She glanced down at her tote. ‘Yeah. It’s Jack Whitten.The purpose of art is to expand consciousness.He’s an American painter and sculptor from the—’
‘I know who Jack Whitten is,’ Trip said.
‘Oh, right,’ said Ivy. Unconsciously, she had formed the opinion that Trip’s idea of culture involved surfing and green juice.
‘I used to go to MOMA a lot. One of my gran’s family friends is an artist in the West Village and she was always taking us on what she calledartistic expeditions. She knew half of the modern artists that exhibited there.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Ivy enviously. Yet more evidence of Trip’s charmed life that she could only dream of.
‘Expand consciousness. It’s a big aim,’ he said.
‘Yeah.’ Ivy sighed. ‘And someone like Jack Whitten had stuff tosay, you know? All the greats did. What haveIgot to say? Not much.’
‘You’re worried about that big piece of coursework?’ He caught her surprised look. ‘What? You mentioned it the other night. I was just paying attention.’
‘Yeah, I notice you do that,’ Ivy said. ‘If you must know, yes, Iamworried. I haven’t got much to hand in so far.’
‘How much is not much?’ he asked.
‘Oh,’ she said evasively, ‘a few sketches.’ She met his clear gaze and groaned. ‘Well,halfa sketch, to be exact. The thing is, I don’t know what I want tosay. I’ve tried making art thatreflects social change. I’ve tried considering political themes. I feel like my brain is going to explode. Everything I try just feels … rubbish.’
‘I’m sure it’s not rubbish,’ Trip said. ‘It sounds like you’re thinkingtoohard. Thought is the enemy of flow.’
‘Okay,’ said Ivy. ‘That sounds very zen.’
‘Vinnie Colaiuta said that. A famous drummer. He should know, right? Drumming is all about flow.’
‘Another old family friend?’ she teased.
‘Actually, we did go see him once,’ he admitted. ‘At a jazz club.’
They passed Fin’s bakery, now dark except for the soft lamplight in the flat above, where Ivy knew that Josie would now be making dinner – a concoction of strange ingredients that shouldn’t go together and yet, somehow, would prove to be utterly delicious. The window in the bakery was slightly fogged, a silhouette moving inside. Fin prepping for the next day’s bread, like he did every night.
The streetlights came on, as they also did at the same time every night. Old Bill was there as always on the harbour, tapping out his pipe, ready to head home. Simi was lighting the candles in the windows of the Mariner’s Arms, preparing for the evening shift. Lou was stoking her pizza oven. Kate was locking up the surf shed … Everything here in Fox Bay was the same as always, Ivy thought, night after night – routine and cosy and small.
And what’s wrong with that?a little voice asked. It wasn’t likethe outside world had been so great. She had only made it as far as Truro before she’d come scurrying back.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Trip said, bringing her out of her thoughts.
‘Sure.’
‘Do you ever draw Fox Bay?’
She glanced at him. ‘What?’
‘Your art,’ he said. ‘You said you were exploring all those big themes and ideas, but you’ve never mentioned anything to do withthisplace. Your home. It’s a lot of material right under your nose.’
Ivy considered his question as they walked on, passing the old stone buildings, the fairy lights strung along the windows of Tamsin’s crystal shop, the familiar red door of the post office. She thought of the pieces she had done in Sixth Form that her teacher had loved. Large-scale, moody charcoal pieces of the Great Pyramid at Giza, Machu Picchu at dawn, the Great Wall being lashed by a storm. The Taj Mahal, the Statue of Zeus. Places she had never been to except in her imagination; wonders she had never seen except online or in books.
‘I don’t know,’ Ivy said eventually. ‘I guess when I think of art, I think of something big and amazing. Why would I focus on something small and unimportant like this?’
Trip was quiet for a moment, then he said, ‘If you had something you really wanted to say, right now, something urgent and important – would it be this hard to put your finger on what that is?’
Ivy opened her mouth to argue and he hurried on.
‘And don’t you think the things you see every dayareimportant? Worth noticing? I mean, look at this place.’ He waved his arms around at the darkened cobbled streets. ‘It’s magical. Weird, sure. But full of stories. Half the people in town seem like they’ve stepped out of a novel. And I bet not all those stories are simple or easy.’ He shrugged. ‘Look, I’m not suggesting you draw Fox Bay for the rest of your life. But if you’re stuck for the next step, maybe this could be your way in. Draw what you see in front of you. It’s like Monet said,Nature is the source of my inspiration.’
‘How many inspirational quotes do you have up your sleeve?’ Ivy muttered.
