‘Okay, it’s recording,’ I said, leaning in towards her. ‘Let’s get going.’
Celia permitted herself a faint smile at my expense. Perhaps it was the way I came across – too eager, too earnest by far. I waited a few seconds before clearing my throat and starting again.
John Porter: So, take me back to where it all began, which I assume was your first visit to the beach house.
Celia Koch: Oh no, it started long before that. I mean, I had been friends with Chrissie and Hillary and Niles for quite a few years. I knew Alan and Grace to some extent too … socially. We used to move in the same circles.
[Chrissie Lavigne was a painter. Her works were most often classified as hyperrealism, although her paintings were rarely seen in public these days. Nearly every piece she had made hung in a private collection somewhere in Texas. Hillary was Hillary Lascombe, the composer. Niles Andrews and Alan Welsh were writers – the first primarily a poet, the other known for his novels, in particular Olive Moon, which had caught the critics’ attention and been shortlisted for a number of literary prizes.]
John Porter: Grace?
Celia Koch: Grace Mauriac. She was probably one of the most talented people I ever met. But I imagine you’ve probably never heard of her … she made work for such a short time.
I admitted I had not. Celia paused, drew a deep breath and returned to the conversation.
− We would go out there on a Friday night after work. By the time I got there it was usually a bit later and nearly always dark … I was never the first to arrive.
− So you got off work later than the others. What did you do by the way?
[Silence]
− Everyone brought food … just whatever they could rustle up. I didn’t have time to go home and prepare anything, so I’d usually just drop by the supermarket and pick up a rotisserie chicken. In the end, there’d be a table groaning with food: salads, vegetables, French bread, casseroles made from who knows whose grandmother’s recipes …
And all through the evening, people would just keep arriving, and we’d keep talking and drinking wine from the old drinking glasses they kept in the kitchen out there. If the weather was mild, we’d sit out on the veranda until the light faded completely. Often by the time there was a gap in the conversation and we finally got to the food, it would be ten o’clock. The atmosphere of these gatherings, the whole environment … it was pretty informal.
− So, how did the conversation typically go? What did you talk about?
− We talked about all kinds of things, but the discussion centred primarily on our work. And by ‘work’, I mean what we were doing creatively. It was one of the unwritten rules of the place that no-one really talked about what they did for a day job. It wasn’t currency; it just wasn’t how we saw each other … I knew, for example, that Chrissie worked as a teacher, but that was only because I’d known her before. Claire Chivers, who came along for a while, worked as a receptionist at a local dental practice, but again, I only knew that because I used to go there to get my teeth seen to. As for the others … who knew? They could have been airline pilots or surgeons for all anyone cared.
− When you say that you talked about what you were doing creatively, give me an example of one of those conversations …
− Well … if I’d be saying hello to Don [Don Murphie, the novelist], the next thing out of my mouth would be: ‘How’s it coming? How’s progress been this week?’
− And what would his reply be?
− [Laugh] He’d tell me chapter five was a disaster; that one of his characters was descending into irrelevance; that the strands of his story were unravelling faster than he could tie them back together again.
− Was he always negative like that … pessimistic?
− [After some thought] Not usually … this is just one particular conversation I can remember … an example.
[Silence]
− But sometimes people’s comments must have been negative … intrusive perhaps?
− Not as a rule … we were there to support each other. There wasn’t room for that kind of critique. When I say ‘critique’, I’m not talking about: ‘Have you thought about doing it this way?’ – authentic questioning. I’m talking about a sense of evaluation against some measure, against some notion of ‘good’ or ‘bad’ or ’fully developed’ or ‘naive’.
− And what did you say when people asked you about progress with your work?
− I’d tell them exactly what was going on. If I hadn’t, it would have been disingenuous. I think it would have damaged the dynamic totally. As if I was saying my work was too good, or too bad for that matter, to be opened up to someone else. As if I was better …
− Elitist?
