Seascape
By Michael Smith
July 15, 2024
July 15, 2024
Northern rain drummed on the grubby windows with an unsettling arrhythmia.
I stood for … I don’t know how long … just staring. Staring alone in the sparse, neglected gallery. Wondering. How could such a stunning piece of art be hidden from the world in such drab surroundings?
I had a passing interest in art, but this arrested my attention like no other painting before or since. So simple (but then the best art often is). Horizontal brush strokes of subtly differing hues; that was all.
A philistine would have referred to each stroke as off-white, and left it at that. But, when you looked, really looked, a professional interior decorator could not have offered a wider range of shades. The uppermost strokes of canvas-bound paint hinted at faint grey; the lower fifth, a pale, liquid blue. Between, lay whites linking the extremities by imperceptible degrees. The artist had made no attempt to smooth the paint’s surface, giving his work an odd, slightly three-dimensional quality. Depth.
The image measured only eight inches by twelve. Small, yet perfect.
With no risk of distraction, I continued to stare, to delve deeper into that small wooden frame, to lose myself in the moment.
The beat of the rain yielded to waves crashing on a beach. A seagull’s angry cry insisted itself into the moment as it circled overhead.
I was staring at a canvas mounted on an easel in front of me. A battered tin box containing a small selection of well-used, greasy paint tubes lay at my feet. My right hand gently grasped a bespattered paintbrush, while my left held the coloured tube I had just selected.
I stared at the sea, wanting to capture this moment of scenic perfection, wanting to transport its impression to future generations.
I felt a presence.
“What you doin’, mister?” chirped an adenoidal voice from behind.
I remained staring at the horizon, but answered, “I’m painting a seascape.”
“Oh.”
The waves announced, once more, their arrival on the shore.
The seagull’s noisy circling continued.
“What’s a seascape, then, mister?”
This time, I peered round to the source of these junior, but never juvenile, questions. “Hello,” I said. There was no response from the boy of seven or eight years of age who was my solitary companion on the beach. This was clearly not his natural habitat. Salty white stains encircled both of his scuffed, black shoes. One of his dark grey socks lay crumpled around an ankle, the other clung wearily to a scrawny calf. His shorts, of a lighter grey, were standard school issue. A threadbare, off-white shirt completed his miserable attire. One hand held a half-consumed, and rapidly melting, ice cream cone, rivulets of vanilla coursing over grubby fingers. The other hand grasped one end of a thin, tattered string, which rose vertically, connecting the boy to a small, vividly red balloon being battered in the coastal breeze. The stark red balloon remained the only object in the entire bay area in possession of any real colour. All other hues were muted and drab, each a subtle variation of its unimaginative neighbour.
A young child’s unblinking expression is difficult to stare down, and I soon willingly succumbed to his patience.
“Hello,” I repeated.
“What’s a seascape, then, mister?” he repeated, as a frayed cuff passed under a damp nostril.
“Maybe it would be easier to explain if I showed you my painting of this seascape? Come here and look.”
“Alright, mister,” he responded without enthusiasm.
He stared at the painting for longer than most adults, his red balloon battling against the strong sea breeze. He licked the vanilla cone. Neither the flavour of the beige ice cream, nor the strokes of my paint on canvas, seemed to move the emotions of this rather dull boy. He tilted his head slightly to one side and sniffed.
“…’s’alright, s’ppose.” Children are our harshest critics.
Having delivered his critique, he turned and walked away. A few footsteps further he remembered something, turned to me, and called, “Thanks, mister.”
He continued, until all I could distinguish in the distance with any certainty was the erratic motion of the red balloon.
I resumed my gaze over the seascape, and considered if, perhaps, I had fully captured the essence of this location. Remembering the boy’s clothing, I decided further strokes of differentiated grey would be all that was needed.
My tube of red paint I knew to be back in my studio. I would not be using it.
I stared at the scene as waves continued to die noisily across the sand. I was gradually aware that their sound became rain on a window.
The painting hung on the wall.
I knew with certainty, a scene such as the one before me cannot be confined within a disappointingly drab wooden frame, within a remote, rarely-visited gallery. It needs a wide vista, and space to breath in lungfuls of salt-laden air.
I stared at the painting, alone in the gallery.
I stared until my attention was stollen by a movement out of the corner of my eye. A red balloon battered against the windowpane, before being borne upwards, blown into the dull, grey northern sky.
I stood for … I don’t know how long … just staring. Staring alone in the sparse, neglected gallery. Wondering. How could such a stunning piece of art be hidden from the world in such drab surroundings?
I had a passing interest in art, but this arrested my attention like no other painting before or since. So simple (but then the best art often is). Horizontal brush strokes of subtly differing hues; that was all.
