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the tank
The tank
1958
The following should act as a cautionary tale not to over-estimate the artistic appreciation of your audience. Some might not accept your creativity as much as you would like, but would instead, prefer you to keep it simple.
Many people believe that art is all about creativity, so if you can come up with something new and original, your work will be a success. However, if on the other hand it has been done before, your creation will be regarded by many as de rigueur and not good at all.
Most artists seek originality (and in 1959 I was one of them) but it's not always easy to impress with innovation. I was thirteen and attending a school in Gateshead, one that would have inspired Charles Dickens I am sure, when we received our new art teacher Mrs Warne. She was a little tank of a woman who would have challenged the reputation of Wackford Squeers – for looks and personality. It was a challenge for her to smile and when she tried, it always turned out more like a snarl.
The only endearing thing I could perceive in this woman was that she was totally besotted by the baby-faced Cliff Richard who had just burst onto the scene with 'Living Doll'.
"Now then chooldren" she would say, which always made her seem even more alien to me - she was the only person I had heard pronounce the word 'children' like that. "Now then chooldren, I want you to paint me a nice picture of a caffy".
Art was my best subject and was so because of the effort I made. So, I played around with various images in my mind, arriving at an interesting exercise in perspective. I decided that my café scene would be painted from the top of one of the tables.
I got quite excited as my sketch framed a waitress's head inside the handle of a teacup whilst a giant teapot poured steaming hot tea into another.
As Mrs Warne stood behind me, I felt great as I knew she must be admiring my work. My picture was turning out great and I was so excited. However, my delight was short-lived as a sudden 'CRACK' to my temple caused white light to flash. Mrs Warne had actually punched me in the side of the head as she began ranting. "Blah, blah, blah, blah, treating this as a joke, 'CRACK' blah, blah, blah, blah, I've never seen a cup that big before 'CRACK' bla, bla, bla, blah, blah "LET GO!"
Instinctively, I had prevented a fourth punch by grabbing her wrist – it was an involuntary thing – just grabbed it "LET GO OF MY ARM" she bellowed. "Miss, if I do you will punch me again" I said. "LET GO OF MY ARM NOW!" she demanded.
I looked her in the face, which behind those fancy crackle-pink spectacles was pretty red by now, and I slowly let go. "Right," she said, "on your feet "as she began prancing around the classroom displaying her best Marquis of Queensbury boxing technique – bouncing up and down as each fist made its own circular movement in preparation to land me with another one of her specialist teaching skills.
As you will imagine, all of this was going on to the great delight of my classmates who were all on their feet by this time and making a right old racket. Ironically, the mayhem helped stabilise her behaviour ending up with her frog-marching me along to the headmaster's study where she gave him her account of what had happened. I remember her story included the words "I was boxing his ears and he grabbed my wrist and wouldn't let go" (as if punching me in the head was absolutely acceptable and appropriate).
Mr Cowell was a big man with broad shoulders and big hands. He had previously been a coal miner and I had been caned by him three times before. Not for breaking the rules, stealing, smashing things or even insolence, it didn't work like that. You just had to be in the wrong place at the wrong time or look the wrong way to qualify for a beating.
I’d once had the misfortune to be in the cloakroom when a boy playfully threw a bar of soap at another boy as a teacher passed by. The soap skimmed across the floor ending up at the feet of the teacher.
The result was that five of us were lined up in the headmaster's study to received six strokes of the cane… on each hand! And the cane wasn't a little thin one like Charlie Chaplain carried but about an inch in diameter and two feet long. Some of the male teachers almost left the ground in order to get that final degree of power into their stroke.
As Mrs Warne told him her story, I got lost in a picture of 'The Haywain' by John Constable which hung on the wall in front of me. Behind me, a coal fire burned the back of my legs, but I was too full of fear to complain. He asked the tank if she could go back to her class, and he would "deal with this".
Then, turning to me he asked what my picture was all about. I was taken aback as I wasn't expecting this, but, just as I had instinctively grabbed the wrist to prevent further punishment, I just as instinctively offered my creative response. "It's… it's a fly's eye view sir" (I had recently become aware of a new expression – at least new to me - of a 'birds eye view', so, I invented my own).
Mr Cowell had piercing bright blue eyes with which he scanned my face for what seemed an age. Then, slowly and deliberately they moved from me to my picture as he slowly repeated my words "a fly's eye view eh".
I didn't get caned by Mr Cowell that day. It turned out that he knew more about art than the person he had hired to teach the subject. I had a new respect for him and regarded him as an ally; not so with the tank who, about a month later, was de-commissioned and we never saw her again.