A PARTY FOR AN ARTIST

Please note that this Quack has sensitive topics.

Skip Introduction 3:47. Let me read for you!

Last August, Mum’s partner, Rich, passed away. I don’t know how else to write it, so I’ll get that out of the way in the first sentence. It was just Mum and me at his bedside in the home. His favourite film, Once Upon a Time in the West, was on. It was his request to have it playing while he died –not the easiest thing to time, so we ended up watching it around five and a half times over that weekend. I don’t think I’ll be watching it again.

Mum, Julia, needed to throw herself into something, so she signed up for Cornwall Open Studio to show Rich’s studio and his collection of work. Opening your house to the public would be a nightmare for some, but Mum really likes people, so it wasn’t a problem for her. (Think of a British, kinder, more rustic Martha Stewart).

Julia met Rich in a pub in St Ives fourteen years ago and brought her Martha energy into the relationship. When he introduced her to his friends, she embraced them with the same optimism as a Labrador. ‘We should have them round for wine and cheese!’ ‘Why don’t we have a garden party?’ or ‘Does Marion like gin? I want to send her a bottle.’

The problem was that Rich was an artist. And so, by nature, he wasn’t as jolly about people as Mum was. Her enthusiasm for getting people into a room baffled and pained him. He liked his friends but didn’t need to socialise with them that much, and he certainly didn’t need to lay cheese out for them. But Julia couldn’t see what the issue was. What was the point of having a kitchen if you’re not going to fill it with guests? And so, they had the drinks, the cheese, the garden party.

Every two years, Rich would have his art show at the Anima Mundi gallery. This was definitely definitely definetely in need of a party.

‘What’s that?’ Rich would say, exasperated, as he pointed to a board full of meat on his kitchen table.

‘It’s a charcuterie board,’ Mum would say as she layered another piece of salami on a wooden block. And then the posh crisps would appear in bowls, and the gin bar would be wheeled out.

Before Rich knew it, everyone was in his house. And it’s only then that he began to enjoy himself. He’d make base in his chair in the corner, with a gin and a roll-up, and would banter with whoever sat near him. He had a big old laugh, so you would know if he had found something funny, and he found a lot of things funny.

Some of the artists (I have come across) only talk about the world with utter depth and misery, but Rich could discuss celebrity weight loss and Ant and Dec like the rest of us folks. He made fun of himself and the situations around him, which was one of the reasons why we clicked from day one.

Mum found two curators to put on Rich’s show: Izzy Eastick and Amy Morgan, two vibrant and talented souls, carving their paths in the art world. In the months leading up to the show, I would have my daily phone call with mum and hear updates on how it was all getting on. Izzy had a whippet named Weasel who slept a lot. There was a day of transporting Richard’s work in a van. A picture framer came to the rescue when one of the pieces slipped. The walls had been repainted, and the art was being hung.

The Open Studio happened last week. I took the train from Paddington to Penzance and walked the coastal path to the house. The first thing I saw was a sign, welcoming people into my Mum’s home. I could see strangers roaming around the hallways, and a whippet sleeping in the driveway.

‘You must be Weasel…’ I said. Weasel didn’t bother lifting his head.

The studio, which was upstairs in the house, was as Rich left it. He had spent his final years after being diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, trying to work as much as his body allowed. He made huge and small pieces, dramatic and breathtaking. You can’t help but see the grit in them. This work will be shown later this year, in September, at the Anima Mundi gallery. His older works were placed around the house. I had thought I had seen everything he had made, so it was a nice surprise to see something I didn’t recognise; it was like hearing a new story about him.

My job (as a “Canva expert”) was to make the flyers. Mum had asked for 100 flyers. I was a little worried she was going to end up with more people than she anticipated, like those kids who used to advertise their house parties on Facebook. She, however, was worried that not enough people would turn up…. but there were people, lots of them. A man travelled from Yorkshire. He was a fan of Rich’s work and had never seen his work. Another woman stayed for three hours, inspecting every piece. Mum had nothing to worry about.

On the final day, true to form, Mum threw a wrap party. 36 crusty pies were ordered from the local pub. There was wine, and a spread of food was laid out on the kitchen island. Locals, friends, artists, and Weasel were stuffed into the kitchen. Mum spent her time ping-ponging between conversations and being hyper-aware that there wasn’t a dry glass in the house. Meanwhile, I was being offered a trip to Turkey by a man I did not know. A hummus pot had been destroyed by breadstick, wine glasses full of rosé had been misplaced, there were crisps on the floor, and the artists huddled in a circle, talking deeply about the world…All that was missing were vegan pies, and Rich, laughing in his chair.