Tag: canadian-landscapes

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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Excerpt

“I’m interested in one gemstone,” he said.
“Which one?”
“If you let me see them, I’ll pick out the one I’m interested in.”
In his father’s den, he looked through the collection and chose one.
The next day he gave it to Miloo. She put her arms around him and held
him tight, shivering and crying against him.
“This is only a minor token of the way I feel about you,” Ken said. “I
love you beyond words and this is only a symbol of that love.”
“I’m so frightened of the feelings I have,” she cried.
“I’m going to ask you not to be,” Ken said. “Don’t be frightened. It’s
fear that kills us. I’ve been talking with the Canadian ambassador about
going to Canada and I want you to come with me.”
“Canada? It sounds so far away. It sounds so dangerous.”
“Yes, it is far away, but how could it be any more dangerous than where
we are right now? Look at what’s going on here. There are more people
disappearing every day and everyone is pretending that nothing is happening.
No one is doing anything about it. Everyone goes home at night,
looking around corners and holding their breath – wondering if they’ll
get a knock on the door at three in the morning and disappear too. I
won’t live that way.”
“What can you do about it?”
“There are always things you can do if you don’t let fear get in the way.
If you stop thinking you shut the door on fear. When you start to think
about things you get fearful. You just have to have the simplest of plans
and stop thinking. Carry it out. For instance, these people who are informing
– what on earth are they informing on in a village like this? What
could the local people be doing that could possibly be of any danger to
anyone? This is corruption beyond the imagination. This is madness. My
grandmother told me one of her Spanish sayings – not all those who are
in the madhouse are mad and not all those who are out aren’t. From what
I see, I think that the lunatics are out and they’ve put us in the asylum.”
He took her hand. “Will you come to Canada with me?”
“I’d have to leave my family.”
“You and your family don’t get along.”
“But, they are still my family.”
“Would you like to live in a country where we have the freedom and
the right to be who we are?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Would you like to live with me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to come?”

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

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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Excerpt

The idea of moving to Canada became more and more exciting. Oh, to
live in a country that was huge, and sparsely populated, and that seemed
peaceful. You never heard stories about this sort of thing going on in Canada.
I tried to spend even more time with the Canadian ambassador and, given
his passion for fishing, it wasn’t too difficult.
Miloo was the brightest light in his sky. He didn’t know if he was in
love with her – he didn’t know what “in love” meant. He only knew that
some powerful emotion had taken residence inside him that was unlike
anything he had ever experienced. It wasn’t only lust, although that too
played a large part – it was simply that, with Miloo, he found a comfort
that was like coming home. Miloo, had a fire inside her that burned as
bright as his own. When he was with Miloo, he felt as though there was
one other soul on the planet who understood him completely.
Their relationship gradually changed. Miloo told him stories of her
life. She explained that her limp – such a minor impediment – was considered
significant. In Portugal, only the men were allowed to have flaws.
The women had to be perfect.
Ken raged, his anger, as always, flared when he encountered an injustice.
They held hands when they walked and sometimes they stopped
walking so that they could stand with their arms wrapped around each
other. She protested that society would not allow them to be together and
yet she searched him out and welcomed the intimacy.
Then one night, when the tide was low and they walked along the
beach where the water was still warm from the heat of the sun, she suggested
they go for a swim. They took off their clothes and plunged into
the still, moonlit pool. Finally they came together in an embrace and Ken
was lost – they were both lost in each other.
Over the next two years the political situation in Portugal began to deteriorate
rapidly. Secret police, informers and spies were everywhere and
no matter how careful you were, someone was watching and talking.
Ken’s father was unaware that he had a mole in his own office. He had
hired a gem cutter from Antwerp, in Belgium, the world centre of diamond
cutting. His background was a bit shady, but he was an expert in his
craft and Ken Sr. had not inquired too deeply into his background. Lisbon
was the kind of centre that attracted unusual people: the brilliant, the demonic,
and the nefarious – they all gravitated to Portugal’s magic city.

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

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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Excerpt

