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This is a story of mine from 2008.
They glittered like little people when he moved them and the rain moved too. 'Because we are kings,' he told them, and his fingers bowed back to him. No trace of mockery. Then he set them to work.
He had been called mad many times before and proved it every time. The rain would stop and he would start, pick a square of pavement and begin with a chalk outline. Or a word. Sometimes he just wrote the word and embellished each letter in different colours, sometimes he would add numbers or faces or flowers. In the end he would stand back from a magical equation that spanned the steps. People might read it or not. The word stayed until the rain washed it away, and then he would start again. Sometimes he drew music. If people touched it, they could hear the song. Very few tried. Those who tried would pick their favourite and prod it over and over again except for children who played hopscotch on a series of squares and gave themselves headaches.
Then the rain would start again, and after the rain so would he.
There were never complaints as such. If they didn't like what he drew, they didn't pay. He wrote on the pavement 'I do requests' and then coloured it in with so much detail no-one could make out the words. But they asked for more anyway.
One day he stopped. He walked into the Spitalfields soup kitchen ('Itchy park' they call it) had a meal, went to sleep and stayed that way until it wasn't sleep anymore. In his tin of crayons he had left a scribbled message which read 'For you. Need more yellow'. It was the nearest he had to a will, and the nurse who took the tin felt guilty, but didn't know what else to do. A charity shop seemed the obvious home for the crayons but no-one wanted them - they were so obviously used. She still had them a week after his funeral, carrying them with her everywhere she went.
She found herself at Trafalgar Square on a rainy day looking at all the grey. He had liked the square, for obvious reasons. There was so much room to paint and so many people to paint for. The fountains were dry but everything else was wet and moving. She looked at all the umbrellas and had a moment's wild desire to set them down as she saw them; it was crazy though; the images would smear straight away. Still, she couldn't help being curious and for a moment, sat on a step to touch the pavement. At least it was clean, she thought. She smoothed along a square edge, flicking a few drops of water away, when the flagstone ripped.
She stared at it. The damage looked like a crack. But when she touched it, it felt like a tear.
She could fold it back. Underneath looked like more stone or concrete, she wasn't sure. But when she prodded it, it buckled like very old sodden cardboard.
She sat back on the step, surprised, laughing at the idea of London falling apart, in some sort of rain marinade. Primed, came the thought. Still curious, she scraped at the underneath of the flagstone and it dutifully fell away. She was expecting earth or blocks or pipes, maybe even a beetle or two, but all there was, was this strange material, smooth at the start and rougher as she rasped at it with her nails. It didn't darken until the rain splashed on it. It was brighter and lighter than the outer flagstone.
She tried with other stones and found that the more it rained, the easier it was to scrape away layers. The poet in her head whispered that what lay beneath should be thick and dirty, the peeling wallpaper of an old house, but there was no arguing with the proof laid out in front of her.
Fresh and blue the sky over Charing Cross, clear as the sky she scrawled on her first attempt. Canvas bright like the air, like the sunlight in her hands now quivering on wet walls. She smiled as she considered.
Painting the city. She was going to need more yellow.
They glittered like little people when he moved them and the rain moved too. 'Because we are kings,' he told them, and his fingers bowed back to him. No trace of mockery. Then he set them to work.
He had been called mad many times before and proved it every time. The rain would stop and he would start, pick a square of pavement and begin with a chalk outline. Or a word. Sometimes he just wrote the word and embellished each letter in different colours, sometimes he would add numbers or faces or flowers. In the end he would stand back from a magical equation that spanned the steps. People might read it or not. The word stayed until the rain washed it away, and then he would start again. Sometimes he drew music. If people touched it, they could hear the song. Very few tried. Those who tried would pick their favourite and prod it over and over again except for children who played hopscotch on a series of squares and gave themselves headaches.
Then the rain would start again, and after the rain so would he.
There were never complaints as such. If they didn't like what he drew, they didn't pay. He wrote on the pavement 'I do requests' and then coloured it in with so much detail no-one could make out the words. But they asked for more anyway.
One day he stopped. He walked into the Spitalfields soup kitchen ('Itchy park' they call it) had a meal, went to sleep and stayed that way until it wasn't sleep anymore. In his tin of crayons he had left a scribbled message which read 'For you. Need more yellow'. It was the nearest he had to a will, and the nurse who took the tin felt guilty, but didn't know what else to do. A charity shop seemed the obvious home for the crayons but no-one wanted them - they were so obviously used. She still had them a week after his funeral, carrying them with her everywhere she went.
She found herself at Trafalgar Square on a rainy day looking at all the grey. He had liked the square, for obvious reasons. There was so much room to paint and so many people to paint for. The fountains were dry but everything else was wet and moving. She looked at all the umbrellas and had a moment's wild desire to set them down as she saw them; it was crazy though; the images would smear straight away. Still, she couldn't help being curious and for a moment, sat on a step to touch the pavement. At least it was clean, she thought. She smoothed along a square edge, flicking a few drops of water away, when the flagstone ripped.
She stared at it. The damage looked like a crack. But when she touched it, it felt like a tear.
She could fold it back. Underneath looked like more stone or concrete, she wasn't sure. But when she prodded it, it buckled like very old sodden cardboard.
She sat back on the step, surprised, laughing at the idea of London falling apart, in some sort of rain marinade. Primed, came the thought. Still curious, she scraped at the underneath of the flagstone and it dutifully fell away. She was expecting earth or blocks or pipes, maybe even a beetle or two, but all there was, was this strange material, smooth at the start and rougher as she rasped at it with her nails. It didn't darken until the rain splashed on it. It was brighter and lighter than the outer flagstone.
She tried with other stones and found that the more it rained, the easier it was to scrape away layers. The poet in her head whispered that what lay beneath should be thick and dirty, the peeling wallpaper of an old house, but there was no arguing with the proof laid out in front of her.
Fresh and blue the sky over Charing Cross, clear as the sky she scrawled on her first attempt. Canvas bright like the air, like the sunlight in her hands now quivering on wet walls. She smiled as she considered.
Painting the city. She was going to need more yellow.
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