The Minstrel's Tale
I well remember the cold November night on which my story takes place. The town was busy, for the king was staying at the great house nearby, and in the evenings, those of his ministers and other courtiers who could excuse themselves from the royal presence would come into the town, preferring the comforts of the local tavern.
One night, when the place was filled with the hubbub of lively discussion, the candles shivered as the door opened and an icy breeze swept around us. We turned and saw a stranger, stamping his feet for warmth, who, from his appearance, had travelled many hard miles to reach our door. A space was made for him near the fire and, as he removed his coat, his welcome was made even warmer, for it was clear from his clothes and possessions that he was a jester, or perhaps, a minstrel. In either case, a merry addition to any company. After he had settled by the fire, and been given a good-sized jar of warm spiced ale, the company asked him for a story or a song, and the busy room grew gradually silent.
“I am a traveller”, he began quietly, “and have seen the world from all sides, but tonight I will tell you of a country not so far away, and not so different from your own.
“Indeed, if you had visited that land in the time of my tale, which starts many years ago, you might have stayed for some days and felt quite at home. The streets and houses were of a style you would admire, for I see the same craft in your own buildings. The food and drink were excellent, although”, he paused, with a nod to the landlord, “the ale here is unmatched at even their most celebrated inns!” Laughter and murmurs of approval all around, and the few still engaged in their own conversations paused to listen.
“Yet, there was something very different about that place, elusive at first, but were you to visit the palaces, the great houses, even the hostelries, you would surely feel something amiss, that they lacked the colour, the history, the life of those of your own country. Then, one day, suddenly, you would realise, as I did, what it was you missed.”
He drank deeply from his tankard, while his listeners waited, and made not a sound. “You will find this hard to credit, I know, but in the time of which I speak, there were no artists in that land. No painters of landscapes or portraits, no records of the great battles, no captivating likenesses of the most admired princesses. The skill of recording on canvas or board an image of the world had never come to that place. You may think this even stranger when I tell you that there was some knowledge of drawing there, at least amongst those with the means to travel, for in the hills to the south of the country were caves, and the hunters of ages long past, by the flickering light of a fire, had drawn, as elsewhere, pictures of the animals they chased. Big, beautiful pictures, covering the whole cave, walls, ceiling and floor. But when people thought of these, if ever they did, they thought only of a major undertaking, done in caves, by others, unknown and distant. You could not bring such images into your home, for that required a whole cave, and very few people owned a cave. Even fewer had the means to transport one into their parlour!”
There was laughter. The landlord passed among the crowd, refilling any empty tankards. He appreciated those who amused his patrons and kept them orderly, especially when it caused them to stay longer around his hearth. He urged the minstrel to continue.
“Now, a few of the more thoughtful people of that place realised that what was on the walls of a cave could be copied on the inside of a covered wagon, which could then be moved around. They did this, and took the wagon into the town, where many who had never visited the caves would come to see it, and would pay to climb inside and marvel at the paintings. One day, after a great storm, the owners removed the canvas from the wagon to repair it, and hung it on the wall to dry. Those who saw it admired the work, and commented that what had previously only be seen in damp and distant caves, and then in an uncomfortable wagon, could now be viewed in the warmth of the parlour.”
“The wagon’s owners were men of business, and also of imagination, and they realised that driving from town to town was not the best way to profit from their ideas. So they started to produce canvas of finer quality, stretched not on a wagon but on a large frame which could be hung on a wall. They would teach others to apply the paints and dyes to create pictures of their own, and to hang them on the wall, and then to buy more canvases! Interest grew, and artists started to appear, who sold their own work and made a good wage. The king of that place was delighted, for he took a keen interest in his subjects’ prosperity.”
“One artist, named St Clair, started cutting canvas into small sheets which he bound into books. Some scoffed at him, saying that such a small canvas could not be used for serious painting, and besides, who would buy a book with empty pages? But he sold them to other artists and, increasingly, to the ordinary people of the town, who wanted to try their hand at this new pursuit. Some became great artists in their turn. Soon, many who could not have afforded a trip to the caves had a canvas book of their own and would pass their evenings absorbed in painting. St Clair became a very wealthy man, while other tradesmen created inks, brushes, frames, and paints for the growing number of artists. Dealers sold works of art from the most unlikely creators, for even children sometimes proved to be gifted with the pen or brush.
“The king was even more delighted, for his country was becoming known as a place of culture and creativity. He proposed that more canvas books be brought into schools and homes, that children should be taught in their use, who could, in their turn, grow up to teach others. As the years passed, this plan was a resounding success, and the population embraced this simple medium with imagination and invention. From bold, entertaining paintings enjoyed by many, to tiny, intricate miniatures collected by the wealthy, their work recorded history, captured scenes of beauty. Some illustrated the world in ways that brought new understanding, while others painted portraits so lifelike it was as if their very subjects looked out at you. A few could capture a running horse, or a flickering candle flame, such that you might swear the image did move. The country’s reputation for artistic skill soon exceeded those of far-larger kingdoms.”
Now, one of those gathered in the tavern - a minor courtier from our king’s retinue - looked confused. “If this place gained such fame,” he asked the minstrel, “why have we not heard of it?”
