Daizy Star, Ooh La La!

by Cathy Cassidy

  The Centre Pompidou is huge, all plate glass and shiny surfaces, with a giant escalator inside a glass tube, like those weird tunnels you get in a hamster cage. Inside it’s even weirder.

  ‘This is modern art at its best,’ Miss Moon tells us. ‘Look around, see what you make of it. I’ll meet you back at the escalators at four o’clock. Perhaps it will inspire you for tomorrow’s sketching trip! Off you go!’

  Beth, Willow and Murphy drag me off through the big, airy gallery. ‘Wow,’ Murphy says, as we pause in front of a huge canvas splattered with a rainbow of sludge-thick paint. ‘I mean … wow!’

  ‘It’s a mess,’ Beth huffs.

  ‘My little brother could do better,’ Willow says. ‘And he’s only three. What do you think, Daizy?’

  I think that this modern art stuff is a waste of time. You might as well throw your dinner at the wall, and there was a portrait in one of the galleries where the woman had two noses, three eyes and skin the colour of a mouldy lemon.

  I remember what Murphy said earlier about it being cutting-edge stuff and hard to understand and worth a fortune. People actually pay millions for this stuff? I reckon I could do better, even wearing a blindfold.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ I say. ‘Incredible. Astonishing.’

  And it is. These paintings are chaotic, crazy, toe-curlingly weird. They look like the aftermath of a hurricane, or our kitchen when Pixie has been baking neon cupcakes. I start to smile. How hard can it be?

  Maybe I have just found my hidden talent after all.

  Later, back at the Hotel Escargot, Pierre takes Beth, Willow, Murphy and me on a guided tour of his studio, a big, airy shed behind the main hotel building. I spot the little white cat slinking along the wall, but when I nudge Murphy to point it out, the cat melts away into the shadows.

  There are windows all along one side of the studio shed, and the table is crammed with jars, brushes, palettes and paint. In one corner there is an old comfy chair and an easel, with finished paintings leaning against the studio walls.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I tell Pierre.

  ‘It’s my hideaway,’ Pierre shrugs. ‘The place I am truly happy.’

  Perhaps, if I were an artist, I could be truly happy too?

  We spend the evening watching a jazz band play in the café. Jazz is not my favourite kind of music. I am more of a thrash-punk-metal kind of girl – I even had a band with Beth, Willow and Murphy, once. Still, there is something very cool and romantic about watching people play saxophone and trumpet in a candlelit Parisian café.

  I sit beside Pierre, who is sketching the musicians. ‘Can anybody be an artist, do you think?’ I ask him.

  ‘It’s a gift,’ Pierre tells me. ‘Anyone can try, yes, but true art comes from the soul!’

  I nod wisely. I have art in my soul too – it has probably been there all along, without me even knowing. I watch Pierre sketch the figures, then mix up watercolour paint to swish over the images. Colour blurs and blossoms, and the painting comes to life. I am learning more by watching Pierre than from a million art lessons at school, pushing poster paint around on grey, cardboardy paper.

  ‘I think I might be an artist too,’ I tell Pierre. ‘Miss Moon is taking us sketching tomorrow – do you want to come too?’

  ‘Tomorrow? Non, ma petite Daizy, I will be at Place du Tertre, in the artists’ quarter. A famous gallery owner is coming to look for new talent for an exhibition. It’s an opportunity I cannot miss!’

  ‘A famous gallery owner?’ I echo. ‘An exhibition?’

  I hope that Pierre’s work is spotted and chosen for the exhibition, but maybe more than one new talent could be discovered?

  A plan begins to form in my mind. If I can make sure Miss Moon takes us to the Place du Tertre on our sketching tour, the gallery owner might spot my unique style. I could shoot to fame overnight!

  The jazz band is still playing down in the café as we switch out the lights and snuggle down into bed. My star quality is so close now that I could reach out and touch it.

  ‘Today has been the best day of my entire life,’ I whisper into the darkness. ‘The day I discovered who I really am …’

  ‘You are Daizy Star,’ Willow informs me sleepily. ‘Age eleven, of 17 Silver Street, Brightford.’

  ‘I know that,’ I sigh.

