Читать книгу Being Emily - Anne Donovan - Страница 11

WE’D JUST TWO hours tae set up our work in a space ten feet by four, like a box with three sides, painted white. Even though I knew which photies I was gonnae use I hadnae decided how to display them. In the end I worked totally on instinct, with nae idea whether it’d be brilliant or a load of posy rubbish.

When time was up we all stood back. Each space looked completely different: Rosie’s garishly coloured papier-mâché sculptures of exotic birds with sweetie necklaces tied round them, Jas’s stark sleek black and white images, Matt’s ethereal abstract watercolours, and mines.

Four big colour photographs hung on the back wall; apparently idyllic winter scenes of snow and ice from the November day in the park, crystallised puddles or delicate leaves rimed in frost, but each with an amputated or mutilated doll superimposed over it. One floated heidless above the trees, another looked as if it had been stamped tae bits in a frozen puddle. And in front of the photographs, on a table covered by a white cloth, lay a mountain of doll parts, each with a Barbie Elastoplast over some part of it. Some had their eyes covered, others their ears, and some wore crossed plasters like a bikini. The title ‘Barbie Bits’ was printed in pink italics on a card in front of them.

Jas stood beside me, looking intently. After what seemed like ages he spoke. Awesome, Fiona.

Really?

Yeah, I’d never in a million years have thought of doing anything like that with those photos.

Hey, Fiona, what have you done? Rosie appeared behind us. Barbie Bits – wicked.

Miss Mulhern was making her way along our exhibits. When she came to mines she looked critically as if taking in every detail, then started to nod and smile. Nice concept, Fiona – good placing of the doll parts and the plasters – but … She looked around worriedly. Where’s your text?

I didnae know you had tae write one.

There’s nothing in the rules to stop you hanging the visual work on its own, but, nowadays, the artist has to contextualise their work … too late now, of course, but you can do it for your exam.

I don’t see why you need tae explain your art. Turner and all these guys just painted.

That’s not really the point, Fiona … anyway, the adjudicators are coming.

We stood back while the three judges – two artists and one guy fae the crisp company – looked at the pieces, clipboards in haund, ticking boxes and scribbling on their sheets. They were judging all the entries from schools in the Glasgow area. The winner would get through to the final with folk fae the other regions in Scotland.

Miss Mulhern looked at her watch. The adjudicators are giving their decision at twelve, so be back here at five to. You could go and see what the other entries are like, get some ideas.

Jas whispered in my ear. Let’s go and get a coffee.

The main foyer was a soulless barn of a place, all plastic and metal with posters advertising concerts for has-been bands at extortionate prices. In one of the other halls there was a craft show, and teams of auld dollies in haund-knitted jumpers and lace-up shoes daundered about, carrying poly bags full of cross-stitch kits. Jas and me sat on a bench, sipping coffee out of paper cups.

You know, I think I prefer coffee like this. It tastes better than out of real cups.

Stays hot for longer. But then, paper cups are so bad for the environment.

Afore I met Jas, I’d never thought much about the environment but it was one of his things. I even knew what he was gonnae say next.

It’d be so easy to have recycling bins in here.

He was right, of course, and being with him had made me aware of how folk just chucked stuff out, of the overpackaged products and the way you got handed a poly bag in every shop – I’d even started taking bags to the supermarket mysel. But there was a difference between us. I knew in my heid that throwing a paper cup away was wrong and wasteful, but it actually pained Jas to dae it. I knew that when it was time for us to go back in the hall he’d place the cup in the bin gently and a look of distress would cross his foreheid; Jas could feel the hole in the ozone layer growing even by a particle, could sense the tiniest molecule of carbon monoxide sighing into the air.

I looked at the time on my phone. Ten to.

Finished?

Jas nodded, and I took the cup fae him, put it inside mines as if somehow that made it less bad, then threw them in the bin.

He stood up, held out his haund, and the two of us heided towards the door.

Everyone expected Jas tae win, of course. He’d always been the golden boy of the class, got the school Art prize every year. His photies were perfect; not only were his composition and technique breathtaking, his work had a way of making you feel as if you were seeing an everyday object for the first time. It was true, shot through with Jas’s directness, his sense of purpose.

The adjudicators praised his work highly.

Mature, dynamic … tonal quality … flawless composition. A Cartier-Bresson in the making.

Everyone clapped. A warm feeling rose inside me.

Jaswinder attends Burnside High and the school is to be highly commended for the quality of its students’ work. The next entrant, Fiona O’Connell, has not displayed the technical mastery which characterised Jaswinder’s work, but her exhibit, Barbie Bits, is a compelling and ehm … edgy piece of work with an understated violence. She pushes the boundaries of our perception of childhood, of women, and makes us question our assumptions. The juxtaposition of the doll images over the winter scenes is disturbing and the pyre of broken Barbies is a master stroke.

Jas squeezed my haund. I felt my face flame.

Now to the part which we adjudicators hate. There has to be a winner and it goes without saying that this was a very difficult decision but we are confident we have made the right one. The competition was set up to reward innovative and risky art as well as technical brilliance. So, in reverse order – third place goes to Paula Mason from Anderston High School.

A skinny blonde lassie in a navy blazer went up to get her envelope and everyone applauded.

Second and first place go to pupils of the same school – a tremendous achievement for Burnside High. In second place is Jaswinder Singh, and, for a courageous and innovative work, first place and the chance to go forward to the Scottish finals, go to Fiona O’Connell.

It’s amazing how much difference winning the prize made. If Jas had won (and if even one of the judges’d been different, it would of been him, as Miss Mulhern reminded us on several occasions), then his position as best artist in school and my position in his shadow would of been retained. Coming second would of been easier – Miss Mulhern could be nice to me, put me in the box she’d already labelled. Winning knocked out her whole way of looking at things. I’d spent weeks stuck at the computer in Mr Lyons’ room and suddenly produced the goods, taking the prestigious prize away fae her star pupil. You could see how it would scunner her.

It made a big difference tae my family. Of course they’d known I was good at art, just like I was good at English or History, but Art was a frivolous subject, no something tae base your life choices on. But the cheque for a thousand quid changed that. Da couldnae believe it, kept shaking his heid in amazement and saying, You’ll need tae take care of this, Fiona, as if I was gonnae drop it in the street or accidentally tear it up or something. Janice took me out and helped me open a special savings account.

It seems a lot, but when you’re a student you’ll find it’ll be a real help.

The only person it didnae affect was Jas. I worried he’d be pissed aff I’d won the prize, kept watching him for signs of things changing between us, but there was nothing. He was just the same.