The Painter and the Horse (3000 words)
bart hopson
stop. Very well done. finely polished and not a word wasted. I
commend you for a very fine job indeed.
Bart
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Sime
It was the middle of March when he first saw the horse. Driving home
from work one day, he had decided to take the winding back road instead
of his normal route. He didn’t know why particularly, but he was an
artist and didn’t question his instincts.
Actually, Joe wasn’t an artist. Joe wanted to be an artist. He was a
painter. He loved painting, watercolours mainly; but he did not consider
himself an artist. Artists, in his opinion, were those who not only made
a living from their work, their art, but actually created art in the
first place. He was someone who painted, and neither made much money
from it nor ever believed that he had created anything which could ever
be labelled “art”.
Still, he had the feelings of an artist, if not the talent to match. And
he believed in going with his instincts, one of which had tonight
diverted him along this narrow country road, along which he had now
stopped suddenly, to look more closely at the magnificent animal he had
just spotted.
He climbed out of the car and walked over to the fence edging the road
and enclosing a small paddock. Looking across to the other side, he
re-spied the horse he had seen from the car; dark brown, gleaming, with
a splash of pure white down its nose. If there was a world of Platonic
ideals of which all animals were merely shadows, this horse surely came
closer to its archetype than any other example in the equine world.
Joe knew little about horses, and could not have named the breed for a
million pounds. But that mattered not. What was important was the
sleekness, elegance, and sublime beauty of the animal. It was, Joe said
to himself, simply beautiful. This caused a slight smile; he remembered
back to a creative writing course he had once attended, where he had
been berated by the tutor for his use of the word “beautiful”. She had
made valid points about using more descriptive adjectives, but he had
argued then, and would most certainly argue now, that in some cases
there really was no other word that fit. This horse was beautiful. It
was full of beauty, pure and simple.
The horse was galloping, its dark mane and long tail flowing standards
behind it. Every now and again it would slow, lower and shake its fine
sculpted head, then burst into flight once more. There was no reason for
its behaviour other than the sheer enjoyment it took from its own speed
and agility, the wind in its face, the firm ground beneath its strong
legs and hard hooves.
As Joe stood watching the horse, he realised that he must paint it.
There was no desire here, no mere spotting of a suitable subject, this
was compulsion. He must paint the horse. It was his duty. This would be
the first occasion on which he would create something that he felt would
add to the world of art, rather than merely imitating it.
From that moment until the weekend, the horse never left his mind,
though he did not see it again physically until Saturday morning.
~*~
As he loaded his easel, canvas, painting kit and stool into the car
early that Saturday, he thanked God for the light; an artist’s dream,
clear and bright. Thank you Lord, he offered silently. The sky was an
intense blue, the clouds almost unbearably bright white, the early sun
reflecting their smooth-carved perfection. Providence meant for him to
capture the horse to its very best advantage.
After setting up his easel and stool at the spot from which he had first
seen the horse, and setting out brushes and palette, he began to make a
few broad strokes of colour-wash on the paper. The beginning of a new
work was always a time of mixed emotions; excitement certainly,
trepidation, concern over whether he would do the subject justice,
wondering about whether this would be his first “work of art”, and other
less definable feelings. Today, the positives outweighed the negatives.
After putting in the background, he began working on the horse itself.
It was co-operatively standing still on the far side of the paddock in a
perfect pose for the picture, as though it knew it was being captured in
paint and wanted to give the artist its best side.
Joe worked for the next hour, looking directly at the horse, ignoring
everything in his peripheral vision; slowly he became more and more
frustrated. The picture was just not working out. The horse had hardly
moved, was continuing to be the model subject; it was the artist who was
failing. He found he simply could not capture the fine animal in the way
he wanted. After a further twenty minutes of mental hair-pulling, he
gave up and abandoned the sheet, putting up a fresh one. Taking a deep
breath, he looked around him to see what significant changes had taken
place while he had been concentrating on the horse. The light had
changed, naturally, and with it the shadows had shortened. But other
than those aspects, the view remained relatively unaltered. He began
again.
Three more times he angrily threw down the partly finished work and
re-started. Every time he came to the horse, his abilities seemed to
desert him. Twice he tried starting with the horse, aiming to put in the
background afterwards, but this too gave no joy. The horse simply would
not be painted, although it continued to give him a series of ideal
poses; it really did all it could. Around two o’clock, his patience as
thin as the paper one which he painted, he gave up, angrily packed away
his things, and was about to get into the car, when a noise behind him
made him turn round. The horse, which had been on the other side of the
paddock the last time he had looked, was now standing with its head over
the fence, looking at him calmly with its huge dark brown eyes.
