Episode 1.6

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Introduction

Welcome to The Phosphene Catalogue no. # 15006
We see light where others see only darkness.

Morwenna, I'm sorry for recording this so late, I've put it on your desk so you'll see this as soon as you get in today.

Thank you for arranging with Warrick to do much of my paperwork, that must have annoyed him a lot!
It was very kind of you to cover for me.
I've misjudged you.

Could you ask him to write something about the equinox for this issue's introduction, please?

I've been away most of the week looking into the society that I now know is called The Voyagers.
I am so close.

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Side A: Painting: Undercroft

Lot no. 1139 "Undercroft", Stanley Crown, 1959, Oil on canvas, pine frame.

The catalogue is pleased to present "Undercroft", which the reader will find in The Woolf Room hanging on the North wall.

This 7' square painting could be blank on first glance.
Black and featureless, only closer inspection reveals otherwise.

We have provided extra lighting for this piece, and painted the north wall black. Both changes accommodate the dynamic range of colour in the painting.
As you will see, the colours range from pitch black to almost black.

Step closer, despite the large canvas. Lean in.

After my eyes became used to the lighting, features began to emerge out of the darkness.
A curled root, an earthworm, and even a mole, pink nose entirely covered in mud, but eyes glinting sharply, once you knew where to find them.

Roots twist their way throughout the painting, their textures, and thicknesses suggesting different species of tree, all knotted together here underground, their above-ground divisions irrelevant.

The earth depicted is not uniform, there are many gaps, spaces, and pockets where details lie:
One such pocket is filled with lopsided, gangly mushrooms, another is criss-crossed with overlapping spider-webs, though no spider reveals herself, and a third is perhaps the den of a small burrowing animal, with a collection of multicoloured rocks.

The first impression of a blank void gives way to a second impression of activity, movement, and life.

There is a world hidden from us, just below our feet.
One we are dimly aware of the results of, the trees and very oxygen we breathe, but completely ignorant of the dark processes that create them.

In February of this year, I had begun to become accustomed to the strange habits of my fellows at Rossetti House.
From the mundane but chaotic schedules of my fellow artists, to the weekly Opening parties, and even to events which I could not properly explain.
-- I simply decided they didn't need explanation, and were normal.

It is a wonder what you can get used to.

But one night, late in November, I couldn't sleep.

Perhaps I had attended one too many Openings, enraptured by conversation, and a little too much wine, until dawn.
Or perhaps I was slipping into Rossetti House Time, a schedule that seemed much longer than the usual 24 hours, so that sporadically one had to work through the night to catch up.

I decided, yet awake in my bed well after 2 in the morning, that I had tried my best, but sleep wasn't coming tonight.
I had learned to acknowledge that in these situations, my options were to waste the night trying to sleep, or abandon the effort and go do something creative instead.

The narrow hallway was quiet, outside my room, and my slippers made no sound on the thick red carpet that featured in all the public areas of the house.

I turned left, followed the dark wood-panelled corridor past the silent doors of my housemates and, after a right turn, descended the wide central staircase.

I hoped I might find either inspiration or entertainment in the large lounge at the bottom of the stairs.
I passed through the double doors into the room, but found it empty.

Twelve dining chairs were neatly tucked under the mahogany dining table at one end of this large room. The small green-felted games table under the window was bare, where usually it held the remnants of chess, or cards.
And the fireplace, large enough to crawl into, was cold.

The whole HOUSE was cold, something that I couldn't remember experiencing before, there was always someone stoking the fires of the house, it was a comfortable thing to do in the winter months, and besides, the central heating works as well as can be hoped for.

My breath hung in the air as I made my way to the kitchen.
This is a small serving door joining the lounge to the kitchen, connecting with a short Z-shaped scullery, originally used for washing or when servants needed more kitchen space.

The Z-shape is an interesting piece of historial architecture.
It ensures that those working in the kitchen could never see those in the lounge, and perhaps more importantly, those in the lounge would never be upset by seeing those working in the kitchen.

