A New Talent
WRITTEN BY LINDA LEWIS
Paula was determined to get Ben to express his creativity
Paula looked at the painting Ben was working on. She compared it to the photograph he was using for his inspiration. It was as though he’d put all the colours through some kind of filter. The bright red phone box in the foreground was a bright shade of orange and the sky was almost green. The clouds looked like marshmallows.
“It’s very striking,” she said brightly.
“I’m glad you like it. I’ve just been told that some of my paintings are going into an autumn exhibition. One of my tutors set it up.” He handed her an invite. “I was hoping you’d come along, give me some moral support.”
“I’d love to,” she replied. “How many paintings are you exhibiting?”
“Three,” he said, his voice full of pride.
“That’s great. Well done. I can’t wait to see them,” she said.
A reasonably successful amateur artist herself, Paula had been to many different exhibitions and shows over the years. She’d always done what she could to encourage her family and friends to have a go. As a result, her kitchen wall was covered in their paintings. None of them were particularly good, but that didn’t really matter.
On the day of the exhibition, as soon as she stepped into the hall, one of the paintings jumped out at her. She didn’t need to ask if it was Ben’s, it was patently obvious. It stood out from the others for all the wrong reasons.
It was meant to be a busy market scene but the people had perfectly round heads making them look like marbles. Not one of them had any expression on their faces, and as for the colours, it was as though they’d all been dialled up at least three notches. Bright went nowhere near it.
“So, what do you think?” Ben asked.
Paula wasn’t sure what to say. When he told her about the exhibition, she’d expected something more down market, but this was a swish show at a posh hotel.
There were no prices on any of the paintings, instead each frame sported a coloured disc, the different colours equating to a price. Apparently, that was seen as less pushy.
Paula checked the catalogue. Even the cheapest pictures with yellow dots were priced at a hundred pounds. She sighed. It was all her own fault. Getting Ben to take up painting had been her idea in the first place. She was the one who gave him a box of art materials for his birthday.
After they’d had a look round she told Ben she was going to buy one of his paintings. “Before they get snapped up,” she said brightly.
Ben gave her a hug. “Thanks. That means a lot. I’m popping outside for some fresh air. Once you’ve paid for the painting, let’s have coffee.” He pointed to table in the far corner. “I’ll meet you over there.”
Paula wasn’t daft. She knew Ben was only going outside so he could have a sneaky cigarette. He’d been trying to give up for years.
She made her way to the desk. “Hi. I’d like to buy painting number 367,” she said. Of the three paintings, it was the least worst. “By Ben Graham.”
“I’m so sorry,” the woman said after checking her list. “But that one has just been sold.”
Paula couldn’t believe her ears. “Really? Do you know who bought it?”
“I’m not supposed to say, but I’m sure he won’t mind.” The woman lowered her voice. “It was Alan Ford. He’s an art dealer.”
Paula gasped. She recognised the name. “Alan Ford – from Ainsthorpe’s Galleries? You’re sure?”
Yes. That’s the one. He reckons he’s found a great new talent.
Paula smiled. In art as in so many things, there really was no accounting for taste. “In that case, I’d like to buy one of these instead.” She gave the lady the numbers of Ben’s other two paintings.
The woman shook her head. “Sorry. Mr Ford bought those too.”
“Oh dear. I promised Ben I’d buy one.” She sighed. “It was my idea he started painting in the first place.”
The receptionist’s eyes lit up. “Are you telling me that you know the artist?”
Paula chuckled. “I certainly do.”
“That’s amazing. Stay right there.” The woman turned and shouted to a man who was inspecting a busy watercolour “Hey, Alan. That new artist, Ben Graham. I’ve found his mother.”
Mr Ford ran over and held out his hand. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs Graham. Ben is a remarkable new talent. You must be so proud of your son.”
Paula laughed. “I’m not his mother.”
“I’m so sorry. How do you know Ben? Are you his wife?”
Paula shook her head. She pointed over to the coffee counter where Ben was waiting for her. “That’s your new fresh talent. He’s my husband’s grandfather and he’s eighty five years old.”
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Allison Hay
I joined the "My Weekly" team thirteen years ago and, more recently, "The People's Friend". I love the variety of topics we cover both online and in the magazines. I manage the digital content for the brands, sharing features and information on the website, social media and in our digital newsletters.
