Dennis Hanna Tales From Hanna Towers

Tales From Hanna Towers

An Anthology of Stories From The Collection Of Private Memoirs Of An English Gentlemen

Art For Art's Sake.

(Another Spiffing Adventure)

Recently I had occasion to climb the rickety wooden stairs that ascend wearily to the trapdoor that covers the entrance to the attic of the great hall at Hanna Towers. The door opened noisily as if protesting the disturbance to its slumber. I dusted the cobwebs from my smoking jacket as I traversed the final obstacle and came upon a large dustsheet in one corner of the room. I have to confess that my curiosity over-came me as I slowly and carefully peeled back the dusty old sheet. Underneath was an artist's easel together with paints and brushes of various types.

They had been there since I left them at the end of the sixties. A forgotten memento to my life and career as an artist. The story began many years before…

As a small child I had been confined to bed with a chronic hacking cough. The weeks of enforced boredom weighed heavily on me. One day, after tea, I complained to Nanny about my plight.

"Never mind Master Dennis, I know just the thing to occupy you," she said in her lilting West Country accent.

Reassured I slipped quietly off to sleep. Dear old Nanny woke me the next morning.

" Here's your breakfast my dear," she said throwing open the velvet curtains which allowed a shaft of daylight to pierce the darkness.

"And I've brought you a little present Master Dennis".

" Oh you are a brick Nanny", I said as I feverishly opened the mysterious brown cardboard box.

Inside was a complete set of paintbrushes and oils.

"Whizzo Nanny", I exclaimed excitedly.

" And here's some paper Master Dennis," said Nanny." And don't you be getting over-excited, you know what the Doctor said about you taking things easy."

" Oh Nanny you are a frightful fuss," I protested mildly.

I wasted no time in experimenting with my new toys. I nervously put brush to paper for the first time. For my subject I chose a bowl of fruit that Nanny had brought in with my breakfast. I worked feverishly for two and a half hours. I was however to be disappointed. Instead of the great artistic masterpiece I'd expected there was, in its place, a large unsightly splodge.

I wondered if I should choose another subject for my next effort. Maybe that was the problem. It was then that Jeremy, my pet Bull Mastiff, blundered noisily into my room. An ideal subject I thought. Presently, after wiping gallons of Jeremy's saliva from my Jim Jams, I placed my faithful companion in a suitable pose and began to work. Drat another splodge. Jeremy looked exactly the same as the bowl of fruit, only bigger.

Undaunted, I spent the next days trying to perfect my artistic technique. I turned out splodge after splodge of artistic incompetence. Eventually I arrived at the painful realisation that my artistic career would inevitably be held back by my complete lack of talent. Splodges abounded, masterpieces sadly scarce. I confided my problem to old Coverdale who had been increasingly worried by my pre-occupation with things artistic. Old Coverdale thought for a moment.

" I took the liberty of constructing an easel for you Master Dennis," he said as he wheeled the ingenious device into my room. He placed my paints, brushes and paper on the easel.

"There young Sir, perhaps that will be more conducive."

Alas no difference. Splodge followed splodge. It was a plucky attempt by Coverdale but I had to face the fact that I was a complete duffer as far as art was concerned. It was then that I had an idea. Instead of trying to paint in the non-splodge style, I could simply alter my splodges to suit any occasion. Eureka!! I frantically set to work and within a few days I had perfected my new style. Hoorah!! Splodgism was born.

I soon developed a splodge for any purpose. Fruit bowl splodge, landscape splodge, portrait splodge. Word soon spread and during the next few weeks I was kept busy by a continuous flow of society top draw types who wished to have their portrait done in the new "Splodgist" style. I painted landscapes. Coverdale had ingeniously placed a correctly angled mirror over my bed, which allowed me to view the rolling countryside outside my bedroom window.

As the years past I became talk of the town. London society buzzed with excitement on the opening day of my "Splodgism In The Great Metropolis", exhibition Other successful exhibitions followed. It was during this time that I was at my most productive. I was featured in the three-hour Omnibus documentary "Dennis Hanna, a man, a Splodge" Followed by the publication of my autobiography "A Study In Splodgism." I was riding the crest of a new wave of fanatical devotion. Soon I was swamped with invitations to Paris, Geneva, Monte-Carlo, and Swindon.

One morning Coverdale was opening my correspondence. He handed me an official looking letter. I opened it and found that the letter was from the Sorbonne in Paris. I had been granted my greatest wish, the offer of an honorary Professorship. I had been made head of the Pretentious Studies Faculty. My days in Paris were the happiest of my life. Lectures in Splodgism and related topics by day, Parisian bars and cafes by night. Everywhere I was asked for my views on Splodgism and the various other branches that by now had manifested themselves. Surrealist Splodgism, Impressionist Splodgism, Scandinavian Minimalist Splodgism et al.

By now I had grown a Goatee beard, smoked a pipe and wore loose woolly pullovers. I had even perfected the technique of blowing cigarette smoke down my nose while looking distant and aloof. Then without warning everything changed. Borne out of jealousy, a rival Splodgist breakaway faction had started holding increasingly angry meetings. These intellectuals had formed the "League Against Splodgist Movement".

Things began to turn ugly. It started with an egg being hurled at my current exhibition " Splodge Noir." The egg landed on the French President who, per chance, was viewing the centrepiece " Life As A Splodge". A scuffle ensued and as the Police tried to restore order the fracas spilled outside to the streets.

Soon militants from the group "Angry Workers Against Splodgism" joined the protestors. Riots erupted all over Paris. Buildings were burned and shops were looted. Luckily Coverdale rescued me in the Silver Ghost and we fled home as quickly as we could.

I returned to Hanna Towers a broken man. I placed my beloved easel, brushes and paints into the old attic never to be used again. Splodgism was dead. Time is a great healer and some months later Coverdale and I were relaxing one evening in front of the big log fire that roared in the grate of my study. Over two hearty glasses of brandy we reflected nostalgically about our adventures in the art world.

"You know sir," said Coverdale looking into his brandy glass, " I may not know much about art but I do know what I like."

At that Coverdale and I roared with laughter.

" Yes", I said, " I'll drink to that"!!!

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