  What Willow doesn’t understand is that my days in Brightford are numbered. I belong here, in Paris, painting pictures on the banks of the River Seine and being rich and famous. People will flock from miles around to admire my paintings; schoolchildren will study my creations. Beth and Willow will be sorry they doubted me then.

  ‘I’ve had a vision,’ I say bravely. ‘A glimpse of the future …’ I take a deep breath. Why keep it secret? My friends will find out sooner or later, and if I don’t share it soon I might just explode.

  ‘I am going to be a famous artist!’ I blurt out.

  But there is no response at all, just the sound of steady breathing in the dark room. They’ve fallen asleep.

  Over breakfast (brioche and cheese today) Miss Moon runs through the day’s schedule. We are going to the church of Sacré-Coeur, then sketching outside before heading back to the hotel for lunch.

  My hand shoots up.

  ‘Miss?’ I ask. ‘Can we do our sketching in the Place du Tertre, like the real artists? Pierre will be there today – he could show us what to do. It would be très, très froid!’

  ‘Yes, Pierre was telling me about that,’ Miss Moon says. ‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t go – we’re passing by anyway, and it might be fun to be part of the hustle and bustle for a little while. As long as you all have one good drawing by the end of the morning, that’s fine.’

  We follow Miss Moon through the narrow streets leading up to Sacré-Coeur, clipboards and paper tucked under our arms. I glance behind me once or twice, and each time I spot the scrawny white cat darting in and out of doorways. Is it following me?

  It’s quite breezy, and my hair whips around my face as we walk. We climb the steps up to the beautiful old church with its white domes and pillars, and Miss Moon leads us inside. It’s cool and quiet and peaceful, with a golden mosaic picture stretching across the domed ceiling and stained-glass windows that spill jewel-bright colours across the church. We spread out and start to draw, but my sketches look like a three-year-old might have done them. This is a very good thing when it comes to modern art, of course, but not so good when Ethan Miller is peering over your shoulder, snorting with laughter.

  I put my clipboard away.

  I spot a nun, serene in her plain black dress and angled headdress, praying under a statue of a saint. She lights a candle that flickers in the half-light on the little stepped altar beneath the statue.

  Miss Moon sees me looking and explains. ‘It’s a tradition,’ she says. ‘You buy the candle, say a prayer and light it.’

  ‘Like making a wish?’

  ‘A little,’ Miss Moon smiles. ‘With a prayer, you have God on your side too. Would you like to try?’

  We all spend our change on candles. Beth says a prayer for her gran; Willow says one for world peace; I say one for future success as a famous artist. Beth and Willow exchange glances, then laugh so hard they have to hide behind their hands to calm down again.

  ‘Good one, Daizy,’ Beth says. ‘You really had me there!’

  ‘I know,’ Willow smirks. ‘For a minute, I thought you actually meant it!’

  ‘I did,’ I say coldly, and they laugh even harder. Even Murphy can’t quite meet my eye, and he is totally my artiest mate, so you’d think he might understand. This is not the kind of support I was hoping for. I am still staring at the flickering candle flames when someone sneaks up behind me.

  ‘Dear Lord, keep us safe from giant red squirrels,’ Ethan Miller sniggers, and I jab him hard with my elbow.

  Outside, the sun is shining as we walk a few streets along to Place du Tertre. It is the most amazing place I have ever seen. The square is edged with cafés, dotted with tr
ees and stuffed with artists making sketches, paintings and caricatures. There are easels and paint palettes, huge canvasses and little sketchbooks, even artists making clay sculptures and random shapes out of wire and plastic.

  Tourists wander among them, taking photos, posing for portraits, bartering prices for scary neon abstract paintings that look like a cross between a pizza and a rubbish dump. I cannot see Pierre in the crowd, and I have no idea if the famous gallery owner is here, but I love the buzz of it all. It’s the perfect place for me to take the first step in my career as an artist.

  ‘You’ve seen a lot of paintings in Paris,’ Miss Moon tells us. ‘Now it’s time to create your own piece of art – look at the trees, the flowers, the shops and houses with their wooden shutters. Look at the artists, or the tourists drinking café au lait … this is the heart of creative Paris, children. I want you to be a part of it!’

  My heart is racing. My chance to be a real artist at last!

