Master Brahm's Studio

 A master seeks to teach his students valuable lessons

The students, carefully selected from multiple kingdoms, fiefs, and villages, stood dutifully at their stations, clutching paintbrushes. Their eyes focused on the empty canvas on an easel before them; they waited for the master to speak.

“What do you see before you?” The master, a wizened man of advanced years, asked, “What do you see?”

An overly eager lad from the isle of Winsey raised his free hand, and the master raised an eyebrow and motioned for him to speak.

“A blank space, waiting,”

The master grunted, then sneered, “Poetic, but incorrect.” He looked around at the silent group and grunted again. “Waiting, yes, but what you see, ahh...” His voice trailed off, and his eyes narrowed. “What you see before you cannot be put into simple words; it is what you feel, what comes from within if you listen. It is what you allow if you permit yourself.”

The master glared at the wilting student from Winsey, “Not all of you will do that; not all of you are capable.” He whirled, turning his back on the nervous student, and the boy visibly sagged in relief.

Master Brahm hummed to himself as he chose a paintbrush from the collection on his desk. There were many, all different sizes, ranging from a large flat brush to the most delicate of all, a brush that sported only one long hair. His choice was made, and the master asked, “What is this?” He held a medium-sized brush in front of him like a sword.

Not a single student dared raise a hand.

“What? Not a one?” the master scoffed. “No one brave enough to venture a guess? I will give you a clue,” he chuckled. “What is a tool when it isn’t a tool?”

The room remained silent, but one girl fidgeted, and the master’s eyes were on her like a hawk. “You girl, you have a thought? A musing? A slight glimmer of understanding?”

The girl, a waif found in a small village from beyond the Blue Mountains, straightened her shoulders and fixed her pale, blue eyes on the master.

“What I should say, I will not, for I think we are here to learn what it is you want us to learn,” she said, then boldly added, “I think whatever I would say, you would find fault.”

The master stared, then guffawed, slapping his knee with one hand, the other still clutching his paintbrush.

“Quite right, quite right. You are an egg, barely pecking at your shell; you know nothing, struggling to free yourself,” he laughed. “Peck, peck, peck! But” he rasped,” Miss Thisbe from nowhere, you will share with me your thoughts, or you shall leave my studio!” He thrust the paintbrush into her face. “What is this?”

Thisbe didn’t flinch, and most of the room looked at her with admiration as she answered, “Sacrifice.”

“So,” Master Brahm whispered.

The master stared into Thisbe’s eyes, and she stared back without fear. Master Brahm held her gaze a moment, then turned to face the rest of the class.

“I could just tell you, yes? I am the teacher, yes?”

There was a great nodding of heads and whispers of consent, and the master shouted, “It is, yes, ‘Master Brahm! No Master Brahm.’ Do they not teach you manners from wherever you were found?”

The students mutedly replied, “Yes, Master Brahm.”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

Inspiration. Part one - People #ourauthorgang

I am often asked where I get my inspiration from to write stories. It’s a good question. It’s also a very complex one.

I suppose it all depends on where I am and what I want to achieve. My fellow man can be an endless source of inspiration. Sometimes I overhear a conversation that triggers an idea.

For example, when I was in a charity shop looking for second-hand books, a woman came in with a large reproduction of Picasso’s painting ‘Cat catching a bird’ and asked if the shop would like to sell it.

The assistant was not impressed and thought the painting was by a child and declined her offer. The woman stormed out mumbling something about philistines and uncultured people etc.

I thought it was quite funny and used the incident as the start of a short story about a disabled woman trying to get back her life by beginning to paint again. Here is an extract from the short story 

‘Rousseau’s Suburban Garden’ from the anthology-Glimmer

“The assistant mumbled her way to the window display and dragged the picture towards her. She picked it up as though it weighed more than she did, and carried it, huffing and puffing to the counter. Esther leant heavily against her walking stick as the woman spoke, ‘It’s a funny old picture. Is it from some children’s television programme?’

‘No, it’s a painting by Henri Rousseau.’

The elderly lady chuckled and began to unclip the metal clasps that held the cardboard back onto the frame. ‘Sorry dear, but I think this is just a print. Not a painting.’           

Closing her eyes tightly, she flared her nostrils and took a deep breath. ‘I know, but the print is from a painting by Henri Rousseau.’     

‘Never heard of him,’ the woman said and stared at the picture before her. She squinted and held it up, turning it left and right as though she could not make out what it was.

‘The colours are very garish. Not really my thing. Too cartooney for my taste. What kind of animal is it anyway? A giant kitten? Funny colour hair it’s got. Not sure about the teeth. Is it supposed to be some kind of circus act? Are they midgets riding it? All looks out of proportion.’

Esther stared into the woman’s watery eyes. ‘The lion’s mane is the colour of ripened wheat and it is smiling. Two children sit upon the animals back as it walks amongst long yellow grass. There is a moon and dove above their heads, and the sky is darkening. The girl’s untamed tresses fly out behind her in an imitation of the big cat’s shaggy hair. It is titled, ‘The Infants and The Lion’. It was my favourite painting as a child.’

‘Oh, well, I can see how a child would take to it. An adult, though?’”

I thought it was a good way to begin my story of an artist trying to find her inspiration after giving up.

Then there is people watching. I confess that I have used friends, family, and strangers as a basis for a character or two. Their quirky habits, use of words and how they react to problems and the drama of life, inevitably end up in a narrative. Memories of past loves and hates will emerge in a character, often without me being aware of it. When I do, I realise that I have the chance to re-enact moments of humiliation and sadness by rewriting what I should have said and done, so ridding myself of all those inner beasts that have haunted me for years.

This can be very cathartic and often produces charged, emotional passages that bring the narrative to life. But I don’t base characters on actual people very often, honest!

In part two, I look at how nature has, and still does inspire me.

If you enjoyed my short story extract, you might like to check out my books on Amazon: 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Nicola-McDonagh/e/B00D4NAH0S/

All images royalty/copyright free

When Art Encompasses All Forms #OurAuthorGang

by Author Grace Augustine

photo courtesy of AroundYou.com.au

When you see or hear the word "ART" what comes into your mind? There are so very many forms of art that you may have multiple pictures. Artisans work in a variety of mediums: pottery, wood, iron, food, paints, yarns, textiles, words, notes strung in succession to form beautiful music are only a few ways to express yourself as an artist.

all photos courtesy of Pinterest

As most of you know, I have a creative streak. I design custom jewelry, I edit manuscripts, I've sung in many choirs and led them, I write romance novels, and my current passion is acrylic painting on canvas.

I hadn't picked up a brush in over 40 years until a friend and I attended a local Vino VanGogh event. Once that painting was finished, (the Eiffel Tower--goes with book 2 of my Acorn Hills series) I painted canvases for each of my books. I've given some away, and have kept some for future contests.

  This goes with book 5, Richard's Relics

This was inspired by another painting at a doctor's office.

Each art medium is unique...just as the words strung together in sentences and paragraphs of our books. Each tells a story. Each moves our souls... in different ways. Music transports our hearts and spirits to other places. Books, well, books take us to unknown lands...lands we long to visit or be part of.

I encourage you to take a moment or two and try your hand at something artful! It does lower blood pressure and puts a smile on your face.

On a totally different subject...we have a contest and would love your participation.  If you guess correctly, you could be the recipient of many good things!  Take a look and submit an entry!

https://goo.gl/forms/N3u2eNWCvqiV1c2I3