirty-three, and knocked loudly.

A slight man in a grey jumper opened up. He had a girly complexion, white and soft like the skin of an albino peach, framed by a heavy fringe over heavy-rimmed glasses, and a strong chin. His accent was startling, full of privilege and learning. Her own voice spilled out: a whimsical song of northern, working class undulations, lacking weight and vocabulary.

Tom smiled warmly and ushered her in.
.......................................

He whisked off her coat with innate elegance, and pointed to a chair by a wooden table. After asking about her journey, he declared lunch 'ready'. The 'interview lunch' had begun. Tom began to rush in and out from the kitchen, cradling a set of ivory dishes, and laying them down with pride.

“I’ve made a cheese soufflé with salad and a strawberry meringue for dessert,” he declared with a tea towel over his arm. Every word was uttered with the clarity of an Oxford don. Jolenta thought she was going to have a breakdown. She had never met anyone like Tom before.

What do you do with a soufflé? Eat it in the baking dish, or spoon it out next to the salad? My mother had no English tradition.

A man, who makes meringues? What is filter coffee?

Oh, my childhood, she moaned inwardly, unhappy meal times of Spam and fatty meat that made me gag; a kitchen out of bounds too damp for shelving; everything piled onto one Formica table; no fridge; and the oven collapsing onto my mince pies. No fresh fruit or vegetables.

She made sure not to spill food. Every time she took a sideways glance at Tom, he radiated warmth, hospitality, impeccable manners, while she begrudged him his fresh strawberries.

She had her college friend, Heather, to thank for the introduction.
Brother and sister had the same angular bones. Long eyelashes too, adding prettiness to their faces. He was probably twenty-seven, six years older than Heather. But any resemblance between the two was coincidental. Both were adopted from separate families and hated each other.

“Heather tells me you aspire to John Berger's writings,” Tom said enthusiastically... continued

The first three pages of Chapter 1 after the Prologue:

1 Peckham

IT WAS JUNE 1982, AND PECKHAM HIGH STREET WAS a huddle of shops topped with peppermint green canopies held down by heavy sunshine. It reminded Jolenta of the painting Sunday Morning by Edward Hopper: a mix of harmony and discord. Except it was Tuesday mid-morning in south London, and the street was full of people shopping, loitering, or eating fry-ups. It was a big surprise, Hopper being everywhere. She recognised him in cornices, in lampposts, in shop facades, in social interactions, and in the sharp contrast of light and dark. And it made her impatient.

A pigeon settled on the roof of Welch's Florist & Greengrocer, a brash, green shop dominating the street. Suddenly, the shadow of a man in Trilby and raincoat swept across the bold, half-moon shape of white letters: Flowers for All Occasions. From the window, weighing scales pulsated like an all-seeing-eye hovering over oranges and lemons. After that, Bellenden Grove, a soft curve of residential housing, took over.

He's everywhere, she said, stopping to check her watch.

On the ground she could see a trail of cigarette stubs ending at the door of a taxi rank office. Oily, brown smells blew out of a kebab shop underlining a scent of urine. 8 Tracks & Tapes was all ripped hood, second-hand goods dangling over warm pavement and used pots and pans glinting in the sun. A scraggy fur coat and clumps of tangled electrics added to the collection.
.....................................

How can anyone earn a living in this fleapit? Worth investigating, that's for sure, and she might find a bargain. Inside, there were wall clocks with pendulums, tarnished jewellery, old radios, framed reproductions, and slices of dusty clutter. There was also a blonde woman sitting behind a counter with an Alsatian dog sprawled out across her feet, looking about as lively as a jar of cabbage. Only the dog responded by panting expansively. Perhaps it's a secret gambling den, Jolenta mused. Its dark enough, and when night arrives, Cabbage Face comes alive fed on a diet of nicotine, vodka, and dice. Next door, The Bouncing Ball Reggae Club joins forces, thudding base into the black sky.

Jolenta gave up on the woman and went back to her investigation of the High Street, which ended at the junction at Queen Street, The Old Kent Road, and Manze’s Eel, Pie and Mash Shop. It was eleven fifty-five. She hurried back. Anxiety was starting to creep in.

She found Melon Road, which was more of an alleyway than a road boxed in by high walls and barbed wire. It led to Sumner Road, where The Alliance, a pub, was the most noticeable landmark, facing a large housing development with a prominent stone archway. She was in the right place. She entered the courtyard surrounded by balconies and flats, climbed three flights of concrete steps, stopped in front of a door numbered thirty-three, and knocked loudly.

A slight man in a grey jumper opened up. He had a girly complexion, white and soft like the skin of an albino peach, framed by a heavy fringe over heavy-rimmed glasses, and a strong chin. His accent was startling, full of privilege and learning. Her own voice spilled out: a whimsical song of northern, working class undulations, lacking weight and vocabulary.

Tom smiled warmly and ushered her in.
.......................................

He whisked off her coat with innate elegance, and pointed to a chair by a wooden table. After asking about her journey, he declared lunch 'ready'. The 'interview lunch' had begun. Tom began to rush in and out from the kitchen, cradling a set of ivory dishes, and laying them down with pride.

“I’ve made a cheese soufflé with salad and a strawberry meringue for dessert,” he declared with a tea towel over his arm. Every word was uttered with the clarity of an Oxford don. Jolenta thought she was going to have a breakdown. She had never met anyone like Tom before.

What do you do with a soufflé? Eat it in the baking dish, or spoon it out next to the salad? My mother had no English tradition.

A man, who makes meringues? What is filter coffee?

Oh, my childhood, she moaned inwardly, unhappy meal times of Spam and fatty meat that made me gag; a kitchen out of bounds too damp for shelving; everything piled onto one Formica table; no fridge; and the oven collapsing onto my mince pies. No fresh fruit or vegetables.

She made sure not to spill food. Every time she took a sideways glance at Tom, he radiated warmth, hospitality, impeccable manners, while she begrudged him his fresh strawberries.

She had her college friend, Heather, to thank for the introduction.
Brother and sister had the same angular bones. Long eyelashes too, adding prettiness to their faces. He was probably twenty-seven, six years older than Heather. But any resemblance between the two was coincidental. Both were adopted from separate families and hated each other.

“Heather tells me you aspire to John Berger's writings,” Tom said enthusiastically... continued

Yolanda,
Your book is a rarity containing gold nuggets of information not to be found in the cut-and-dried formula-induced tomes you find festering on bookstore shelves these days. Your avatar Jol looks at life with a dry sense of humour probably derived from her Brit exposure. What I would love to see would be more on the jail experience in China (perhaps as an opening scene where Jol reflects on all the backstory leading her there) and then moving forward to Macau, elaborating on the first Portuguese settlers, their relationships with the Chinese and where Jol fits in all this. Thank you so much for the compelling tale.

Kenneth Edward Lim
The North Korean

Yolanda - The Eye of the Artist has great appeal - have backed you with stars before reading a great deal, but intend to do so in the following days. Well done! You may not be in the swapping game, I am not either and only back if the writing warrants it - if you have time do take a look at my book Freckles the Fawn - best wishes Balepy

Hi Authonomites, I reached 103, and was short-listed.

My 245 comments from Authonomites have been saved. Many thanks to all who commented.

So far I have had feedback from established writers: Scott Bradfield, Jacob Ross, Romesh Guneskera, Stella Duffy, Mary Micheals [poet], Paul Magrs, Dr Natalie Teizler [poet], and Dr Jorge Forjaz, and numerous developing writers in London.