Joe walked back over to the fence and gently put out his hand to the
horse. It sniffed and snuffled at his hand. Then he scratched its white
nose and patted its cheek. The horse stood calmly, enjoying the petting,
and Joe’s anger gradually faded as he stroked and patted. By the time he
drove away, he was fairly sanguine about his wasted morning.
~*~
The following weekend saw Joe back at the paddock, repeating his
travails of the week before. His frustration this Saturday was
compounded by a damned irritating blur in his vision, something he
occasionally suffered from and which was almost certainly caused by
staring for too many hours at white sheets of water-colour vellum. He
struggled on through six unsuccessful attempts at recording the
marvellously sinuous curves and surfaces which gave the animal form. At
the end of this equally fruitless day, he was even more frustrated and
downhearted than the previous week, and rubbed his tired eyes in
exasperation. But again, just before he left, the horse came over to
him, and for ten minutes stood at the fence, allowing Joe to pet him.
This time, Joe remembered he had an apple in the car that he had packed
with his lunch but not eaten. He fetched the apple, cut it into four
with a knife from his car, and fed it to the horse, who seemed to enjoy
it immensely. Again, as Joe left the paddock, he was in a much better
mood than he would have expected.
On three more Saturdays over the next couple of months, he would
optimistically pack his painting gear early in the morning, drive to the
paddock, and attempt in vain to create something which he felt would do
justice to the creation which nature had produced. And each time he
struggled a little more, mainly because of his vision; it was now
blurred more often than not, and also had reduced in scope so that the
edges of his view were dark and cloudy. After the last occasion, he
decided that he must have a rest from his painting; his eyes were
clearly very strained.
A further two weeks after this, having lain off the painting completely,
but with his vision deteriorating still further, he visited the doctor.
Who sent him to the casualty department at the local hospital. Who
referred him to the ophthalmic registrar. Who diagnosed Glaucoma, in
both eyes.
‘There are treatments available, in the form of medication. These, I
have to tell you, are not one hundred percent successful, but we have
seen encouraging results with this latest type. This is the one I’m
going to try first, okay? Try not to worry too much.’
‘What happens if it doesn’t work? Could I go blind?’
‘Well, let’s just take things one step at time, shall we? If you don’t
respond to this particular treatment, there are several others to try.
Let’s not get too despondent, eh?’
‘But I could go blind, couldn’t I?’
‘Well, in some cases yes, Open-Angle Glaucoma can lead to blindness.
But, as I say, there have been some very encouraging results in the U.S.
with this particular drug. So, let’s try and keep positive shall we?’
~*~
Joe’s condition did not respond to the new treatment; did not, in fact,
respond to any treatment. Six weeks and four days after that first
appointment with the doctor, Joe’s morningless night fell. He saw no
more.
Coming to terms with blindness is an immense struggle for anyone who
suffers it; for an artist it is doubly painful, as not only are they
denied the vision of the physical world, they are also denied the
opportunity to represent it in their chosen medium. For Joe, the first
eight months of darkness were the worst of his life, far worse than
anything he could ever have imagined. He attempted suicide twice. Both
attempts were unsuccessful, although the second came much closer to
fulfilling his intentions. He spent a lengthy period in hospital,
firstly recovering from the overdose of painkillers he had taken with
three-quarters of a bottle of brandy, then on a psychiatric ward, where
he was assigned a counsellor as well as a psychiatrist. Between them,
they gradually managed to bring Joe through his bleakest days, and after
just over a month he was discharged and went home.
During this time, he had been making steady progress, when his
depression relented sufficiently to allow it, with learning how to
navigate through the sightless world. He had a stick, and could now,
with reasonable proficiency, find his way through his house; the
furniture had been rearranged somewhat to make this easier. The easel,
which had caused him almost physical pain whenever he had touched it as
he walked past, had been put away, along with his paints. ‘Out of sight,
out of mind’, Joe had once thought. That bon mot had doubled him up with
pain and tears.
~*~
Joe realised one morning that a year had passed, more or less, since he
had first seen that horse, which had occupied his thoughts for so long.
