Monday, July 30, 2001

It was Nixon's fourth week at White Mills. He'd finally found some time to relax, and reflect on the events that had lead him here. It felt like he'd been living in a film noir, hardly believable, but nonetheless tragically true. His friend, Gil Riot, was the only soul who knew the real story, and for the first time, Nixon considered the implications. For good or bad, they were now inextricably linked. Gil's involvement, although serious, was probably harder to prove should anything come to light. Nixon wondered if Gil had ever thought about this.

Now the incident had passed, Gil had seemed to carry on as normal, and never mentioned it. He was absorbed, driven, about finishing the album. Nixon's major involvement was over, and now, at the mixing stage, he'd become a casual observer, dropping by the control room from time to time, to offer a second opinion whenever called upon. It was probably the free time that had caused Nixon to think this way, but he started to get the feeling that as far as Gil was concerned, the subject was closed. The album would be finished, but what then? Nixon had agreed to go out and play the songs live, but the quality of the recordings had started to cause him some concern.

His original plan, of coming over to France and playing in bars for a few months, then returning back to England to pick up his previous life, now seemed less certain. In making his deal with Gil, neither of them had discussed exactly when, or how, Nixon's 'debt' would be considered paid.

It was already clear that the music that they'd produced had exceeded both their expectations. Nixon recalled a comment from a musician friend, regarding the success of the Blueboys.

“They just fell into it didn't they ? None of 'em knew how they did it”

It was the kind of statement that could be ascribed to anyone who hadn't 'fallen into it' themselves, despite years of trying. It had more than a tinge of jealousy about it, but there was also a grain of truth. Over the years Nixon had come across many musicians who'd have given anything for that kind of success. As it turned out, The Blueboys had imploded after a couple of albums, but it didn't alter the fact that they'd achieved far more than most....and apparently, effortlessly. Nixon pondered his experiences in Greece, and particularly, Jim Neilsen's mantra of letting go. Was it possible to try too hard? That was certainly true of Gil.

Nixon had worked hard on the record, for sure, but never with the intention of achieving more than personal pride, and honouring his debt. Now, here they were, and Nixon realised that he may have unwittingly, constructed a monster. Then, as if on cue, a few days into the mixing, Gil excitedly came up to Nixon one afternoon, and informed him that he'd received a positive response on the music, from a record company acquaintance.

“What d'ya mean ? It's not finished !”

“I know, but I sent the tracks I've done so far. They fucking love it, Nikki”

“Aren't you rushing things a bit ?

“Well no, you see, I know this guy, through some bands I've worked with, and I thought this might be exactly what they're looking for. They're doing a new compilation album soon, all about what's new on the French music scene” Nixon said nothing.

“Normally, even if I finish the mixes this week, we wouldn't have the album out for a least three or four months, but this way, if we get a track on a compilation, it could be out almost immediately. Don't you see ? It would mean we could start gigging straight away.”

Nixon had felt it coming, but could it be this simple? Just having a record out didn't guarantee anything. They didn't even have a band. He knew Gil could put one together quick enough, but making it sound anywhere near as good as the record would be a tall order. Also, without touring, they'd receive little attention, and Nixon doubted Gil could arrange a tour that quickly. He decided to take his mind off it anyway, and go and see Isabella. She wasn't in the house. Nixon eventually found her at the rear of one of the barns, halfway up a scaffold tower, trowel in hand.

“Pointing ?”

“Exactement. It's an enormous job. I've been chipping away at it for years, but on a sunny day, it's sometimes nice to do something monotonous, and let the mind wander”

“Can I help ?”

“Are you serious ?..............but yes, if you want to, I can show you”

Nixon took to the task easily, and soon forgot his concerns with Gil. Isabella picked up the French lesson from before, and the afternoon passed quickly, as the conversation meandered around Isabella's thoughts on learning the language, then to Nixon's ideas on music theory.

“It's the same with this house” 

She went on to explain, how her father had taught her basic building skills. Then, after the accident, she'd used that knowledge to help tame her demons, by taking on the renovation.

“I learned to look, listen, and really think about how this place was put together. Parts of this house were built four hundred years ago. They had no power tools then, and the knowledge passed by word of mouth, so I reasoned that what I lacked in experience, I had technology to help me. Just the basics at first, but you know, one thing leads to another, and here we are.”