I pushed open the heavy door and made my way through the scullery by memory and feel alone.
This short, crooked passage now functions as the house's shared library.
From floor to ceiling on every wall were shelves of mismatched books, and I ran my right hand along them to guide my way.

There is a step-up halfway along, matching the two different floor levels of the kitchen and the Lounge.
I anticipated the step correctly, and, feeling quite pleased with myself, like I was a real native of the house, pushed the white painted door into the kitchen.

The kitchen is large, square, and with north-facing windows that tonight bathed it in cold diffuse moonlight.
Normally, in the centre of the room would be a heavy square table where up to 8 would have been known to work, on wine bottling day, or kneading bread before an Opening party.

But this night, this quiet night where the house stood empty with not a sound from any of my normally nocturnal housemates, the table was missing.

I stopped short as my foot plunged into icy water, my pyjamas clinging to my leg.

The room was flooded with a pool of mirror-still water, reflecting the moonlight up to the ceiling.
But more than that, from the centre of the room, where the table should have been, a waterfall poured from the floor up to the ceiling.

My gaze followed it up to another pool of water, collected there, upside-down, with the water pouring up from the ground.

I stared, giddy, not knowing what I was seeing, or how I was seeing it, when a shape moved in the water above my head.
An outline of a person with long black hair shimmered through the water.

Squinting closer, I saw the border of a riverbank above the pool in the ceiling, as though I was underwater looking out at a sunlit world above me.

I could see the outlines of huge, twisted trees, curling around one another, honey-coloured rain falling on them from floating hives, and the other side of this waterfall continuing, flowing up into a golden sky.
As though from a great distance, I thought I heard my name spoken, the sound rippling and moving with the water, and the figure reached down towards me with an open palm.
As I watched, my vision shifted, the pool on the ceiling rushing towards me and the shapes above it becoming clearer.

And then I woke up, back in my bed, with the grey morning light behind the curtains, damp slippers cold on my feet, and the taste of honey on my lips.

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Intermission

Side B: Watercolour Ophelia

Lot No. 9832. "Grasping Ophelia", Jude Francis-Sharp, June 21st, 1975. Watercolour on cotton paper.

It is always a challenge for an artist to discuss their own work.
I painted this in late spring of last year, when I was on a short retreat to St Ives, in Cornwall.

The art scene in St Ives is as vibrant as the landscape, many artists find their muses on that rugged coastline and from the beaches to the windswept clifftops, any natural inspiration can be found.

On this retreat, a 3-week sojourn in a small bed and breakfast on the outskirts of the town, I hoped to follow in the footsteps of Hepworth, Nicholson, and company.

Sylvia had other ideas.

sigh

I visited with my then girlfriend, and she, quite reasonably, wanted to explore the town, try the local cuisine, and fish for crabs in rock pools on the beach, seemingly anything but observe nature for artistic inspiration.

We struck a compromise and did a bit of both, which of course meant neither of us did what we wanted.

Relationships can be like that, can't they?
Sometimes you give half of each other to make a whole, when you could be giving all of yourself to make twice that.

I'm rambling, sorry Morwenna.

Sylvia is gone.
The art I painted for her remains.

The painting is presented on cotton paper, mounted to thick card, 17 inches wide by 12 tall.

The subject of the painting, a young, beautiful, woman, lies in a pool of clear water with overhanging woodbines and willow from the riverbank.
Her eyes are closed, she seems at peace or even, perhaps sleeping.

Though a clear pastiche of John Everett Millais's masterwork, I aimed for a different effect.

Look closely at the woman's left hand.
It is not raised in defeat, or in saintlike supplication, as in the original.
She grasps a branch of the willow tree tightly.
Stopping herself from being bourne downstream, out of frame, away from the viewer.

She doesn't want to leave.

This scene I first sketched on Harbour Sand, as I recall.

Sylvia and I had argued, she wanted for us to rush into the sea, despite not coming out prepared for swimming, whereas I wished to sit and paint the sea in peace, like we had PLANNED to do.