The minstrel sighed. “Alas, I have spoken of its early days only. My story is not yet complete, and is not such a happy one as you may suppose. With a little more ale, I might perhaps be able to tell more.” His tankard was refilled, and they bade him continue.
“As time passed, it became possible to create copies of an artist’s work, so that many more could be sold. The sellers of canvas books would include a a few of these copies as the first section, to inspire their customers. The artists were paid for this, and everyone was happy. Some realised that not all purchasers of canvas books might be good artists themselves, and so created the outlines of pictures, marking each area with a number representing the colour to be applied. The scheme was easy to teach, and gave those who followed it a sense of accomplishing something with a canvas. And so it came to pass that these ‘template canvases’ grew popular and were also included in the books. It was good for trade, for it allowed everybody who purchased a canvas book to do something with it: they could look at the copies, they could fill in the templates, and the more adventurous could create works of their own on the blank pages at the back.
“It was good for teachers, because it had been hard to assess children’s work when each painted his own idea in his own style, especially when some of them turned out to be better painters than the teacher. But with painting-by-numbers, you could compare like with like, and see who was best at following instructions. Indeed, the tradesmen of the town began to recognise this too, and demanded that apprentices seeking a position should show a template they had completed, which encouraged the teachers even more. And everybody was happy: the king, the teachers, the tradesmen, and the children — especially the less capable ones.”
The audience waited. We remembered the minstrel’s sigh, and knew that this was not yet the end of the tale. Also, this painting-by-numbers had started to become popular in our own country - had even been promoted by some of the king’s ministers - and we started to wonder whether this land of which he spoke was really so distant from our own.
“So the years passed, and the ability to look at the pictures of the past, and then create something similar by filling in a template, became more and more prized. The vendors of canvas books responded in kind, and the section at the back allotted to blank sheets became smaller and smaller, until the books contained only the works of others and some nicely-designed templates, with perhaps a token blank page or two for those who knew where to find it and how to use it. But who needed to do that? Everybody had paintings, and everybody could create paintings, so any blank canvas was for the sake of tradition alone.
“And then, one day this past spring, the king was opening his birthday presents. His throne room was filled with the various paintings given to him by his noblemen, for such was the habit in that place. Suddenly, to the astonishment of all about him, he flew into a rage! ‘My paintings all look the same!’ he roared. ‘These are the twins of those I was given last year! Where are the new paintings?’” And the courtiers looked at him, and then at each other, with a growing wonderment, for they realised the king was right. Where were the new paintings?
“The king’s messengers rode out, desperate to please him by finding the most original works. They went to the canvas-book manufacturers, who showed them the templates they had on offer, but the messengers had seen all of those. They asked about the template-creator, and received the address of the man who had painted them all many years before. They hurried to his village, eager to find templates as yet unseen, but when they knocked on the artist’s door, his widow answered. He had died the previous year.
“Meanwhile, news of the king’s outburst had spread, and the populace had started to think anew about their own pictures. A man would realise that those on his walls were the same as those on his neighbours’, and how outdated they looked now! Pictures of a world long past were all very well, but what of today? What of tomorrow? Some turned their eyes to the merchant ships arriving in the harbour. Perhaps the countries to the east and west had not yet lost this skill? The local tradesmen saw this, and feared for the future.
“So the messengers were sent to the schools, to enquire of the teachers whom their best pupils might be; to seek out those amongst them who could create the finest templates. ‘We do but use templates,’ the teachers replied. ‘as you requested of us. We do not create them!’”
“‘Then start now! Start this very day!’ demanded the messengers. But the teachers wrung their hands and said that, sadly, they too had been taught with templates, and none amongst them knew how they might be made…”
The minstrel’s gaze had been far away as he recounted his tale, but now he returned to us, and looked around the parlour with a wistful smile. “When I left that place, they were formulating a plan to seek out those who had painted in the past, who perhaps still did so for their own amusement. Maybe they could return to the schools, and teach the teachers, and the teachers could then teach the children, and in ten or twenty years, the king would have new paintings to hang on the palace walls! But none of them seemed eager to explain this plan to the king.”
He paused to fill a pipe, and our king’s ministers in the tavern started murmuring to each other, for they realised that such a fate might well befall our own land, and they did not want our king to be the first to realise it! The murmurers gathered into little groups, and some of their discussions became quite agitated - no doubt partly because of the spiced ale - for it seemed as if everybody had a different idea about how to proceed.
So absorbed were they, that they didn’t notice the minstrel rising quietly from his seat and moving towards the door. But I noticed, and I followed him out into the hallway, where the landlord’s son sat, idly drawing patterns in the dust with his finger. The minstrel reached for the door handle, then paused. Searching in his bag, he pulled out a small package and handed it to the child, who looked up and took it with a bashful curiosity.
“Wait!”, I demanded, “You never told us the name of this land that was once so highly praised!”
He looked at me and smiled sadly.
“Who really cares any more?”
Then he turned up his collar, and went out into the cold night.
I looked down at the landlord’s son, who had unwrapped the package while we spoke. He was drawing again, but not in the dust. In his hand he held a pencil, and a small book of blank canvas.
© Quentin Stafford-Fraser 2011
With thanks to the creators of the finest blank canvases in the land: the employees of Acorn Computers Ltd, Sinclair Research Ltd, and the authors of the BBC Micro project.