  ‘It’s breezy today, so keep your paper clipped firmly to the boards,’ Miss Moon instructs. ‘Stay in the square, and aim to get one drawing or painting finished. We’ll meet back here at midday. Miss Kelly, Mr March and I will keep an eye on you and help if you have any problems!’

  She sets down a basket of pastels, paints, brushes and crayons, telling us to choose our materials, and I pick out a little tin of watercolours, a brush and a plastic beaker which I fill with water. I settle myself on a doorstep with a perfect view of the square.

  ‘Working on a masterpiece, Daizy?’ Willow grins, leaning against a nearby tree.

  ‘Good luck, Van Gogh!’ Beth teases.

  I can’t see the funny side, though. Why won’t my friends understand? This is my future as a world-famous modern painter they are mocking. I frown, leaning the clipboard against my knees. A cool breeze lifts the corner of the clean, white paper and I smooth it down again sadly.

  Lots of famous artists came to Paris in the past, according to Pierre. Were they misunderstood by their friends too? According to Miss Moon, Van Gogh never sold a single painting in his entire lifetime. He got really fed up and cut off his own ear. She showed us a painting of him with his head all bandaged up, which just goes to show that even great artists are not always appreciated.

  I do not plan to let things go that far, of course. If I am not rich or famous within the first few weeks, I will give up and move on … with both ears intact.

  It’s worrying, though, that Beth and Willow are acting this way. A few years ago they’d never have teased me. Is this the way things will be at Brightford Academy, without Murphy to keep the peace?

  I dip my brush into the water and fill the indents in the lid of the paintbox with pools of liquid red, yellow, blue and green, the way I saw Pierre do last night.

  I pick up my pencil and start drawing the tree in front of me. It doesn’t look much like a tree, more like a badly mauled cabbage, but I remind myself that modern art does not have to look anything like real life. I sketch in the café across the square. It looks a little lopsided and I have to change the shape to fit it all in. I draw in the shutters and they look like rotten teeth hanging on by a thread, which makes me frown. I draw one of the tourists and it looks like a stick man with three arms and a blob for a head.

  I look anxiously across at Beth and Willow, but Miss Moon is busy showing them how to use charcoal. To my left, Murphy is on his knees on the pavement, making bold sweeps across his paper with bright pastels. His picture will be cool – he’s brilliant at drawing.

  I am just not sure that I am, and that might be a stumbling block in my quest to become a famous artist. What’s the point of having art in your soul if it can’t actually get out?

  I load my brush with runny green watercolour and touch it to the paper. Green paint drips down across the page. How are you supposed to control it? The wind whips my hair across my face again and I reach up to tuck it behind my ear and manage to dip my elbow in red paint and drag it across my drawing.

  Who am I kidding? I am not going to be a famous artist, not ever. I am clumsy and clueless. I will never be spotted by a famous gallery owner and my pictures will never hang in an exhibition.

  It looks like Beth and Willow are right – the whole idea is one big joke.

  I sigh. There goes yet another failed star quality. My friends are acting all weird on me and there’s a sad ache in my chest whenever I remember that Murphy will be going to a different school. Some school trip this is turning out to be.

  I notice the scruffy cat again, skulking in a doorway, miaowing loudly. She is a very bedraggled cat, but cute.

  ‘Hello,’ I say softly. ‘I keep seeing you … do you live near here? Or are you a stray? You’re very thin …’

  I reach out a hand to stroke her, and she purrs and arches her back, pressing against my leg. I feed her some leftover cheese from yesterday’s packed lunch, and she bolts it down as if she hasn’t eaten for days.

  ‘Another star quality bites the dust,’ I tell the cat sadly, and she blinks her green eyes as if she actually understands. I’m not sure she does, though – perhaps she is just looking for more cheese? She paws at my bag, sniffing hopefully, then nudges the paint tin with a grubby paw. The palette tips on to my drawing, drenching it with waterfalls of colour.

  ‘Noooo!’ I yell, pulling my ruined sketch off the clipboard. ‘Shooo! Bad cat!’

  The breeze lifts the paper right out of my hands. It lands on the pavement, wet paint running in all directions, and the scruffy cat leaps on it, flicking it up into the air like a new toy.