Ken did as he was asked and came back to his grandfather’s side. He
rearranged the pillows and as he settled the old man back, he noticed that
his hands had become still.
“Come close,” Don Hymie said, wrapping his arms around his grandson
and holding him near. Then he gently pushed Ken back and held him
at arm’s length. “I want you to listen to your old grandpa,” he said. “And I
want you to listen very carefully.” His eyes, that only an hour before had
been hazy and clouded, were wide open and shining.
“Look at me,” he said. “I’m going to make a prediction for you and I
don’t ever want you to forget it. You have to keep it inside you – don’t
tell it to anyone. You’re going to have a very bright and beautiful life. It
won’t be an easy life but it will shine. The gods favour you. You are one of
destiny’s creatures.”
He gave Ken’s shoulders an almost imperceptible squeeze and lay back
against the pillows. Ken held his hand, wondering what his grandfather
had meant. Were these just the ramblings of a dying man? Did he have a
vision? He noticed that the old man smelled different. “Is this how you
smell when you’re dying?” he wondered. And then the old man’s hand
became limp and his face changed. Ken listened, but the sound of his
grandfather’s breathing was no longer present in the room.
He sat by the old man’s side while time stopped and his thoughts stilled.
Then he wrapped his arms around him and held him close and felt a large
weight lift – a shadow disappeared and peace settled on him.
When he left the room to join the others he told them that Don Hymie
had died. He left the house and walked aimlessly up and down the streets
of Miraflores for hours, feeling as though he was floating just above the
cobbles, his mind suspended in a place that thoughts could not penetrate.
When he returned he found his grandmother in the garden. She came to
meet him, put her arm through his and walked with him down the street.
“Did you have a good talk with grandpa?”
“I did.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Why?”
“Grandpa knows things.”
Don Hymie’s body was taken to Valencia where the funeral took place.
An enormous throng of people crowded into the huge cathedral and lined
the steps and sidewalks. Everyone came: the powerful and the peasants –
and perhaps the peasants grieved more than the ruling elite. Seeing the
tears of love and loss and listening to the heartfelt tributes these people
paid to his grandfather, Ken thought how strange it was that this outpouring
came upon death. How sad it wasn’t done while he was still alive.

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

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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Excerpt

“That’s an awkward and difficult subject,” she said. “I don’t want to talk
about it right now.”
Miloo became the central focus of his life and as their friendship deepened,
Ken confessed that he liked her – but far more than the word implied.
He liked her very deeply.
“You can’t like me that much,” she said. “You come from one world and
I come from another and there is no hope that we could ever be more than
just passing friends. It would be nothing but trouble for everybody.”
Ken felt a familiar rebel anger stirring in him. “Why? Did somebody
make a rule?”
“Yes,” she said. “Those are the rules.”
“But if the rules are bad, do you still accept them?”
“It’s everybody,” she said. “It’s everywhere you turn. That’s the way it is.”
“Well, I don’t accept it.”
“You’ll get into a lot of trouble.”
“I don’t care. It seems that all the best things in my life are trouble and
I just won’t accept it.”
Ken’s father noted the growing friendship between his son and Miloo.
Perhaps thinking to distract him, he asked him one late summer day what
he would like for his next birthday. Ken opened his Michelangelo book to
the photograph of David. “I want to see that,” he said.
“Why that?” his father asked.
“It’s probably the most perfect thing I have ever seen. It has only one
flaw.”
“And what’s the flaw?”
“Look at his hand,” Ken pointed to the picture. “He’s holding a stone in
his hand and that’s the stone he was putting in a sling to throw at Goliath.
Everything else is perfect but this hand is weird. Why would he do that?
Why would he make such a strange hand on such a beautiful body?”
“I don’t know,” his father admitted. “So, that’s what you really want to
do?”
“Yes. I want to go to Florence.”
On the morning of his thirteenth birthday, he and his father boarded
the train to Italy. In Florence, they stepped into a line that seemed
to stretch to infinity outside the gates of the Accademia delle Belle Arti.
Slowly the line inched its way to the spot where the colossal 17-foot statue
towered over the crowd. Ken wanted to feast his eyes, but the relentless
throng forced him to walk by it after only a passing glance.
As they left the museum, his father asked, “Did you like it?”
“How can you look at something that way?” Ken asked. “I want to
spend a lot of time there.”

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

Water in the Wilderness

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Excerpt

At first she could see only the tossing head of the Holstein cow that Morley had long ago named Jezebel for her nasty disposition. Sparky sat in the straw close to the pen, tail wagging, ears forward, almost begging to be let in to the pen to help. As Tyne walked closer to the rails she saw Morley, bare from the waist up, standing behind the cow with his right arm almost hidden inside of her.
Tyne gasped and Morley glanced up. His face crimson from the effort of the struggle, he said haltingly, “Tyne … you’re up. I … I didn’t get a chance to … check on you.”
Jezebel, tied by a rope to a post, tossed her head, bellowed and tried to land a kick on her perceived tormentor who deftly sidestepped to avoid the flinging hoof.
Tyne raised her voice to be heard above the cow’s deafening bawl. “What on earth are you doing?”
“I’m trying to … turn the calf. It … it was coming backend first.”
“Oh yeah,” Tyne said, “breach delivery. I didn’t know cows did that.” She raised her voice as the big animal lashed out with its right hind leg, missing Morley’s knee by inches. “Morley, can I help? What can I do?”
She started to open the pen gate, but he stopped her with a warning glance. “No, Tyne, don’t come in here, it’s too dangerous. She … she’s not the gentlest cow we have.”
An understatement, Tyne thought as she stepped back. But she felt helpless. She wished Morley had someone to help him because she feared for his safety. But what could she do? She knew of only one veterinarian in the area; most of the farmers were well practiced in taking care of emergencies. But when it came to animals like Jezebel, they needed all the help they could get. Morley had talked of selling the unruly beast, but she was one of his best milk cows and produced excellent offspring.
From her vantage point beside the gate, Tyne saw Morley’s face turn crimson and heard him grunt with one last effort. Then he stepped back and away from Jezebel who interpreted her sudden freedom as a signal to lie down.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676319X