− I guess so … but again, we felt safe to do this, to let people in, because of this lack of critical overlay. It was as if critique like that was the luxury of the static observer. But for us, who were underway, it was quite simply an impossibility – our momentum and sense of motion in the artistic journey precluded it. Not that it was always forward motion, mind you – I’ll grant you that.
− So, are you saying a sense of artistic purpose can’t exist alongside critique? What if the critique is well-informed, constructive?
− I’m just saying you can’t have two masters. Besides, I wouldn’t call it artistic purpose as such … more a sense of permission to act on inspiration, if you have it … if the inspiration has some value, some sense of nobility to it …
− Sorry, what do mean by that? Nobility? Isn’t that itself a critique, an overlay of some kind of moralistic judgement?
− No, Mr Porter. It’s a reality.
− Who did the house belong to? Who actually owned the place?
− It belonged to Max Cartwright’s family, though Max seemed to be the only one who ever got any use out of it. In all the weekends I went out there, I never saw anyone else from his family turn up.
− Max Cartwright was an agent, correct?
− Sure, yes … for a while he had quite a list.
− And is the place still there?
− As far as I know.
− When was the last time you were there?
− Maybe ten or twelve years ago now.
− And what about Max – where is he?
− Living in Europe somewhere. Berlin, I think.
− So, someone else must be living in it now?
− I doubt it. Max was adamant it would never be sold … or, even worse in his mind, rented out to a complete stranger. He had the idea that it should remain just the way it was for all of our lifetimes, as some kind of historical reference point. Madness really. I mean, it actually belonged, as I said, to all the brothers and sisters. It wasn’t solely his decision.
[After some time]
− If you want to go out there, you go ahead. Max wouldn’t mind. He’d be more than happy to know someone was interested in the history of the place.
A few weeks later, I took a trip out to the beach house.
Celia told me where to get off the highway and how to find my way to the road that led towards the coast. It was somewhat secluded, she said, and not many people ventured up that way. As Celia’s commentary suggested, when I had followed this road for a few miles, its surface became unsealed and uneven, causing me to slow down considerably. Loose chip shifted noisily beneath the wheels of my car, as I climbed up into the hills. After a time, the road levelled off again, and I began to trace the rim of a coastal headland; the vista of the sea constantly at my side.
Autumn had settled, and the day had a crisp, idle calm to it. I tried to imagine what it would be like driving along here in the height of summer: the sound of the cicadas deafening; heat rising like a menacing haze from the pores of the landscape, as occasional strands of breeze escaped from the ocean and blew recklessly towards the cliffs.
Celia told me to keep driving along this section of road, ‘round endless corners’, and then to watch out carefully for the driveway.
‘As the road starts to rise again, you will see a huge pine tree on your right, and next to that a corrugated iron shed. Right there, you’ll see the driveway. There’s a letterbox with the number 87 on it …’
The distances were deceptive. After a few minutes more, I became sure I was on the wrong road but couldn’t find anywhere to turn around. Eventually, the road did begin to rise again, and almost at once I saw a large tree with what was left of a shed alongside it. There was no sign of a letterbox anywhere.
Not quite convinced, I turned into the driveway and glided to a stop on the grounds of the property.
− Sorry, but I feel I must ask this … the effect of these Friday sessions, the discussions about your work, and not just yours but other peoples’ as well, was it all ultimately positive? I mean, was it helpful to your creative process or do you think you would have got to the same place anyway?
[After I had asked this, it seemed that a brittle silence descended upon us. Indeed, there was a moment when I wondered if this silence might shatter into a thousand pieces. Sharp, dangerous fragments that would bring our conference to an end.]
− Mr Porter, look around you. Look at the walls.
− They’re full of your art … I can’t imagine how many pieces there are.
− Well, there’s your answer.
At the entrance to the beach house stood a set of steps so wide as to be wasteful, metaphors of generosity, relics of a time when not everything was designed with efficiency in mind. These steps led up to a veranda that surrounded the house. It was deserted, without a stick of furniture anywhere.