Nixon hung on to that last sentence, for a moment........... “It's amazing what you've done here”

“No less amazing than you teaching yourself music, and then coming up with that album. It's the same process. I think the same way about my art, I..........”

Isabella cut herself short. She never spoke about her art, and now here she was......almost talking about it.

“Can I see some ?”

He sensed that it was an awkward question, and was about to apologise, when she continued.......

“You know, its strange for me. I've never talked about it, never shown it. It's not about that, it was always just for me.....some way of dealing with the........anyway.......Gil's never been interested. He's knows I do it, but that's it. Same goes for the house, really. For him it's the music, and nothing but.......well he has the boat.....have you been on it yet ? He's a good sailor”

The mention of the boat made Nixon feel uncomfortable. He changed the subject.

“Show me your bloody art !”

“I can't believe I'm going to do this. Bloody art is quite a good description, by the way”

They made their way up to her studio. It was a vast area, easily a hundred square meters. Light flooded in from six, large roof lights. The floor was splattered with years worth of dried paint. Desks, down one side, were covered in various pots, brushes, rags, and tubes and tubes of paint. There were piles of old magazines, a few books, and a CD player with a rack of discs nearby. In the centre of the room, as well as an ancient wood burner, was a large rocking horse. It had been painted on many times evidently, as a kind of palette. In the far corner was a small kitchen, next to, what looked like a bathroom, and finally, a small, iron framed bed.

“I spend days on end in here sometimes.......I think you're the first visitor for years....Drink ?”

Nixon nodded, and while she made off to the kitchen, he turned to see the piles of huge canvases leaning against the wall behind him. It was hard to make out immediately what was on them. It didn't seem like anything figurative, but from the few he could see, there was something vaguely familiar. Then, he caught sight of a work in progress. It was huge, maybe three by four meters. Half of it was still pencil lines, but one corner had been started with black, then white, merging into thick vermilion red, which looked like it had been trowelled on.

“Gum disease........nasty business” She handed him a vodka tonic.

“Can you draw, Nixon ?”

“I was okay at school, but I've never tried since. Can you ?......Oh, sorry, I didn't mean.....”

“...I know what you mean, it's okay, nothing here looks like a drawing does it ? They used to, in the early days....Since then, well, I suppose they became more explorative....” she paused.

“Perhaps I've been trying to hide something.”

“Is that why you don't show them ?”

“I've wondered that myself, but yes, perhaps I'm uncertain about the validity of my argument, and fear being found out................How about you ?”

“I met somebody once, on my travels, who had this theory about art, and artists. His said that art, in its purist form, had no need to be exhibited. The act of its execution alone, was sufficient justification for motivation. The moment it is exposed for critical judgement, be it good or bad, then the self conscious influences future creativity.........I think, fundamentally then, most artists are seeking approval …......which.... is the wrong reason for doing it..........”

“So I'm right, then ?” They laughed.

“Well, if you want my honest opinion, I've been re assessing a lot of my theories lately. It's not really that I thought I was wrong before, but perhaps, things change as one ages. With your paintings, well clearly, according to my principles, its been done in its purist state, but now you have so many, there's a continuity that is undeniable......It has an identity all its own. Maybe it's worth letting the world in on it ?”

“I thought about it once ….It was how I met Gil. I had an idea for building this little community here, artists, creatives, you know ?.......Well, he had this idea to move his studio here, and at the time, it made a lot of sense. He was already doing well with his business, so instead of building my creative commune, he built his studio, then converted the other buildings for accommodation. It pays okay, I can't complain with that, but now I feel trapped.......You see, we got married the year after....it's been six years now....but I soon realised I'd made a mistake. He has no interest in the house, or its development, just making a success with his music. For him to move his studio would be almost impossible...he needs a huge space, and so.......he would lose his living if I asked him to go.”

Nixon considered his own predicament, and for a moment, wished he could tell Isabella. What would her reaction be? He had no idea how he'd react himself if he were in her shoes. He hoped she'd understand. Surely she knew him enough by now? but perhaps, her trust in anything had worn too thin. She had good reason, and it wouldn't be so surprising if she closed the door on him. His time was nearly done here, anyway. What would it matter? There was always Gil's place to stay at, but Nixon didn't want that..........not now.