When Peter, his home-help, visited later that day, Joe asked him if he
would drive him out to the paddock. Peter agreed, pleased that, for the
first time, Joe had actually asked to be taken somewhere, rather than
simply going wherever he was requested or required to go. Peter dropped
Joe off at the fence, then left, telling Joe he would be back in about
an hour, and not to stray too far from the fence. ‘Use the fence as your
bearing, Joe. So long as you’re in contact with the fence, you know
where you are, okay? Enjoy yourself, it’s a lovely day.’
Joe could tell it was a lovely day, and felt the first stirrings of
annoyance, the first he had really had with anyone, that even Peter, a
qualified carer for the blind, occasionally told him things which were
perfectly obvious, even to someone without sight. He could feel the
unseasonably warm sun on his face and the top of his head; could feel
the slight coolish breeze that played with his fringe; could smell the
blossom and the pollen which suffused the air. In fact, he had a much
better idea what kind of day it was than Peter, probably. He leaned on
the fence and tried to imagine the scene in front of him. Most of all,
he tried to imagine the horse. After a few minutes, he drifted off into
a pleasant daydream.
The horse whickered and snorted gently, bringing him back to the world.
He could hear it, could tell it was very near. He could smell it too, a
pleasant mix of chewed grass and the musky animal scent of horsehair,
wet in the rain and dried in the sun a hundred times. And he could feel
it; the horse was so close, he could actually feel its hooves hitting
the ground as it walked slowly towards him. Then he could feel its
breath on his hands. Tentatively, he put out a hand, and he felt its
cold, wet nose snuffling it, the warm breath rushing over it. He rubbed
its nose, moving up the bridge to scratch the patch of brilliant white
he remembered so well. Joe felt tears in his eyes; eyes that were now
only good for tears, and had been overused in that capacity for much of
the last year.
He stood stroking and petting the horse for a while. Minutes past.
Gradually he became aware of another smell, above that of the horse. A
sweeter, more delicate fragrance; something flowery…then a voice made
him snatch his hand away in surprise.
‘Hello. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I didn’t want to
interrupt you, you two seem to know each other.’
Joe took a few seconds to recover from the surprise of hearing the
woman’s voice. ‘Hello. Yes, we’re old friends. I didn’t know you were
there, I thought it was just the horse. You’re…you’re on the horse,
aren’t you?’ He realised he had picked up the direction of her voice.
‘Yes. I saw you standing here while I was riding her on the other side
of the paddock. Isabel here seemed to want to come over. My name’s
Sandy. So, how long have you been blind?’
Her openness with his condition was refreshing, and far from being
reluctant to talk about it, as he usually was with people who skirted
awkwardly around the issue, he responded in the same manner. ‘About nine
months, give-or-take, and it’s been sheer bloody hell. The name’s Joe,
by the way.’
‘Well, I’m pleased to meet you Joe.’ He noticed for the first time, now
that he was actually listening to the voice, that it had a slight
brogue, Scottish he thought, and was delightfully soft, though clear. He
liked the voice very much. ‘So what brings you here Joe?’
‘Well, about a year ago I came here, to this very spot, to paint the
horse.’
Sandy paused for a few seconds, then asked, ‘would you like to have a
ride on her?’
‘I’ve never ridden in my life’ said Joe hastily, his well-honed defences
springing up, ‘and you seem to be forgetting my blindness.’
‘No, I’m not forgetting that at all Joe,’ said Sandy, quite harshly,
‘you don’t have to see to ride. Lots of blind people ride. Anyway, I was
thinking of staying on her with you. What do you say? Come on Joe, don’t
be boring.’
He was about to respond to the insult, but picked up the humour in her
voice, and smiled instead. Something in that lilting tone brought trust.
‘Okay,’ he said, and realised that he was excited, a feeling he never
expected to experience again.
The next half-hour was one of the most wonderful, exhilarating,
liberating experiences of his life. Sandy had fitted another saddle, put
a riding hat on him, then helped him onto Isabel, who had a most placid
nature. Sandy started by walking her slowly. Joe could immediately feel
the strength beneath the beauty as he sat astride Isabel.
Gradually, Sandy took Isabel to a trot, then a gentle canter, which to
Joe felt like a flat-out gallop, up and down the paddock. Joe held on
tightly to Sandy, something he had at first been somewhat reluctant to
do, but quickly found to be essential. The wind roared past his ears,
Isabel was breathing deeply and regularly, the hooves thudding on the
firm ground. As he held onto Sandy, he could smell her hair, fresh and
clean, as it blew back softly in his face. He had more sensations in
that brief time than he would have thought possible without any
contribution from his eyes. And sometime during that period, a vision
formed in his head of such clarity, such depth, he thought for a moment
he had fallen and was even now deeply unconscious. But the vision
persisted, even after Sandy had brought Isabel to a halt and helped Joe
down.
