I had been hung. That was always a good start, at least you were under consideration by the packers. Yes, quite nicely positioned at the end of the second room. A great ‘long view’, as they say. The title, ‘Portrait of a family’.
There were bubbles, torrents of the stuff from Crozier’s vineyard, grown on the hillsides above his Fleurieu Peninsula hideaway. The ladies were frocked up, designer necklines plunging towards exposed navels, red and blue Armani stilettos, threateningly lethal, heads working the crowd for the most rewarding inanities. Toasts were made to meaningless space, eyes continued to roam!
I drifted towards the long view. Bloody hell, five hours and nearly a grand’s worth of oils on that wall, not to mention the half-tonne of sand, shell grit and other detritus I had unintentionally secured.
Those mutts! Loveable, but … fur kids, reflecting my low sperm count. They were eighteen months old now. Siblings, and we had eagerly handed over two gold bricks as we loaded them into our little Beetle. So cute, wrinkly coats at least four sizes too big, “…for the growth spurts”, we we’re told!
They were racing along the beach, great russet sacks on steroids – Rhodesian Ridgebacks, insanely, joyfully running. They regularly returned to where my easel was set, offering sloppy salutations, sandy slobbering, tongues and wicked grins as they rushed to drink – the water bowl inevitably pushed over in the process.
He was quite restrained, she obsessive, pushing her nose and tongue forward – gulp, slurp, and they were off again, into the waves, jumping through the short breaks to retrieve Yvonne’s ball. The seagulls had their measure, lifting, peeling off into the wind, a metre or two in front of their onslaughts!
Thank God the beach was mostly deserted. We were distantly sharing it with a family, off down the beach, rakes, nets and buckets, harvesting the Goolwa cockles at the wave break. In the other direction, I could vaguely make out a group of four-wheel drives, hunkered up under the dunes, smoke from a fire wafting skywards, shapes in the sand suggesting swags and an overnight intention.
I refocused, my gaze shifting out to sea where a coastal tramp was making heavy weather northwards, towards Adelaide, disappearing, reappearing, disappearing in the swell. The wind was starting to pick up, the horizon clouding in the west, Payne’s Grey smudges moving upwards; never a fair-weather portent!
I felt, maybe heard the sand pounding as the dogs made another sortie. My easel went flying – oh bugger it! The painting was stuffed too, paint and sand combining in a heavy, three-dimensional sludge! There was a premeditated attack from the rear and I was on the sand, slobber, tongues and waggery pinning me down. Yvonne strolled up “I thought you wanted to paint!”
But now, actually hung upside down, that slash, down and across, works beautifully. The two huge paws slipping through the oils – adds a certain je ne sais quoi, even if I do say so myself!