The French story - 3
The next part of this draft... Some very useful comments thus far, thanks!
Four (1)
I spent the next three days getting settled in, though it proved to be a less enlivening experience than I had hoped for. The multiple trips I made from my villa to the château (as I had taken to calling it) succeeded in largely emptying my garage but did little to create any sense of occupation in the barn. By the time I finished that Tuesday mid-afternoon I had relocated my work space but hardly made any material difference to the fabric of my new creative environment. Breaking the physical link between home and work was one of the first side-effects of accepting the offer made to me; the second was the discovery that I’d subconsciously wanted to delineate between the two all along. Doing something merely for kicks or as a means of passing the time (or worse, of wasting time!) came into sharp relief when manifesting itself as a habit that needed to be broken. Indeed, wasn’t there something in all of this — and especially being chosen, selected to be the second ‘artist-in-residence’ at the château — that conferred worth on what I did? Or rather, what I planned to do. The onus I felt to ‘stop messing about’ took me by surprise.
Hergé hovered about the place throughout those few days, though managed to do so without being a pest or seeming to overtly oversee what was going on. He had, it transpired, a knack for being in the right place at the right time, just as he had appeared outside the house when I first arrived. Not only that, but almost any question I asked him was met with a satisfactory answer or outcome. For example, I needed a workbench of some kind — the longer the better — to house some of my equipment: a small vice, a modest lathe, sets of drawers containing tools and a whole host of screws, bolts and fixings whose ultimate purpose I had yet to define.
“I have taken the liberty”, he had said, “of already procuring something for you. It will be here tomorrow.”
So not only was he there when he needed to be, he was also seemingly one step ahead of me. It was exactly the same in terms of transportation when I needed to get some of my raw materials up to the chateau — essentially the rubbish that cluttered my garage. He had secured the estate van; it would be ready the next morning. It seemed a mantra: everything was in hand and would be sorted the following day. I wasn’t sure how much of this prescience I could apply directly to him, and found myself wondering whether he had been guided by an unseen hand (perhaps someone peering through one of the windows of the main house) or was simply leaning on his experience of recently installing in Sylvie Delacroix. Of my fellow artist I had seen virtually nothing. I had observed her car parked outside her half of the building one morning but there had been no response when I knocked on her door to introduce myself. I had also passed her once on the drive as she was leaving in her car. At one point — when I had been stretching my legs walking in front of the house hoping to meet my host — I had seen her go into the barn and waved accordingly, but she had simply turned on her heels and retreated into our building.
This failure to establish a connection with my colleague contributed to the general sense of dissatisfaction which coincided with the conclusion of my transfer to the château. The largest proportion of my disquiet came, of course, not from my inability to corral Sylvie, but at the end of all my exertions having made so little difference to my new workspace. I felt as if I had decamped half my life there and had nothing to show for it. Yes, the space I had earmarked as the workshop area was beginning to betray signs of occupancy, and my assessment of how I could utilise its footprint appeared to have been accurate enough, but as a total entity, of truly taking possession of the barn — well, I felt as if I had failed. It looked almost as at had when I had first walked in the previous week.
“That’s better,” Hergé had offered after watching me off-load the last of my possessions. Whilst not assisting in any way with the carrying, he had nevertheless followed me inside.
“You think so?” I couldn’t prevent showing my doubt.
“Absolutely, sir.” The positivity in his voice seemed professionally applied. “Just look at all the space you have to work in. Think of the scale of artefact you can create here. Isn’t that what you wanted most of all?”
And he was right. I had been so focussed on the material things I had been shifting into the place that I had forgotten the most important aspect of this transition: the space which remained untouched. As soon as I viewed the barn through that lens my spirits rose. Hergé was undoubtedly correct. So much so, that if I had been harbouring increasing doubt about the wisdom of my accepting the offer made to me, this was rapidly chased away. I looked at the two-thirds emptiness and created vague sculptural shapes in my head to fill it. If I couldn’t work there, where could I?
This was a challenge I was forming for the first time. I saw how, in my villa, I had been using space constraints as an excuse; the very real inhibitor of not having enough room to create anything very much became a reason for doing nothing at all. I had been playing at being a sculptor, an artist. Now the shackles of space constraints had been removed, the excuse for inactivity I’d used as a crutch went with them. I could not longer blame the environmental for a lack of output. You may think it fanciful, but it seemed — all in a rush and in that one moment — as if I had been given an opportunity to prove myself. The mistress of the château had (still invisibly to this point) called my bluff, thrown down the gauntlet, and challenged me to fulfil my potential. In an overtly-romantic way, I wondered if that’s what true patronage was about; the taking away of constraints and providing the artist with the freedom to express themselves. And if it was indeed that, then how reasonable was the request to be rewarded with the odd prize every now and again, the interest or down payment on the personal investment made?
I am pretty sure I had been mulling over such thoughts, stretching my legs in front of the house once more — partly in the hope of being accosted by my host — when I heard footsteps behind me. I am not ashamed to admit that my heart may have beat a little quicker in the hope of finally meeting Madame; but when I stopped and listened, for no logical reason at all there seemed something not quite right in the footfall for it to be her. I had unconsciously started to build an image of a woman of mature years who was perhaps frail — hence Hergé’s constant hands-on involvement — and therefore one who would not walk with such a firm tread. And why would she want to meet me outside the château anyway? Surely she would wish introductions to be made on her own territory? If the sound I heard was not her then surely it could only be Hergé come with another idea or offer or suggestion; but again the sound was not quite right. I was used to hearing him creep up on me almost soundlessly. All this useless calculation happened the space of perhaps a second or so, then the footfall stopped and I turned. Standing still some ten metres or so from me was Sylvie Delacroix.
Interesting how Paul feels challenged by his new studio and how a sense of Madame's expectation (as he imagines it) is felt as diminishing to him. The reader is beginning to see Paul's need to 'prove' himself (as much to himself, perhaps, as to Madame?), as well as some self-doubt.
Three things I noticed 1) 'that I'd subconsciously wanted to delineate' is a real mouthful. 'I hadn't realised I wanted to...' instead? 2). you have 'not longer blame' when it should be 'no longer'. 3) 'happened the space' should be 'happened in the space'.