A philistine would have referred to each stroke as off-white, and left it at that. But, when you looked, really looked, a professional interior decorator could not have offered a wider range of shades. The uppermost strokes of canvas-bound paint hinted at faint grey; the lower fifth, a pale, liquid blue. Between, lay whites linking the extremities by imperceptible degrees. The artist had made no attempt to smooth the paint’s surface, giving his work an odd, slightly three-dimensional quality. Depth.
The image measured only eight inches by twelve. Small, yet perfect.
With no risk of distraction, I continued to stare, to delve deeper into that small wooden frame, to lose myself in the moment.
The beat of the rain yielded to waves crashing on a beach. A seagull’s angry cry insisted itself into the moment as it circled overhead.
I was staring at a canvas mounted on an easel in front of me. A battered tin box containing a small selection of well-used, greasy paint tubes lay at my feet. My right hand gently grasped a bespattered paintbrush, while my left held the coloured tube I had just selected.
I stared at the sea, wanting to capture this moment of scenic perfection, wanting to transport its impression to future generations.
I felt a presence.
“What you doin’, mister?” chirped an adenoidal voice from behind.
I remained staring at the horizon, but answered, “I’m painting a seascape.”
“Oh.”
The waves announced, once more, their arrival on the shore.
The seagull’s noisy circling continued.
“What’s a seascape, then, mister?”
This time, I peered round to the source of these junior, but never juvenile, questions. “Hello,” I said. There was no response from the boy of seven or eight years of age who was my solitary companion on the beach. This was clearly not his natural habitat. Salty white stains encircled both of his scuffed, black shoes. One of his dark grey socks lay crumpled around an ankle, the other clung wearily to a scrawny calf. His shorts, of a lighter grey, were standard school issue. A threadbare, off-white shirt completed his miserable attire. One hand held a half-consumed, and rapidly melting, ice cream cone, rivulets of vanilla coursing over grubby fingers. The other hand grasped one end of a thin, tattered string, which rose vertically, connecting the boy to a small, vividly red balloon being battered in the coastal breeze. The stark red balloon remained the only object in the entire bay area in possession of any real colour. All other hues were muted and drab, each a subtle variation of its unimaginative neighbour.
A young child’s unblinking expression is difficult to stare down, and I soon willingly succumbed to his patience.
“Hello,” I repeated.
“What’s a seascape, then, mister?” he repeated, as a frayed cuff passed under a damp nostril.
“Maybe it would be easier to explain if I showed you my painting of this seascape? Come here and look.”
“Alright, mister,” he responded without enthusiasm.
He stared at the painting for longer than most adults, his red balloon battling against the strong sea breeze. He licked the vanilla cone. Neither the flavour of the beige ice cream, nor the strokes of my paint on canvas, seemed to move the emotions of this rather dull boy. He tilted his head slightly to one side and sniffed.
“…’s’alright, s’ppose.” Children are our harshest critics.
Having delivered his critique, he turned and walked away. A few footsteps further he remembered something, turned to me, and called, “Thanks, mister.”
He continued, until all I could distinguish in the distance with any certainty was the erratic motion of the red balloon.
I resumed my gaze over the seascape, and considered if, perhaps, I had fully captured the essence of this location. Remembering the boy’s clothing, I decided further strokes of differentiated grey would be all that was needed.
My tube of red paint I knew to be back in my studio. I would not be using it.
I stared at the scene as waves continued to die noisily across the sand. I was gradually aware that their sound became rain on a window.
The painting hung on the wall.
I knew with certainty, a scene such as the one before me cannot be confined within a disappointingly drab wooden frame, within a remote, rarely-visited gallery. It needs a wide vista, and space to breath in lungfuls of salt-laden air.
I stared at the painting, alone in the gallery.
I stared until my attention was stollen by a movement out of the corner of my eye. A red balloon battered against the windowpane, before being borne upwards, blown into the dull, grey northern sky.
Michael Smith’s short stories have been accepted for online publication by Freedom Fiction Journal, Heimat Review, Impspired, Witcraft, Winamop, Fevers of the Mind, The Writers’ Journal and The Hooghly Review.
To date, he has self-published ‘Gruseltal’, a humorous novel, and two collections of short stories, ‘Fonts’, then ‘Songs’, all available from the usual online bookstores.
Author website: https://frucht-schleifen.weebly.com/
To date, he has self-published ‘Gruseltal’, a humorous novel, and two collections of short stories, ‘Fonts’, then ‘Songs’, all available from the usual online bookstores.
Author website: https://frucht-schleifen.weebly.com/
Author’s Note:
Of all the short stories I’ve written, this one is closest to Issue 7’s theme of “delving into the realm of visions, dreams, and sight”, as the story utilises “the blurred lines between reality and imagination”. ‘Seascape’ contains elements of reality and dream. The painting in question is by L. S. Lowry (1887 - 1976), an artist from the north-west of England. I first saw the original in a small gallery near his home town, and it remains one of my favourites. The story’s ‘dream section’ is pure imagination, although the red balloon may have been inspired by the 1956 short film, ‘Le Ballon Rouge’.