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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Excerpt

“I’ll give it to you,” Ken said.
“No,” he said. “You have to learn about artwork. You don’t give it away.
If you do, it becomes worthless. Things that are given, such as works of
art, tend to sit on the shelf for a while and then they go into a bedroom
somewhere and before you know it they’re in the basement and they become
part of the flotsam and jetsam of people’s lives. But if you pay a
great sum of money for something it goes over the mantel and you hold
cocktail parties to boast about your acquisition. That is one side of the art
world you’re going to have to learn about. How do we attribute value to
something in a world that understands very little? Everything is quantified
in our world. Therefore, if it has a big number attached to it, it must
be of great value.”
Ken and Rui agreed on a sum of money that was not too great but that
seemed like a great deal to Ken. With great pride he told his father that he
had sold a drawing to Rui.
“Did you offer to give it to him?” His father asked.
“Yes, I did and he wouldn’t take it,” Ken said and repeated what Rui
had told him.
Ken Sr. smiled. “Yes, that’s probably quite wise,” he said.
One day, When Francisco and Ken came out of the shack to go fishing
they noticed a young woman walking on the beach. Ken had seen her
from time to time walking to or from the hospital where she worked, or
climbing down the cliffs to the ocean. On this day, as so often happened,
the beach was empty, save for themselves and the marine life that scurried
about the rocks. The young woman had not seen the old man and the boy
and thinking herself utterly alone, took off her clothes and walked into
the water. Ken was mesmerized; she was the most beautiful creature he
had ever seen. “Look at that,” he whispered to Francisco.
“Yes,” he said, as though reading his thoughts, “She is very beautiful.
She has a limp, you know.”
“What does a limp have to do with anything?”
“It’s a long and complicated story – and we should not be interfering
here. She thinks she’s alone so let’s let her be alone.”
From that day on she became Ken’s passion. He discovered that she
was a nursing student and that she had come from a village several miles
away. Her family were peasants but she had studied hard because she was
determined that she would not become a servant for rich people.
He also became friends with Dawn Coates, a girl who was being tutored
at the same small school he attended each day. Her parents were
divorced – her mother, American, and her father, English. She was one
of the first children he had ever admired. She was strong and direct and
seemed fearless.

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

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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Excerpt

And are they brave enough? The most dangerous place in the world is the
centre of one’s self where all the secrets and all the fears lie. I’m prepared
to go there even if it shrivels me up like an autumn leaf. That’s what it’s
about to me.”
On the third day, Ken refused to do what the teacher asked of him.
“Show me how to use different materials.” Ken said.
“No. You have to follow the rules.”
Ken sighed. “Picasso broke all the bloody rules – don’t you understand?”
“Oh – and you’re going to break all the rules!”
“Absolutely – I’m going to shatter them and then pick up all the pieces
and see what happens when you put them back together again differently
– but not as ugly as Picasso.”
At the end of the class, Ken packed up his books and pencils and left.
His formal art education was finished.
Ken’s father made inquiries and found a tutor – John Traynor, an Irishman
– who gave lessons in his private school. Ken found the lessons, if
not exciting, at least enjoyable and interesting.
Shortly after Ken’s uncle’s visit, his grandfather, Don Hymie, and
grandmother, Victoria, came to stay for several weeks. Victoria was the
matriarch of the family and ruled it with the proverbial iron fist. She was
a tiny woman with a curved back, a stooped gait and hair that reached the
floor when she let it down.
Ken loved to brush his grandmother’s hair with her silver-backed tortoiseshell
brush. Victoria, in turn, enjoyed nothing more than having her
hair combed and the two became friends. Ken was the only one in the
family who she never tried to terrorize. She called him a clown. “Tu es un
Paeaso.” But the word had deeper textures than merely clown. It embodied
the village idiot, the King’s fool and the savant.
Ken also developed a strong relationship with his grandfather, whose
passion was his plants and his orchards. He derived enormous pleasure
from grafting fruit trees and he was an avid historian and linguist. When
he came to visit, he told Ken, “I am going to be your history teacher.”
Every day Ken and Don Hymie walked to the beach to have lunch with
Francisco. Class distinctions meant nothing to Don Hymie and that alone
was enough to command Ken’s love and respect.
At low tide, they would wade out and hunt for shrimps, which they
would quickly throw into a pot of boiling water and eat by the handful,
accompanied by large pitchers of beer. While they ate bread and shrimp
and drank beer, Don Hymie told stories of his family history dating back
for hundreds and hundreds of years.
As summer drew to a close that year, his father asked him one day – as
was his custom – what he wanted for his birthday.

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