The compromise, on that day, was for her to lie, fully clothed, in a dark-coloured rock pool in the sun, throwing sharp glances at me as I worked.

I pretended to ignore her, but as you see in this painting, I did not.
By chance, I had found the inspiration I sought.

The girl lies in an abstract pool of water.
You now know it was originally a rock pool, but the detail fades at the edge of the frame, so it could be a brook, small river, or any gently-moving body of water.

Though modelled on Sylvia, I have taken a few liberties with the details.
Her black hair I replaced with chestnut brown, skin a flawless porcelain, and instead of her sundress, I've painted a preposterous ballgown, floating like a jellyfish in the sun.

I am not the first artist to mix honey with their watercolours, usually for consistency, and in this piece, the sweetness of the medium is apt.
I MIGHT be the first to also cut the mixture with autumn mandrake soaked in gin, however.

The honey might give a little magic to the scene, but the intent of the artist is where the true power comes in.

Viewing the work gives a sense of hope or longing, for the beauty of the world, yes, but more specifically for a future shared with someone... remarkable, someone we all may wish to find.

She is smiling? Do you see?
She always smiled at me.

Sylvia and I are no longer on speaking terms.
The care and love I poured into this work has produced something I am extremely proud of, but can no longer bear to look at.

Morwenna, please ask someone else to appraise this, it obviously shouldn't have been me.

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But very quickly another very fast tape click

I've packed up "Grasping Ophelia" into box Lot No. 9832 and put it back in intake vault No. 9.

It is really quite good!

Maybe not artistically, I see so many things I would change, even now, a little over a year later.
Living in Rossetti House, surrounded by such talent, makes one rather hungry to improve, and I believe I have.

The great secret, known by both artists and patrons of The Catalogue is The Guise.
I've heard some call it the Charade, or the Masquerade, but when I joined The Catalogue, I learned its proper name, The Guise.

It has two halves, the pretence and the reality.
The pretence that art is not literal magic, it's just very pretty, is the position understood by most people.

I began to understand the reality when I moved in to the loft room in Rossetti House and spoke with Edith and Heather and the other artists there.
Something was different.
Conversations would hush when I entered a room, or I would be asked, politely, not to visit studio 3 at night until the new moon had passed, not even to look through the window should I walk by.

It did not take me long to understand that something extremely unusual was happening, between the sulphurous kitchen that was otherwise spotless, the sounds of unseen animals walking the hallways at night, gone by the morning, and of course, my eccentric housemates.

About two months after I moved in, my rent having been paid upfront for four years by Heather, I was asked to come to the Lounge for a welcome party.
When I arrived, the mahogany dining table was set out, and all were present.

A party was held in my honour, and after 4 or 5 or 6 drinks, I was introduced formally to The Guise that very evening
Magic, they told me, of a sort, is real, often indistinguishable from beauty or what regular people call "art".
I was not overly surprised, on some level we artists know this to be true, and what I had seen in the house prepared me for this revelation.

This secret knowledge opened the door to building a professional relationship with The Catalogue this year, and when they called the house to ask where Edie was, that horrible day two months ago, it was natural for me to offer to cover for her.

But I see now, every day, that there is more to The Guise than I was told, during that drunken party.

I am so very close to finding out more.

I talked to some of my fellows in Rossetti House.
Josephine Croft and David Isaac (you know, with the lucky coin) have formally introduced me to their friend Nelson Cartwright, in whose flat Edie's body was found, the man with the honey-coloured voice on the tape recording.

All 4 of us are having dinner this very night where Nelson promised all my questions will be answered.

Something hidden by The Guise took my friend Edith from me.
I will find out what it is.

CREDITS

The Phosphene Catalogue is a NAMTAO production.

The voice of Jude Francis-sharp is Wolfie Thorns,
The show is written and produced by me, Tris Oaten, and all the music can be found at my website http://namtao.com.

Special thanks to our Art Producers:

• Stephen McCandless
  And to all our patrons!

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Thank you so much for listening,
See you next time.