Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

Excerpt

When he saw the young woman he smiled and gave her the drawing,
explaining his love of art and how he had drawn her face from memory.
He admitted that he had created many drawings of her and he told her
how he had first seen her on the beach. “Yes,” she said. “You’re helping
Francisco build the wall.”
“Yes,” he said and added that he probably shouldn’t tell her but he related
how when he had seen her on the beach she had taken her clothes
off and gone swimming. The young woman’s face flushed deep red. Did
he have drawings of that too? Ken admitted he did. Had he shown them
to anyone? No –would she like to have them? Yes – and while she waited
Ken ran home and rushed back carrying a stack of drawings.
They sat on the steps of the hospital looking at them while Ken marvelled
at her tenacity. She could easily have been one of the servants in
his house but somehow she had done something that had changed the
course of her life. She talked about her family and her village. She told
Ken that she was going to do whatever it took to get an education and to
have a rewarding career.
Ken told her about his family and she said, “Yes, I know about your
family and they probably won’t be happy if you’re associated with me.”
“My worry was that you wouldn’t want to associate with me because
people have said things about me,” Ken said.
She smiled. “Yes, there are all kinds of stories in the village about you.”
“Like what?”
“There are stories about you and religion. Apparently, you are a very
dangerous person who associates with dangerous people. The priest
thinks you’re the devil.”
“No one in the market will talk to me,” Ken said. “Everybody’s scared
and I’m just a kid. If they’re scared of a kid, how solid is their religion and
their thinking? Do you go to church?”
“No.”
“Do you get into trouble because of that?”
“I don’t live at home any more,” she said. “I live on my own so I do as
I please.”
“But what about society?”
“Society doesn’t pay any attention.”
“How come?”
“Because I’m not notorious and I’m not rich and I’m not in any position
for people to notice me.”
“So do people have to be rich and notorious to be noticed?”
“Yes, of course. Also, I have a limp.”
Ken recalled that Francisco had also pointed out her limp.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

excerpt

They made art to order, for their
patrons – which were the church and the nobility. Art, as taught in the
schools, was something between an industry and a passing fad. Rui was
adamant – Ken’s art should not be touched, changed or influenced by a
teacher.
“I don’t interfere with how you draw,” he said. ‘I don’t tell you anything.
I just watch you and we talk. Your friend, Francisco – it’s the same.
Your father – it’s the same. That’s all you need.”
Ken was not convinced. His investigations led him to an art school just
outside Lisbon, not far from the village. He sent a letter but received no
response. He enlisted his father’s help in drafting another letter. This time
a response came – the school didn’t take young students. Ken should apply
again when he was eighteen.
In reply, his father packaged up some of his son’s drawings and sent
them to the school. Their evasive reply seemed to indicate they didn’t
believe an eleven-year-old boy was the author of the drawings.
Ken Sr. visited the school and after a number of meetings and lunches,
Ken was admitted. On his first day, he was surprised to find that the entire
institution was dedicated to the study of Pablo Picasso. Students were required
to learn about him and his work, and to draw and paint like him.
Ken walked home after the first day thinking, “Is that art school? Is that
what it’s all about? Why are they teaching me to paint the way someone
else paints? I’m not interested in painting like Picasso.”
On the second day he said, “This is not what I came here for. I didn’t
come here to paint like Picasso.”
“What’s wrong with Picasso?” the teacher asked.
“Personally, I think he can’t paint,” Ken said.
The teacher’s mouth dropped open. “I suppose you’re going to judge
that he can’t paint?”
Ken shrugged. “I think he’s a man who is full of very negative thoughts
and emotions. Look at his paintings – they’re brutal! Is this what is going
on inside him? Look at the women he paints! Look at how he paints
them! He’s a misogynist! I do not want to paint like Picasso. Perhaps you
should be reminded that Picasso is alive and well and painting and living
in France. I came here to learn other things.”
“What do you want to know?” the teacher asked.
“I want to know the technical things. I want to know about different
materials – how do they work? Once I know how to manipulate the materials,
I will decide what is what and no one is going to decide for me. How
on earth can anyone teach someone about what is in their souls or what
could potentially be there?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

Excerpt

One day Ken asked him
about the beatings. “Do they do this to you?”
“They have,” he said.
“And don’t you react to it?”
“No. The rules are the rules and you have to obey the rules.”
“Even if they’re very bad rules?”
“Well, yes. They’re the rules.”
“I was told that your father was murdered.”
“Yes, he was.”
“For defying Hitler?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“Yes, it tells me that you get killed for defying the rules.”
“I don’t mind if I get killed,” Ken said.
He thought about that conversation over the next few days and decided
that his friend was part of a great human tragedy. He tried to make
him understand. “If we lose this we lose it all,” he said. “We have to do
something.”
“Well, maybe you have to. I don’t. I don’t want to get beaten.”
“But they will lose,” Ken insisted.
“How are they going to lose?”
Ken let his friend in on his scheme. “We’ll drive them crazy,” he said.
“All we have to do is suffer a little physical pain, which can be dealt with.
We’ll drive them nuts and eventually they’ll do something really silly – go
far too far and we’ll get them!”
The boy thought about it and agreed that the plan might work. He began
being more defiant but his heart wasn’t engaged – not the way Ken’s
was. He had put his life on the line for this battle.
This was my first understanding of us as a species. We’re a crisis species.
We will put band-aids on things and we will call them fancy names and we
will wriggle this way and wriggle that way and put on more and more little
band-aids until eventually there’s a hemorrhage. Then there’s a crisis and
then we’ll do something about it. I could not have articulated that then, but
that was the feeling I had.
Francisco was the only other person with whom Ken shared his strategy.
“It’s a very dangerous plan,” the old man said.
“Yes, but life is very, very dangerous,” Ken said. “Look at the fish that
we catch and the birds that we shoot. One day we will be killed or we will
simply die. So life is very dangerous, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” Francisco agreed.
“And here at least I’m directing the danger. I want to be the maker of my
own danger. But, I will come to you one day and tell you that I have won.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573