Have a click here Child Prodigy Artist and watch/read about a four year old abstract artist who is finding a commercial success in the world of gullible art buyers, and why not ?
The painting to the left of the woman rambling on at length is my favourite, that and the one that the little girl Aelita Andre is shown creating ‘midst the sort of mess that would have earned me a clip around the ear’ole at her age – ’tis wonderful stuff and the fact that she is seen to be not doing things randomly (as a chimp or an elephant painting would for instance), she has a natural talent locked into her head and I hope that the feeding frenzy for her work continues into her dotage.
When I were nobbut a lad of her age I had not the slightest passing interest in art but a short while later in Mouldy Moultons class at Cookridge County Primary School I became interested in someone else’s artwork – Martin Tindall.
In our class of ten year olds Martin Tindall was the artist, he was the one who everyone pointed to and said “He’s going to be an artist when he grows up” but as I lost touch with him at 16 years of age (when he was still a damn good artist) I don’t know what became of him and to date I have never seen any painting hanging in a gallery with his trademark inclusion in it, for every painting that I ever saw Martin Tindall do had a world war two Lancaster bomber flying across the sky.
The fact that he could draw Lancaster bombers in incredible detail probably explained his slight obsession with the instantly recognisable silhouette in the sky but every one of his paintings every Tuesday afternoon in art lessons included one to the growing exasperation of Mouldy Moulton, our very posh twin-set and pearls teacher cut straight from the pages of The Conservative Ladies Association of School Marms, Mouldy Moulton would invent more and more mundane or occasionally bizarre scenarios for us to use our imagination to paint purely in order for Martin Tindall to find it difficult to include a Lancaster bomber.
“I want you to paint Horsforth Town Street” she would command, “today in Horsforth Town Street there are roadworks and thats what I want you to paint, TODAY, not during world war two Martin…”
And we’d all set to for an hour, a row of shops, some women out shopping, a steam roller and some men digging up the road, I thought my effort was passable and Mouldy Moulton simply nodded as she looked over my shoulder, effuse praise indeed from a teacher who went on to become Mrs Thatcher and rule the country with a grip of steel, just before she trashed the steel industry.
And when the lesson ended we’d all pin our painting efforts on the wall and all eyes would be on Martin Tindalls – a row of shops painted in much finer detail than our efforts, women gossiping in the streets who looked like proper women, a steam roller painted in incredible fine detail that actually looked like it really was steam rollering the newly laid tarmac that shimmered and smoked on the road, and there, in the travel agents window – a poster extolling the virtues of foreign holidays with BEA by means of a Lancaster bomber, “Fly off to Spain on a Lancaster bomber” seemed to be the message in the travel agents window.
My effort of the roadworks on Horsforth Town Street awoke my own love of painting and that christmas my parents bought me a wooden box in which was contained an instant artist kit – several tubes of oil paint, three brushes and a palette, with my christmas gift money I bought an easel, some sheets of hardboard and I was off on a hobby that has lasted ever since, occasionally providing a small stipend (considerably overwhelmed by the overheads just in case anyone is reading from the Inland Revenue, really, its not worth me declaring because you’d end up owing me money for a change) but always providing hours, nay days worth of distraction and relaxation.
And not a single Lancaster bomber to be seen.