The Sitting
 
I used to sit by the fire, below the family portrait.  I liked to watch the little strips of fabric as they spun around the orange light bulbs, creating the theatrical, heatless flames. Now, looking up at the painting I see it is as artificial as the fire.  My brother, Stephen, who had been sorting through the books, asked what we should do with the portrait. Burn it, I replied. He made no protest. Then he asked me if I remembered going to the studio. I did.
 

 
            I had picked out a green dress; it had a little fish blowing a bubble on the front.  Mother’s cotton frock was nipped in at the waist with a very wide skirt. It was a picture dress. The blocks of colour contained images of Spanish design; castanets, a flamenco dancer and a Toreador. Julie wore a dirndl skirt with an off the shoulder gypsy-style blouse, a choice that exaggerated every roll of puppy fat and pasty limb. There were six sittings at the artist’s studio; we all went to the first, but after that it was just mummy and me.
At that first sitting the artist, Lucas Mirren, spent a lot of time composing the family group and then taking photographs. I was ticked off for fidgeting by Stephen who caught somewhere between boyhood and manhood, was going through an unpleasant bossy phase. My father, who was used to having his picture taken, seemed to know what to do, how to sit, where to look. My mother spent a long time re-arranging her skirt; finally the artist stepped forward and helped adjust the wayward fabric. His hands were tanned, large and square, with a scattering of freckles, as if he spent a lot of time somewhere sunny. When I looked down at his shoes, they were covered with multi-coloured flecks of paint and his corduroy trousers had smudges of colour on them. I remembered the pungent smells; turpentine and linseed oil.
Subtle adjustments were made to the lighting and pose. Shoulders were gently manipulated, chins were held between his thumb and forefinger and tipped up or down. Lucas Mirren plucked mother’s gloves from her lap and then he made a joke of not knowing where to put them down, everywhere being so dirty covered in paint, canvases or brushes. He made great play of leaving the room with the gloves and then returning in a clownish manner. I remember him as a tall sandy-haired man, craggy, charming and urbane. I remember him as different.
            His studio can’t have been far from our own house, because my mother and I walked if it was fine and only took a bus if it were raining. Although it was far enough for my legs to ache. The banisters were rich mahogany and when we got to the third floor the carpet and brass rods were replaced by thick red linoleum, with tough rubber strips bent over the edge of each step.  Small dabs of paint, like a paper trail, showed the way to the studio door.  I don’t recall being let into the house; no one came to the door or greeted us. Perhaps the front door was left on the latch, or did my mother have a key? Once I heard music floating up from downstairs, it was turned off abruptly when a telephone rang. I slipped out of the studio and lent over the balustrade straining to hear the distant muffled voice, then a door closed. That autumn I started school.
When I saw the finished portrait I was confused and upset.  Where were my little fish and mummy’s pictures on her skirt? I thought it was a dreadful mistake; I thought daddy would be cross. In the finished painting we were all in muted shades, except for our father in his dark suit. At first I thought my parents were too polite to mention the missing textile patterns, they seemed so genuinely delighted with the painting. Years later, when I asked, daddy explained artistic license to me. Artistic license had also shrunk Julie to a slender and attractive form.
 