As they both stood, patting Isabel and listening to her breathing and
snorting, Sandy spoke. ‘Joe, you’re crying, what’s the matter? Are you
hurt?’
How could he begin to explain? How could he possibly describe why the
tears were flowing from the eyes which would never see again, but were
still useful for at least this means of expression. He tried anyway.
‘No, I’m not hurt Sandy. And I’m not in pain, it’s just…’ he struggled
to find words that would at least come close to what he was feeling,
‘it’s just…all those times I tried to paint the horse – Isabel – and
could never capture the essence of her. And now, now I have no chance of
ever doing that on paper, finally I’ve done it anyway. I’ve done it in
here.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘In here, I’m looking at the most
wonderful, elegant, beautiful painting I ever did. I finally managed to
paint the horse. Thank you Sandy.’ The tears began to drip from his
chin, and he smiled anyway, the smile of an artist who has finally
captured something which only nature knows how to create.
© Simon King 22/02/00
--
Creative Castle http://www.king100.demon.co.uk/abdk
/\
/**\
/****\
/______\
{ © © }
{ .. }
\\__//
\ /
\/
PeterB
busy time in AFO. Great! Reviewing as i read....
Peter
Sime <ld...@dial.pipex.com> wrote in message
news:38B32D2E...@dial.pipex.com...
> THE PAINTER AND THE HORSE
>
>
> It was the middle of March when he first saw the horse. Driving home
> from work one day, he had decided to take the winding back road instead
> of his normal route. He didn't know why particularly, but he was an
> artist and didn't question his instincts.
Nice introduction to the story. If I remember correctly horses figured in a
number of your stories before. You obviously have a certain affinity for
them....
<snip>
And
> he believed in going with his instincts, one of which had tonight
> diverted him along this narrow country road, along which he had now
> stopped suddenly, to look more closely at the magnificent animal he had
> just spotted.
Very long sentence here. Certainly a lung full of breath to read. Maybe
break it down to two smaller sentences? Or maybe not....?
<snip>
> He climbed out of the car and walked over to the fence edging the road
> and enclosing a small paddock. Looking across to the other side, he
> re-spied the horse he had seen from the car; dark brown, gleaming, with
> a splash of pure white down its nose. If there was a world of Platonic
> ideals of which all animals were merely shadows, this horse surely came
> closer to its archetype than any other example in the equine world.
>
> Joe knew little about horses, and could not have named the breed for a
> million pounds. But that mattered not. What was important was the
> sleekness, elegance, and sublime beauty of the animal.
In reading this something seemed to ....jar the flow of the story for me. I
was uncertain as to what it was until I re-read it again. I believe it to be
the sentence "could not have named the breed for a
> million pounds" This just seems out of place inserted in amongst such
elegant and prosaic words....i.e. the sentence beofre and after it. They are
quite high-brow and intelligent. Am I saying this right??
<snip>
It was, Joe said
> to himself, simply beautiful. This caused a slight smile; he remembered
> back to a creative writing course he had once attended, where he had
> been berated by the tutor for his use of the word "beautiful".
God damn it! I just KNEW Gene-Micheal would worm his way into people
stories. Out Higney Out I say!
She had
> made valid points about using more descriptive adjectives,
And disguising yourself as a woman doesn't work!
<snip>
> 'Well, in some cases yes, Open-Angle Glaucoma can lead to blindness.
> But, as I say, there have been some very encouraging results in the U.S.
> with this particular drug. So, let's try and keep positive shall we?'
I have no idea if this is true but it sounds very right....
<snip>
The tears began to drip from his
> chin, and he smiled anyway, the smile of an artist who has finally
> captured something which only nature knows how to create.
>
>
> © Simon King 22/02/00
>
>
>
> --
> Creative Castle http://www.king100.demon.co.uk/abdk
>
> /\
> /**\
> /****\
> /______\
> { © © }
> { .. }
> \\__//
> \ /
> \/
>
>
Simon, For someone who attempts (vainly at best I guess) to control my more
emotional side you have the knack of making me cry. I do wish you would
stop! Seriously I know I am an old softy and I was very touched by your
story. A fantastic read.
Unfortunately with this review I have nothing else to say. Not very helpful
I know. Sorry.
deepest respects and thanks
--
Peter Balfe
"Where is the other sock?"
http://www.iol.ie/~pbalfe
There is a thin line between insanity and all other forms of life.