  ‘Stop!’ I squeal, abandoning my clipboard and running to the rescue. The picture may be hopeless, but I have to hand something in to Miss Moon. I glance over my shoulder to where my teacher is still chatting to Beth and Willow – none of them have noticed my flyaway painting.

  I reach out, but the breeze picks up the paper again, whirling it through the air. A tourist steps on it, a bicycle runs over it. The cat and I chase after, dodging among the crowd of tourists.

  The picture whirls up against an easel painting, picking up a print of sticky oil paint, finally coming to a halt near a little knot of street artists.

  I spot a familiar face. Black beret, white moustache … Pierre is standing at an easel, painting.

  ‘Pierre!’ I yell. ‘Help! My picture!’

  He turns towards me, waving, then spots the tattered paper. Before he can rescue it, a man with a spotty bow tie bends down to pick it off the ground. He begins to talk loudly in streams of rapid French and a crowd of onlookers gather round him as he shows them the picture.

  My face floods with crimson. It’s bad enough that my star quality has been dashed to pieces before it even began; now I have some weird bloke laughing about it in front of a bunch of French street artists. I elbow my way to the front of the crowd. ‘Pierre?’ I appeal. ‘Can you tell him I want my picture back, please?’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ Pierre tells me. ‘Jacques, in English, oui? So that my friend Daizy can understand?’

  Bow-tie Guy looks at me and nods. ‘Extraordinary,’ he says, squinting at my picture. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it! Look at the colour! Look at the texture! Zut alors!’

  Up close, I can see that little bits of cut grass, twigs and feathers are stuck to the paint, and a faint trail of rainbow-bright cat prints can be seen moving from right to left. In one corner the tread of a tourist’s walking boot is visible, the muddy brown print of the bicycle tyre slicing up through the middle of it. Worst of all, the random blotches of red paint look exactly like a big red squirrel, complete with fluffy tail. Is there no escape?

  ‘Shades of Picasso,’ an American lady chips in. ‘With overtones of Jackson Pollock. The paw prints are inspired!’

  I snort back a laugh, watching the scruffy cat edge quietly away.

  ‘Unique,’ Bow-tie Guy says. ‘The drawing underneath looks like it was done by a lunatic, then almost destroyed by an explosion of colour and dirt. A powerful comment on twenty-firs
t-century life!’

  What does he mean, drawn by a lunatic?

  ‘Excusez-moi,’ I say politely. ‘Can I have my picture back?’

  Everyone turns to face me, staring.

  ‘This is Miss Daizy Star,’ Pierre explains. ‘She is a British schoolgirl, staying with us at the Hotel Escargot.’

  ‘You … YOU are the artist?’ Bow-tie Guy asks, wide-eyed. ‘But you are just a child!’

  ‘I’m eleven,’ I say huffily. ‘Practically a teenager!’

  Bow-tie Guy isn’t even listening. ‘How did you do this?’ he demands. ‘Who is your teacher? This is … a work of genius!’

  Genius? I stare at the crumpled, paint-stained paper, baffled.

  ‘May I introduce myself?’ Bow-tie Guy says. ‘I am Jacques Genet, I have a gallery close by. Have you exhibited your work here in Paris?’

  I shake my head, still waiting for the punchline of the joke, but it doesn’t come. Jacques Genet hands me a gold-edged card with an address printed on it, and it finally dawns on me. He is the gallery owner Pierre was telling me about – and he likes my ruined picture.

  ‘Do you have more paintings, Daizy Star?’ he asks. ‘I am putting together an exhibition of new talent. I would very much like to include your work!’

  ‘I don’t have any more,’ I admit. ‘But I could do some!’

  ‘Fantastique!’ Jacques Genet beams. ‘I will just take this …’ He grips my exploding-squirrel painting, and I panic. According to Jacques, I have just created a masterpiece – even if it was by accident. Surely that’s worthy of Miss Moon’s famous Star of the Week award? If he takes my painting now, I’ll have nothing to show Miss Moon.

  ‘I need it!’ I argue. ‘To show my teacher! Can I hand it over tomorrow instead?’

  Jacques Genet raises an eyebrow. ‘You do realize what an opportunity this is?’ he asks.