 
I was visiting Julie in Islington; she had agreed to look after my demanding toddler, Chloe. Julie was childless and a generous aunt. Seldom free to roam, I relished my freedom and spent the day in Covent Garden popping in an out of shops and watching street entertainers. I bought a frivolous skirt that matched my skittish mood. By three o’clock, I was hot and I was tired. I settled at a pavement café for an iced coffee, on the opposite side of the street canvases where being carried into a gallery.  The gallery owner was fussing and waving his arms. A young woman with spiky red hair was pasting the letters that formed the name of the artist on the window. I looked on as the letter L unfurled, then the U. By the time the name Lucas was complete I felt an odd foreboding. She came outside to check the alignment and returned to complete the surname. The next letter was an M.
I watched the pair inside the gallery deliberating over the hanging of the pictures, then went over. The owner glanced at me and flicked his foppish hair back. Immaculately dressed, he rested somewhere between suave and camp.  He glanced over at me expressing mild disinterest, no doubt evaluating the size of my wallet and quickly dismissing me as a potential buyer. I thought I might be asked to leave; the exhibition was clearly not ready, so I asked if Lucas Mirren was still alive and was told he had died a year ago. The gallery owner unwrapped another painting, it was a reclining nude. It was my mother. 
I stepped backwards; my shoulder caught the edge of the door. I took an urgent breath, recovered and continued my walk around the edge of the gallery. From the canvases my mother stared back at me, holding my gaze, blatant and cool, with an undeniable sexual frisson. A fleeting memory followed; the tender removal of her coat, Lucas burying his face in my mother’s silk scarf.  The gallery lights glared white and hot, I became lightheaded and weak. That they were lovers was clear to me. When did that start, before the family portrait or later? Was the portrait just a ruse, a way of spending time together? As I progressed around the gallery so too did the images of my mother. I stared at her aging flesh, the inky rope of her veins, the translucent soft tissue and historical tan marks; a relic of our family holidays in Brittany.
I wondered when she could have posed. I guessed it was during the school day when daddy was abroad.  Her nakedness was unsettling. Our mother was sensuous, elegant and self-contained. Our mother, who made Victoria sponge and fish paste sandwiches and met me from school everyday. Who asked about what I had been doing in Miss Eliot’s class, and when I was old enough and polite enough to enquire about her day, would reply, nothing much, housework…baking. Sometimes she would sing or hum a tune, while I skipped home beside her. I always thought she was happy.
            My scrutiny of the paintings aroused the curiosity of the gallery owner, who asked if I was an admirer of Lucas Mirren? I found myself telling him that Mirren had painted a group portrait of my family, I told him it was mawkish, he flinched at the word. He went on to explain that artists have to eat, he was trying to be charming, but underneath I sensed his contempt. He asked if I knew the model. I lied and said I did not. I knew he had detected this lie. He explained that Mirren had not presented a canvas of Rachel for years, that Mirren devotees wondered what had happened to her. I guessed that such speculation would include her death. But our mother wasn’t dead; she was very much alive, about now she would be asking my father what he wanted for supper. Father had retired, that surely ended her career as model, muse and lover. The owner was talking at me, he mentioned the private view and he dropped the catalogue and an invitation into my bag. I kept looking at his mouth, the rapid movement of his tongue and the saliva connecting in viscous threads; the heat was overpowering…the lights…his words…my mother. I made for the door and fled.   
I missed my stop; the bus had already reached the far end of Essex Road so I struggled past the standing passengers and walked back to Islington Green where I dropped onto a bench.
My parents had a model marriage, or so I believed.  They had their disagreements and irritations, but amongst their peers their relationship was held up as an example. A marriage to aspire too, an aunt stated, as I prepared for my wedding day. My late, failed marriage made me feel that I had let the side down. It was growing dark and the homeless were beginning to select their benches for the night, I gathered up my bags.
Julie had cooked pasta and opened wine; I went to have a shower. When I returned to the living room Chloe had upturned the shopping bags, and found the toy giraffe I had bought for her. The skirt lay in a heap; the catalogue lay next to it. Julie swooped down and plucked it from the floor, she turned the pages. I tried lamely to pacify her. Reasoning with my sister always was impossible.  Julie, drama queen and snitch, who ran to our parents and blurted out everything, from illicit smoking, to dire exam results; I could always rely on Julie to expose my flaws and misdemeanors with relish and at the most inopportune moment. Ours was an uneasy alliance.
Returning from the gallery the following day she said that they were far worse than she could have imagined, sighting the painstaking level of detail. She said that they made Lucien Freud look myopic. I laughed at that, replying that I thought that they were tender and refreshing; celebrating the form of an aging woman. But Julie called it a twilight age; she said the paintings were repugnant and disgusting. Then more thoughtfully she said; daddy’s face still lights up when she enters the room.  For how much longer I wondered.
The Sunday papers carried reviews and a feature article with full colour photographs. Mirren was enjoying a revival.  A week later my father’s car left the road. His injuries were slight, although he was never quite the same after the accident. Mother descended into a small interior space, she no longer sang or baked. Her memory failed her, a stroke heralded the end.
 

 
The air in the house was heavy and stale and all its little faults; broken window catches, dripping taps and leaky guttering, took on a significance previously disguised by activity and harmony. Sadness was present in every lifted corner of wallpaper and each inadequately wiped stain.  Stephen threw the painting onto the pyre and together we watched as the flames lapped the edge of mother’s skirt. The paint seared, peeled and lifted. A palette of vivid sparks flew off into the night sky, as if the Spanish pictures hidden in the under-painting celebrated mother’s vivacity and gave flight to her spirit.    
 
 
 
 
1911 words   

As a writer and an artist I am naturally drawn to working with objects; many of my published stories centre on an object, painting or artist. My MA Writing the Visual was unlike any other creative writing course in the country, directed by the internationally acclaimed poet, George Szirtes, it felt tailor made for me. Set in an art school, my cohort was a fascinating mix of painters, sculptors, photographers who had also developed a passion for writing.
After graduating I was invited to work at Norwich Cathedral and the Sainsbury Centre for the Visual Arts and so my association with iconic buildings, collections and artefacts began. I soon discovered that teaching creative writing with the support of a team of interpreters and guides has a remarkable effect on novice writers. The stumbling block for many writers is the lack of a stock of thought–provoking ideas. Removed from the burden of having to come up with ‘inspiration’ to order, they are enticed into discovering stories through research and contact with objects and the local environment. This is the perfect way to gain confidence, inspiration arrives, anxiety dissolves and enthusiasm takes over.  Research is the writers’ friend; stories are prised from the past or an imagined future, crafted, honed and shaped — this is literary alchemy.
In September I will be embarking on another creative journey with a new group of students at Wells Maltings. Together we will explore the history of the building, the local and coastal environment, if you would like to participate or need further information please use the links below.
For more information www.patriciamullin.com
A ten week course beginning Tuesday 18th Sept 10-12.30am Wells Maltings. Early booking is advised.
For bookings  https://wellsmaltings.savoysystems.co.uk/WellsMaltings.dll/

 UEAwww.wellsmaltings.org.uk
Tidelines
 
Wells Maltings Trust – 10 week short story course beginning Tuesday September 18th 2018.
 