I turned around to look at the sea – all white caps and diving gulls. Fresh gusts of wind blew provocatively at my face. What must it have been like, I wondered, being here for one of those Friday nights? As I looked left and right, I could imagine groups of people standing; others leaning on the railings, or sitting in chairs at this point not visible. For some reason, all the men in my imagination wore suits that were tailored in the style of 50s admen, while the women were attired in hourglass dresses …
The truth was that these gatherings took place many years after that era. But the point of my imaginings had to do with the historicity of the events themselves, as if they demanded a setting that was as memorable as possible.
− So, would everyone stay out there overnight?
− Oh no. I mean, occasionally we’d still be talking when the sun came up. But most times, we just struggled back at three, four in the morning: mad when you think about it now.
− Why was it like that, do you think? Was it because Max didn’t like people to stay?
− Not at all. Max was nothing but hospitable. It was just the way things developed from the beginning. I mean the very first times we went to the beach house, there were just three or four of us: Max, Chrissie, Niles and myself. We thought it would be fun to get out of the city for the evening. But we all had things to do the next day, so we drove back that night. As the gatherings grew and grew, that was just the way things continued.
− The other question related to that is …
− Also there was something special about that [she said, returning to her earlier point] … it created a sense of boundary. It was as if the Friday nights never had the chance to morph into whole weekends which some people could stay for, while others could not; or raging parties that went on for days and days. They were instead purely one thing, one type of occasion: a focused meeting of the minds.
[Pause]
− I’m interested in the sense of informality you mentioned – tell me more about that. I guess you were all quite young when it began. How old were you, by the way?
− Oh, I was about twenty.
− And how long did you go there on a regular basis?
− Four or five years, I suppose.
− So, I can see this picture a bit more clearly now. A group of young adults, like-minded, passionate about art and literature and music; still at that time in your lives when you were free from the weighty responsibilities of the adult world …
− Careful, Mr Porter. Don’t let your idealism get away with you.
After this comment, there was silence for a time. I could see that Celia was right.
− After a while, some of the group would have started to become well-known; recognised. Did that change things at all?
− It did change the dynamic, yes – there were suddenly lots of new people turning up. They were still acquaintances of those in the group, but it seemed they came along with a different attitude towards those of us whose stars were on the rise. They came to meet the artist; touch a little bit of the notoriety, if you like; they weren’t there to participate in the same way.
[Pause]
− This was one of the things that eventually killed it … brought the evenings to an end, I mean. Too many visitors, friends of friends, too many people without skin in the game. They seemed to just want to look on, as if our interactions were things that could be studied. But, you know, they could really only be lived … tasted. I guess with people like Adrian Clough and E.V. Williams coming along, it was only a matter of time before the boundaries of what was essentially a private gathering became strained to breaking point.
− And what were some of the other factors that brought the sessions to an end?
− Ultimately, we all grew up and moved on, I guess. Having said that, there were also a few spectacular falling-outs along the way – clashes of ego that pushed people out of the orbit almost overnight.
− And after everything dissolved and everyone finally moved on, what happened then? What effect did it have on you?
− Looking back on it now, with the perspective of age, you see that nothing lasts forever. But there are seasons and places and people that seem a lot more precious in hindsight. It’s very rare, you know, to have that experience with others. To feel like you’re all in it together, going somewhere, travelling on a journey towards some unfolding end.
[Silence]
To answer your question though, I guess the memories of those times never quite left me. They continued to inform my work. Became part of the way I approached the world … part of the way I saw myself.
The beach house again.
I feel the vague crunch of sand beneath my feet as I walk back across the veranda.
I knock at the door a few times – it’s no real surprise to hear nothing in reply. At one point I even call out: ‘Hello … is anyone there?’
Nothing. The only response comes from a group of seagulls defiantly yelling as they settle onto the roof.
The weather, after all, is changing.