I am slowly removing this line because I feel that everyone
would be better off crazy.
Sime
many many thanks for your reading and replying time once again. For a
review which you say is not very helpful, it has certainly given me much
to think about, and how can such kind remarks possibly be "unhelpful"?
Thank you very much indeed :-)
Actually, I don't think I *have* written any other stories featuring
horses; not having any experience with them, I didn't really know if
what I was writing was vaguely accurate or not, but I was assured by a
good friend that I got it reasonably close.
In re-reading the "million pound" sentence, I completely agree. There
was something vaguely troubling me about that last night, but by the
time I had reached the end, I had forgotten about it. That *will* be
fixed.
Also, the points you make about my tendency to write sentences which are
much too long to ever be spoken in one breath is valid, and highlights
something I need to concentrate on, for fear of giving any potential
readers apoplexy as they attempt to sub-vocalise their way from one full
stop to another. Like that. :-)
Thanks again for your valid and *useful* remarks.
Sime.
PeterB <pba...@iol.ie> wrote in message
news:75Ss4.1750$xA....@news.iol.ie...
> Hi Simon,
>
> busy time in AFO. Great! Reviewing as i read....
>
> Peter
>
> Sime <ld...@dial.pipex.com> wrote in message
> news:38B32D2E...@dial.pipex.com...
> > THE PAINTER AND THE HORSE
> >
> >
> > It was the middle of March when he first saw the horse. Driving home
> > from work one day, he had decided to take the winding back road
instead
> > of his normal route. He didn't know why particularly, but he was an
> > artist and didn't question his instincts.
>
> Nice introduction to the story. If I remember correctly horses figured
in a
> number of your stories before. You obviously have a certain affinity
for
> them....
>
> <snip>
>
> And
> > he believed in going with his instincts, one of which had tonight
> > diverted him along this narrow country road, along which he had now
> > stopped suddenly, to look more closely at the magnificent animal he
had
> > just spotted.
>
> Very long sentence here. Certainly a lung full of breath to read.
Maybe
> break it down to two smaller sentences? Or maybe not....?
>
> <snip>
>
>
> > He climbed out of the car and walked over to the fence edging the
road
> > and enclosing a small paddock. Looking across to the other side, he
> > re-spied the horse he had seen from the car; dark brown, gleaming,
with
> > a splash of pure white down its nose. If there was a world of
Platonic
> > ideals of which all animals were merely shadows, this horse surely
came
> > closer to its archetype than any other example in the equine world.
> >
> > Joe knew little about horses, and could not have named the breed for
a
> > million pounds. But that mattered not. What was important was the
> > sleekness, elegance, and sublime beauty of the animal.
>
> In reading this something seemed to ....jar the flow of the story for
me. I
> was uncertain as to what it was until I re-read it again. I believe it
to be
> the sentence "could not have named the breed for a
> > million pounds" This just seems out of place inserted in amongst
such
> elegant and prosaic words....i.e. the sentence beofre and after it.
They are
> quite high-brow and intelligent. Am I saying this right??
>
> <snip>
>
> It was, Joe said
> > to himself, simply beautiful. This caused a slight smile; he
remembered
> > back to a creative writing course he had once attended, where he had
> > been berated by the tutor for his use of the word "beautiful".
>
> God damn it! I just KNEW Gene-Micheal would worm his way into people
> stories. Out Higney Out I say!
>
> She had
> > made valid points about using more descriptive adjectives,
>
> And disguising yourself as a woman doesn't work!
>
> <snip>
>
> > 'Well, in some cases yes, Open-Angle Glaucoma can lead to blindness.
> > But, as I say, there have been some very encouraging results in the
U.S.
> > with this particular drug. So, let's try and keep positive shall
we?'
>
> I have no idea if this is true but it sounds very right....
>
> <snip>
>
> The tears began to drip from his
> > chin, and he smiled anyway, the smile of an artist who has finally
> > captured something which only nature knows how to create.
> >
> >
> > © Simon King 22/02/00
> >
> >
> >
> > --
> > Creative Castle http://www.king100.demon.co.uk/abdk
> >
> > /\
> > /**\
> > /****\
> > /______\
> > { © © }
> > { .. }
> > \\__//
> > \ /
> > \/
> >
> >
>
Sue Simpson
myself this would be it. Beautiful.
My only problem would be that a horseperson, would never dream of
galloping with a novice rider pillion. I'd lower the pace there a
little bit.
