TWO SUMMERS AGO
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
It’s the first Saturday of August, the day of the St Agnes Carnival, and I’m upstairs at Seaglass, snatching a moment of peace before the madness hits. It’s only lunchtime – I plan to go and watch the parade later with Michael.
My friends are taking part this year – Rach is riding on a float for surfers and Amy has joined a comedy dance troupe. Dan, meanwhile, is one of about eight puppeteers who will be working the giant Bolster. Shirley took Michael and Timothy earlier to help decorate the giant effigy with fresh flowers. It’s always a fun day and Aggie is buzzing – the whole village comes out for it. I can’t wait to see my friends in action.
We’re hosting an after-party at Seaglass. We have a fantastic new head chef called Bill who’s been doing great things with our menu. Chas has always been so chilled, but he’s stepped up his game this year. He’s even started an Instagram page for Seaglass, posting regularly.
I figured I should probably do the same for myself, now that I’m getting commissioned, so a few weeks ago I set up an account of my own. It’s a bit alien to me, self-promotion, but it’s the way the world works these days so I’ve got to get on board if I want a career as a sculptor.
On a professional level, it’s been a great year. After Finn left last summer, I threw myself headlong into sculpting andfrom October, when Chas battened down Seaglass’s hatches for winter, it was pretty much all I did.
Arabella Schulman, the woman who commissioned me to make a sculpture of her late husband in the style of Gran’s, asked me to create a similar piece of her late son.
It was fun to sculpt her husband, who’d lived a long and happy life, but I found the process of working on her son emotional. He’d died in a motorbike accident decades earlier, and it made my heart squeeze to study photographs and imagine his mother’s pain when he’d been taken in such a sudden and tragic way at the age of nineteen. I poured a lot of my own sadness into that clay and I often found myself thinking about Mum and Dad. I realised I was approaching a time when I’d feel able to sculpt them.
I expected Arabella to well up when I presented the piece to her, but she simply stared at her boy for a long time before saying, ‘I’d like you to do me now. But I want a straightforward figurative portrait,’ she declared. ‘I haven’t gone yet.’
Sculpting Arabella was a different experience entirely. She sat for me throughout most of January, February and March, and towards the end of our intensive time together, she said that she would arrange a space for me to exhibit my work. I hadn’t realised how influential she’d been in the art world, having owned a gallery in London for many years, and she’s still well connected.
Once Arabella’s portrait was finished, I was ready to sculpt Mum and Dad.
The process was exquisitely heartbreaking and I was consumed at times, occasionally working right through the night and into the next day.
When Seaglass threw open its doors in April, I didn’t return immediately. I was too caught up in what I was doing.
In May, Arabella came through on her promise, arranging a space at a gallery in St Ives for me to exhibit my ‘bereaved’ series, which now included her late husband and son as well as Gran, whom I’d had recast in bronze.
When I was thinking about what to call the pieces, I was inspired by something Arabella herself had said when she’d asked me to sculpt her.
I want a straightforward figurative portrait. I haven’t gone yet.
The label I requested to be etched onto the plaques was ‘Gone’.
Rach, Amy, Chas and Dan came to the exhibition, as well as Michael and Shirley. Rach even brought a new friend from work.
It was one of my proudest moments to stand there amongst friends and family in my section of the gallery, talking to art enthusiasts. I got one more commission after that night, and there could be another on the cards.
But in June, once the fervour of sculpting my parents had begun to settle, I decided to return to Seaglass. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about stepping behind the bar again after so many months of working as an artist, but I found that I loved it. Seaglass is a second home to me, and Chas and the staff are like a second family. Plus, I still crave the adrenaline rush I get from a busy service.
In the evenings and on my days off, I continued to put the finishing touches to Mum and Dad, and last month, they were finally ready to be cast in bronze.
I wept when they were broken out of their plaster moulds at the foundry. I’d had to cast them in sections, and there was a lot of work to be done sandblasting the bronze and welding each of them together, a job the foundry team is still seeing to, but in their rawest state, they were beautiful. It had taken me almost four years to get there, but I felt an incredible sense of achievement.
I also felt at peace. I couldn’t wait to take them home.
More than that, I couldn’t wait to show them to Finn.
Istillcan’t wait to show them to Finn. But I have no idea when or if he’s coming back.
We did stay in touch after he left and we tried to stick to our new once-a-month rule, but even that proved to be too hard.
To begin with, it was obvious to both of us that we were holding back, trying to protect ourselves from the hurt of our cyclical separations.
And then, in early February, our rule went completely out the window when Michael was admitted to hospital with a respiratory infection.
He was there for three weeks, and every time I had to go home, he’d clutch my hand and beg me not to leave. But I wasn’t allowed to stay overnight.