This ten week course gives participants an unrivalled opportunity to connect and engage with Wells Maltings its history, people and the coastal environment while developing creative writing and storytelling skills. There will contributions from heritage and visitor guides to help participants learn about the history of the Maltings and Wells-next-the-Sea.

Guided by local author Patricia Mullin, this is a chance to discover the mechanics and central tenets of creative writing; you will come away with a toolkit for writing - classes are fun and informative. This course is suitable for complete beginners and more experienced writers, an enthusiasm for literature and reading is all that’s required to take part. 

Patricia Mullin (MA) is a published author and an experienced creative writing tutor. A graduate of Central St Martins, Goldmiths College and Norwich University of the Arts, Patricia is an Associate Lecturer at The Sainsbury Centre for the Visual Arts; leading courses inspired the Robert and Lisa Sainsbury collection.  Additionally, she has taught courses and workshops at Norwich Cathedral, The Julian Shrine, Murray Edwards College (formally New Hall) Cambridge University, Writers Centre Norwich and Pensthorpe Natural Park.

Dates:
Tuesdays 10-12.30 a.m.  
Sept 18, 25 Oct 2, 9,16
Half term no session
Oct 30 Nov 6, 13, 20, 27
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Fee: for all 10 sessions £180.00
Concessions: 2 places at £170.00 if in receipt of benefits.
Strictly limited to 12 participants, early booking is advised. Wells Maltings Trust will be taking bookings from 1st August.
Feel free to contact me directly if you would like any further information.
Email: mullinpatricia@gmail.com
Email: hello@wellsmaltings.org.uk
www.wellsmaltings.org.uk Tel:01328 711378

Please follow the link below for information and booking.
https://www.wellsmaltings.org.uk/tidelines-creative-writing-course-at-wells-maltings/​    

It's been a very busy time for me lately and I have been getting my head down and working hard on requested re-writes.

My Fictional Narratives course at the Sainsbury Centre for the Visual Arts concluded at the end of March with readings in the gallery and drinks afterwards. I had a great cohort of talented and committed writers who will no doubt go on to create more wonderful stories in the future; it is lovely to see them catching the writing bug.

Future courses: I had a very productive meeting at the Wells Malthings Trust, who are keen to have a course in the autumn - dates to follow.

I will let you have details of other courses and workshops for 2018.

I have limited space for mentoring, but do get in touch and send me samples of your writing and I will contact you about availability.

I recommend following Joanne Harris on Twitter @joannechocolat for writing tips and more.

I will be announcing new courses for 2018 soon. If you require mentoring (perfect for anyone needing help with a novel, short story collection or just wanting some focus on their creative enterprises. ) Please get in touch.

It is lovely to be back at the Sainsbury Centre for the Visual Arts. This is the anniversary year for the Sainsbury Centre, it is 40 years old! And looking just as youthful as the day it was built. It is the most wonderful building with so many fascinating artefacts and an exciting programme of special exhibitions and events. Occasionally I come across people in the county who have never visited, I would urge them to so, we have the most extraordinary collection on our doorstep and the building itself is an icon.

I haven’t made any New Year resolutions, given that statistics show that most people have broken them by mid-January, they serve no real purpose. I do however have a folder entitled 2017 The Plan and soon to be renamed 2018 The Plan. It has a number of categories, ten in all, beginning with the overall plan it features domestic plans (such as the conversion of the studio in 2017) and then a number of work categories. I check it throughout the year and adjust accordingly; it gives me an overall picture to the scope of my yearly ambitions and acts as benchmark.
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I’m inveterate list maker although these can be a horrible ball and chain as items frequently get dragged from one day’s list to the next with no satisfactory sense of completion. A yearly plan is different, when a project hasn’t got off the ground I can assess the reasons why. Often it is entirely out of my hands, perhaps dependent on the cogs of an organisation to turn; there were three failures to launch in 2017.  Some domestic projects, like six months in design and planning and then a twenty weeks build can set back or derail any number of winning ideas.

Interestingly, as I look down the 2017 categories not one is writing. You may find this extraordinary for someone who is a writer, but this is because the writing gets done whatever. It is my life blood, the written page is one area I have control over, at least in the early stages. So immediately after turning out the detritus thrown haphazardly into my study during the festive period I will, once again be happily settled at my keyboard tapping my way into a creative 2018.

On the theme of writing may I pass on this interesting Ted Talk by Jonny Geller of Curtis Brown Literary Agency ‘How to Write a Best Seller’ -  with thanks to Katherine Gregor for sending me the link.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v+mDuP2BsVy4
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