Great .. or even whatever comes after great story
Sooz
Sime wrote in message <38B32D2E...@dial.pipex.com>...
Sime
give, and I appreciate it enormously.
I actually dropped the pace to "gentle canter"; hopefully this is more
reaslistic? Thanks for your advice :-)
Sime
Sue Simpson <sooz...@virgin.net> wrote in message
news:890s14$5o0$6...@nclient15-gui.server.virgin.net...
> >sweeter, more delicate fragrance; something flowery.then a voice made
> >him snatch his hand away in surprise.
> >
> >'Hello. Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I didn't want to
> >interrupt you, you two seem to know each other.'
> >
> >Joe took a few seconds to recover from the surprise of hearing the
> >woman's voice. 'Hello. Yes, we're old friends. I didn't know you were
> >there, I thought it was just the horse. You're.you're on the horse,
> >'No, I'm not hurt Sandy. And I'm not in pain, it's just.' he
> struggled
> >to find words that would at least come close to what he was feeling,
> >'it's just.all those times I tried to paint the horse - Isabel - and
PeterB
Thanks for the reply. Always nice to know at least something of what i said
makes sense! ;-)
write on
Peter
Sime <s.k...@stanton-bonna.co.uk> wrote in message
news:951317050.5776.0...@news.demon.co.uk...
BARBARA HENNING
This is moving and beautiful (well?!?, what can I say, it's the perfect
word here). I was impressed with the fact that you were able to make us
care about him very quickly as he struggled with this painting. We actually
learn very little about him other than his struggles with his own perceived
lack of talent, his love of beauty, and his dimming vision. But we
(especially as writers) can empathize with this wish to be perfect and his
dejection when he falls short.
You set up just beautifully (oh-oh, there's that word again) the
struggle that he faces next and his slow acceptance of reality and his
decision to live. My favorite part was when Joe regards Peter, his
supposedly educated home-help, as an idiot. That was a nice point about how
stupid anyone can be, and the following description of how Joe 'sees' the
world around him is just excellent.
Meeting Sandy and riding Isabel, is a very fulfilling end to this story,
I think. It could have turned toward pathos, but you did a great job of
just letting us experience it with Joe, and I felt only happiness for him.
Just a few nits below. This is not only a wonderful story, but
well-written.
"Sime" <ld...@dial.pipex.com> wrote:
> THE PAINTER AND THE HORSE
>"...early that Saturday, he thanked God for the light; an artist's dream,
clear and bright. Thank you Lord, he offered silently."
[I like this, but I wonder if you need to say that he thanked God before he
actually does.]
>"Six weeks and four days after that first
> appointment with the doctor, Joe's morningless night fell."
[My favorite line.]
> "Coming to terms with blindness is an immense struggle for anyone who
suffers it; for an artist it is doubly painful, as not only are they denied
the vision of the physical world, they are also denied the opportunity to
represent it in their chosen medium."
[Up to this point, we've seen the world from Joe's point of view. It's a
little jarring to actually hear from the author here. Maybe Joe himself
should introduce this thought to us. As in, 'Joe understood that coming to
terms with blindness would be an immense struggle for anyone. But for him,
as an artist...' or something like that.]
>" My name's Sandy. So, how long have you been blind?'"
[For some reason, I found this an unusual question, even from a person who
is a bit unusual. We find that she's very compassionate, so the question
just seems unnatural to me. Maybe she could sense that this was all new to
him, but if so, wouldn't she more likely say, 'I'm sorry, I didn't stop to
think that you might not realize that I'm here. Is this blindness thing new
to you?' I don't know, Sime, on second thought, Sandy is Sandy, and I'm
just me--overly polite. But I'll leave this here, just on the off-chance
that you'd agree.]
I have a feeling we'll see this one published. Thanks for sharing.
Yer frend,
Barb
Sime
very valid points you made, all (but one) I found myself nodding to as I read.
The last one, re. Sandy's directness, is more difficult. I'm inclined to leave
it in; I see Sandy as perceptive *and* compassionate. So compassionate, in fact,
that she deals with everyone in exactly the same way. Maybe the phrasing of the
question could be changed, but I intend to leave the question in, in a fairly
direct form, to illustrate that she is perceptive enough to realise Joe is
blind, but also easy and comfortable enough not to avoid asking questions about
people's disabilities. I will have a think and a fiddle. :-)
I am thrilled about your feeling re. publication Barbara. Thanks again. It is
very much appreciated.
