Strokes of White – by Julian Fell
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I.
Red clay crumbles underfoot as two poles are driven deep into the earth. Sal Bridle, shirtless and sweaty, fastens a thick rope between them. He coats it in lacquer, and, with the conviction of a man inspired, strikes a match. Fire dances across the length of the rope until it is reduced to embers. Only once it has finished burning does he realise that he should have waited. No matter.
With his easel positioned in the shade thrown by his ute, Bridle spends the next couple of hours setting out the lay of the land: the twin peaks that loom over him, an expansive sky, a black band of horizon that sucks a bank of clouds towards its vanishing point. To achieve ‘antirealism’, one must first create a reality worth undermining. It’s not perfect, but he’s done enough to fool the inattentive eye.
Then, with a single free-flowing stroke of white, he sets the rope alight. The three strokes that follow are as swift and incendiary as match strikes. He attacks his creation with light and shade, revealing an ocean of grief that he did not know he had been harbouring. It pours out of him until he is no longer the same impatient man who had lit the match too early.
Slowing now, he casts a fiery glow over the clouds and the clay. The sun abandons him, and he repositions the easel in the headlights of his ute. Layer upon layer builds up on the canvas until the darker colours bleed together in the shadows.
II.
In the years following, Sal Bridle travels out to different parts of the country – Stanthorpe, Cradle Mountain, the Pilbara. He drives his poles and his burning rope into the earth. The diverse locations lend new textures to his almost-landscape, but each fails to complete his vision.
Friends suggest he give up on the motif. Try something new, they tell him, you have taken it as far as it can be taken. They do not understand what he is searching for, and he does not care to explain it to them.
He tries variations: the rope snaked around multiple poles, the rope engulfed with heavy plumes of smoke, the smoke all but removed from the image. He experiments with oils and canvases and lighting. This creation and recreation cultivates a mastery that comes to be revered by critics and peers. For all the technical progress, though, he can’t find a method of attack that will recapture what he has lost.
III.
Sal Bridle’s landscapes dominate the white walls of the National Gallery. Familiar with the impossibility of recapturing the past, he savours the moment. Tonight, he thinks, my name will be written into history. First times, they focus the mind and create associations that avoid the elbows of other memories – they leave a mark. He imagines a portrait hanging in the next room; his face, his horn-rimmed glasses, his hazelnut hair parted down the middle.
Initially, Bridle revels in the limelight. He makes the rounds of the distinguished crowd; there is a glass of champagne in his hand, his fiancée sparkles in her olive-green dress. But towards the fag end of things, he becomes uneasy. What does all this success mean? His canvases appear to him as works in progress – what they lack, though, he cannot quite say.
IV.
His hair as white as an incendiary stroke of paint, Sal Bridle tactfully agrees with the interviewer. His first painting of the burning rope all those decades ago was indeed imperfect. That much he is prepared to concede.
‘But,’ he says, ‘I would not go so far as to call it flawed. Those are two very different things.’
There is more to painting than style, he goes on to say. But he hesitates; the studio lights glare down on him, the bespectacled eyes of his interviewer fix on his own. This is not the place for honesty.
Bridle clears his throat and plucks a familiar anecdote, recounting how he first struck upon his most famous motif. He has revisited that delirious afternoon in the desert often enough to keep the memory from fading, and the contours of the story come easily.
He tells of the clay, the heat, the twin peaks, the pitching of the poles and the striking of the match. Wilting under the glare of the studio lights, he ends the anecdote there. What followed – his interminable grappling with fire and light, honesty and grief – no longer bears confessing.
‘When you were out in the desert and inspiration struck,’ the interviewer asks, ‘did you know then that you would come to obsess over it for so long?’
Frowning at the criss-crossing of territory already covered, Bridle suspects his earlier hesitation did not go unnoticed. He is usually better at hiding his sore spots. No matter – he owes the world no straight answers.
He recounts the technical triumphs that have been attributed to him. He could be reading them from a textbook, but he narrates them in first-person. The interviewer’s question is not answered, but they seem content with the answer, nonetheless. Bridle adds a final flourish. ‘You know,’ he says, lowering his voice, ‘the iterations of ’98 took me the closest I’ve ever felt to the divine.’ It is a cheap sentiment, perhaps, but he feels he has not overdone it.
V.
The next day, Sal Bridle is to speak at the opening of a new exhibition at the National Gallery. The white walls are familiar, though not quite as he remembers them. His introduction, delivered by a former protege, is long and flattering. Bridle takes the microphone and, articulate as ever, praises the featured works. Having completed what is expected of him, he reverts to an anecdote about the first time his own work was shown here.
Tonight, the well-worn shape of this narrative, as familiar as a favourite jumper, feels as though it is coming apart. The version of the story he has told for decades won’t line up with the space in which he finds himself.
He clings to his usual story – a triumphant account of persistence rewarded – but it no longer rings true to him. The words are flimsy and devoid of meaning; he sees now that it is a fiction sewn from half-truths. He labours towards its conclusion, flushed and short of breath.
The audience doesn’t seem to notice. When he is finished speaking, his former protege congratulates him on his speech and invites him out for a drink. Those that see them leave together wonder if they had been lovers once.
VI.
The day after the opening, Sal Bridle drives out west. He consults the photos he has kept from his first tryst with the divine, and searches for the place he first pitched his poles. He notices two divots in the ground and his heart skips a beat. No, it cannot be. The shifting sands of the desert forget far quicker than we do.
The twin mountains won’t line up for him as they did that first day in the desert, and he becomes tired. In the end, he settles for a position that feels promising, nonetheless. After decades of practice, the staging of the motif is an efficient operation and Bridle reverts to autopilot. In doing so, he misses the small details: the crumble of the clay under his feet, the angle of the sun hitting the canvas, the heat radiating up from the ground, the wide-open sky. They are all ignored in anticipation of the moment on which everything hinges.
The composition is excellent. The colours mix and set just right. He strikes the match and flicks it onto the wick of the rope just as the stars begin to appear. The lighting seems perfect – better, in fact, than the first time when he had struck the match too early. His heart beats faster.
The first stroke of white lands exactly as he intended it. It is perfection.
It is not what he is searching for. ▼
Author's note: This piece of fiction was inspired by the work of the Archibald-winning painter Tim Storrier.
He has graciously given permission to reproduce Twilight Blaze Line alongside this piece.
See more of his work here.
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