by Gina Amos
Kevin’s studio, attached to the back of his house, was built when he realised he needed extra space after his bedroom and lounge-room disappeared beneath the clutter of his life. He spent most of his waking hours there and when he closed the door behind him, he tuned into his favourite classical radio station and turned the volume up loud.
Rose Phillips didn’t say anything of course about the studio when it was built without Council approval. She wasn’t the type of woman to complain about anything. The studio, unlike the rest of his house, was uncluttered and organised. A scrubbed oak table was pushed up against a wall and on it stood a large, empty, juice tin filled with cheap brushes. The assortment consisted of brushes of different sizes and thicknesses. Pencils and crayons were also on the table and were neatly placed, side-by-side, sorted by colour and size. A cheap timber A-framed easel stood in the middle of the room and a shaft of light streamed through a permanently opened window. The floor was covered with timber patterned linoleum; it was cheap, serviceable and easy to clean. The windows were bare; Kevin didn’t see the need for curtains.
Kevin Taggart found comfort and pleasure in his painting. It stilled his mind. He began attending art classes after his mother died because of the depression which had descended upon him after her departure from his life. He realised he needed something apart from prescription drugs to calm his shattered nerves. The walls of Kevin's house were covered with his paintings. His artistic style had changed recently from landscape painting and he was excited about the direction in which his creativity was taking him. He was experimenting, looking for ways he could bring more depth to his work. One of his completed works sat proudly on the easel in the middle of the studio. Satisfied with the result, he stood back from it now, admiring it from different angles according to the light. It was different from his usual landscapes, it was dark and menacing. Distorted faces of crone-like women emerged from behind grotesque figures, and unidentifiable shapes sprung from the dark shadows. Tufts of cat hair glued to the canvas were painted over with oxblood paint. A large red cross dominated the foreground.
Kevin’s studio was oriented towards Ashleigh Taylor’s backyard and from his window the side gate to her house was in full view. The back door slammed. Ashleigh was dressed in a black tracksuit with white stripes running down the side of the legs and runners which were too white not to be brand new. She wore a bright yellow ribbon which held her hair off her neck. Kevin squeezed two blobs of red paint onto his palette and as he mixed the paint, his mind began to wander. He imagined that Ashleigh must observe a lot on her walks, people coming and going, small children being called inside by their mothers after playing, people going about their daily lives, middle aged women hoping to shed weight delivering shopping catalogues, tradesmen fixing things, watching, silently observing. Similar to what he enjoyed doing. He liked to observe people, to feel as if he was part of their lives.
He was aware of Ashleigh’s movements and knew that she walked every day, but not always at the same time. He spied her at the shops, often at the patisserie in the arcade next to the news agency and wondered what type of pastries she liked. Perhaps he would surprise her one day and invite her in for afternoon tea.
Kevin’s thoughts turned to Rose Phillips. He knew that she had been someone who had a lot on her mind and far too much spare time to think. He had known of her pain and he wanted to help her deal with it. On occasions he spoke to her across the side fence hoping to bring some happiness to her life. He knew elderly people enjoyed a cup of tea and a friendly chat and he had invited her in for tea on more than one occasion, but she had declined his offers. There had been a falling out between Rose and her son, over some family matter. He never asked her the details, it was none of his business. Her daughter-in-law visited occasionally, he knew because he recognised her car, a shiny black Porsche. She looked a tough nut that one, Kevin thought. He’d met that sort before, done up to the nines in smart clothes with a slick hairdo. Thought the world owed her something.
Kevin saw much of what went on in Eden Street. He visited the Blake sisters regularly and enjoyed friendly conversations and cheap sherry which they served in crystal glasses. He carried out small handyman jobs for them. Last winter, he nailed their front window shut because Edi had complained of a draught. Kevin thought it was a good thing when you helped your neighbours and he knew that if you helped them often enough, something good would come from it. Edi and Rhoda bought one of Kevin’s watercolours to hang on their lounge-room wall. They were impressed by the painting and made a fuss of him when he showed it to them. They told him they thought he was talented and Kevin had been deeply flattered by their words of encouragement. The painting reminded them of when they were girls growing up on the far North Coast. They offered to pay him and at first he said it wasn’t necessary, it was meant as a gift, but when Rhoda went to her black purse she kept in the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out five, crisp, one hundred dollar notes, what could he say? Not wishing to offend them, he gratefully accepted the money and went straight out and bought a supply of paint and two sable paint brushes.