Sime
BARBARA HENNING wrote:
> Hi Sime:
> This is moving and beautiful (well?!?, what can I say, it's the perfect
> word here). I was impressed with the fact that you were able to make us
> care about him very quickly as he struggled with this painting. We actually
> learn very little about him other than his struggles with his own perceived
> lack of talent, his love of beauty, and his dimming vision. But we
> (especially as writers) can empathize with this wish to be perfect and his
> dejection when he falls short.
> You set up just beautifully (oh-oh, there's that word again) the
> struggle that he faces next and his slow acceptance of reality and his
> decision to live. My favorite part was when Joe regards Peter, his
> supposedly educated home-help, as an idiot. That was a nice point about how
> stupid anyone can be, and the following description of how Joe 'sees' the
> world around him is just excellent.
> Meeting Sandy and riding Isabel, is a very fulfilling end to this story,
> I think. It could have turned toward pathos, but you did a great job of
> just letting us experience it with Joe, and I felt only happiness for him.
> Just a few nits below. This is not only a wonderful story, but
> well-written.
>
> "Sime" <ld...@dial.pipex.com> wrote:
> > THE PAINTER AND THE HORSE
> >"...early that Saturday, he thanked God for the light; an artist's dream,
> clear and bright. Thank you Lord, he offered silently."
> [I like this, but I wonder if you need to say that he thanked God before he
> actually does.]
>
> >"Six weeks and four days after that first
> > appointment with the doctor, Joe's morningless night fell."
> [My favorite line.]
>
> > "Coming to terms with blindness is an immense struggle for anyone who
> suffers it; for an artist it is doubly painful, as not only are they denied
> the vision of the physical world, they are also denied the opportunity to
> represent it in their chosen medium."
> [Up to this point, we've seen the world from Joe's point of view. It's a
> little jarring to actually hear from the author here. Maybe Joe himself
> should introduce this thought to us. As in, 'Joe understood that coming to
> terms with blindness would be an immense struggle for anyone. But for him,
> as an artist...' or something like that.]
>
> >" My name's Sandy. So, how long have you been blind?'"
> [For some reason, I found this an unusual question, even from a person who
> is a bit unusual. We find that she's very compassionate, so the question
> just seems unnatural to me. Maybe she could sense that this was all new to
> him, but if so, wouldn't she more likely say, 'I'm sorry, I didn't stop to
> think that you might not realize that I'm here. Is this blindness thing new
> to you?' I don't know, Sime, on second thought, Sandy is Sandy, and I'm
> just me--overly polite. But I'll leave this here, just on the off-chance
> that you'd agree.]
>
> I have a feeling we'll see this one published. Thanks for sharing.
> Yer frend,
> Barb
--
Sue Simpson
>In re-reading the "million pound" sentence, I completely agree. There
>was something vaguely troubling me about that last night, but by the
>time I had reached the end, I had forgotten about it. That *will* be
>fixed.
>
>>For what its worth .... so do I.
Sooz
Sue Simpson
the comment about the million pounds.
Great work
Sooz
Sime wrote in message
<951317968.17630.0...@news.demon.co.uk>...
VinceNC
Wonderful little tale, well told. In it you've
accomplished what I struggle so vainly to do: Even
though I saw the ending coming paragraphs before it
occurred, you held my interest. There was a discussion
in AFO recently about incorporating a "twist" into each
short story. I think the reason I use that device so
often is the difficulty in keeping interest after the
ending is pretty much clear. Which, again, is you've
done so well here. Good show!
--
-Vince
---
"Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to
die having left undone."
Pablo Picasso
Sime <ld...@dial.pipex.com> wrote THE PAINTER AND THE
HORSE
Sime
I've never even attempted to incorporate a twist in all my stories; for
one thing, I don't have enough ideas to discard the ones without a
twist! But I suppose if a tale is reasonably well told, it can be an
enjoyable read without it. Hopefully I've managed that here.
Thanks again for your time and kind words.
Sime
VinceNC <V.Ha...@worldnet.att.net> wrote in message
news:Ve1t4.15175$tk7.9...@bgtnsc05-news.ops.worldnet.att.net...
> Sime <ld...@dial.pipex.com> wrote THE PAINTER AND THE
> HORSE
>
>
>
B.T. Filbeck
capturing the frustration of people who attempt to create things and have
them fail to reach the standard of perfection that *has* to be achieved for
the work to be acceptable.
I have a few comments about things that caused me to wonder while I was
reading.
First of all, I agree with Barb on the "coming to terms with blindness"
paragraph -- it would have "fit" better if it was from Joe's point of view.
Peter "dropping Joe off" at the paddock seemed a little strange to me. Joe
has not been "out" much and Peter is never shown as having any particular
reason for driving off. Maybe a little background on why Peter is leaving
Joe there all "alone."
All the horse's noses that I have petted (and there have been more than a
few) were not "cold and wet" they were warm, dry, and "velvety" feeling.
You say, "Sandy had fitted another saddle. . ." A "different" saddle or a
"second" saddle??? I don't know diddly about English riding, but in the
U.S., when riding double the second rider usually sits behind the saddle
and rides without benefit of stirrups.
It was a very nice story from end to end, Simon. One of the kind that
leaves the reader finishing with either a smile or a tear but feeling good
about whichever it is.
Bruce
Not long ago, Sime wrote:
>THE PAINTER AND THE HORSE
<snip>
>© Simon King 22/02/00
Sime
questions about the "horsey" aspects of the story are not ones I can easily
answer, since I have no experience of them whatsoever. I will need to find
out whether or not my facts are accurate. I did think about letting Joe ride
bareback, but in the end decided that that seemed a little unrealistic for a
first-time, blind rider.
The point about Peter is fair, but I didn't want anything in the story that
smacked of "waffle", and I thought that this did. I'm not sure it's
necessary to explain *where* he had to go. Maybe he even just said that, to
give Joe some time to himself. Also, Joe has been out a fair number of
times; this is only the first time he has *asked* to go somewhere remember.
He has actually been out before.
But, much food for thought Bruce. Thanks very much again.
Sime.
B.T. Filbeck <bfil...@usa.net> wrote in message
news:n0kabss38puoj9c86...@4ax.com...
> >THE PAINTER AND THE HORSE
>
> <snip>
>
> >© Simon King 22/02/00
>
Sue Simpson
because then she would have been able to feel exactly where his body
was going, and be able to check his 'seat' without having to turn
round and risk untiming the horse. A 'different' saddle wouldn't be
used. Don't know if you CAN buy tandem saddles but I've never seen
one.
And the gentle canter is much better than the all out gallop. He'd
probably have had trouble with the trot though the most cumbersome
gait to get used to. Here in Britain we favour the 'rising trot' far
less bouncy on the boobies than the western style sitting trot, a fact
for which all us heavy breasted women are eternally grateful. But with
a novice rider behind her she probably wouldn't have risen and would
have spent as little time as possible trotting.
Sooz
Sooz
Sime wrote in message <893rmk$h9p$1...@lure.pipex.net>...
>> >THE PAINTER AND THE HORSE
>>
>> <snip>
>>
>> >© Simon King 22/02/00
>>
>
>
B.T. Filbeck
>Actually it would have been better for both of them to ride bareback,
>because then she would have been able to feel exactly where his body
>was going, and be able to check his 'seat' without having to turn
>round and risk untiming the horse. A 'different' saddle wouldn't be
>used. Don't know if you CAN buy tandem saddles but I've never seen
>one.
That was my thinking, too, Sooz, but I didn't want go out on a limb since I
find myself frequently finding out new UK-related stuff. I would think it
would be *much* easier to ride double behind an English saddle than behind
a western saddle because of the much lower cantle. I trust horses over
there have warm dry noses?? :-)
Sue Simpson
(my horses particular fave treat) Noses that know just where to rest
when you are feeling sad. And noses that come up behind you, catch you
unawares and almost knock you into the middle of next week when you
are not doling out the attention that sir feels that he so richly
deserves.
I had to part with Psycho (he was a bit temperamental sometimes) when
I got divorced Parting with hubby was no hardship, loosing my horse
and my dogs, nearly did me in. Miss him like hell, but not in winter.
when I had to trek three miles three times a day to feed him. Loved
his shaggy winter coat though. I can still bring to mind the smell of
Warm Molychops and horse sweat. Wonderful. And to this day I loath
throwing vegetable peelings out, it always seems such a waste. Apart
from cabbage. Anybody who has been in close contact with a horse
who's eaten cabbage would never make the same mistake again. Phew!
Sooz
B.T. Filbeck wrote in message ...
Sime
reason I didn't see this message until tonight. But thanks again, it's very
much appreciated.
Sime
bart hopson <born2luz...@yahoo.com.invalid> wrote in message
news:05de14ee...@usw-ex0104-032.remarq.com...