#54.20 - Return to Atlantis, contd

The map is inverted - America should be on the left.

I suppose that was what is called, 'my big break'. The call was for an exclusive interview with a reclusive artist who lived in Craxton and the person who had been assigned the story was unable to cover it. We drove through the night in order to make it for the 6 am appointment.

As we drove, I read up on her.

There was not a lot to go on, of course. There was a reason why the Editor so desperately wanted the interview. It would be an international coup and make headlines. The issue would almost certainly sell out, there were many pluses. It would be years, if at all, before she granted another interview. It wasn't very clear why she had done it in the first place.

I looked at the dossier - it most mostly filled with her work. Her sculptures sold for millions and were found all over the world. They were unmistakable, something between architecture and organic. But also dream and waking consciousness. They were most at home by the sea, just as she was and as we got closer and closer, I noticed the light change.

We were shown into her kitchen when we arrived. The house was what I expected an artist's house to look like. There was organised chaos. Objects and artefacts from all over the world were found on every available surface. Paintings and bas reliefs covered the walls. Tiny geegaws and unusual looking momentos were displayed or heaped in corners. It was still quite dark, so it was hard to see exactly what was what, and her assistant was ushering us through the passageway and it was not possible to stand and stare at them.

The kitchen was a cavernous space. It was so huge, I was almost taken aback by surprise. It was shaped like an observatory and with a glass ceiling so that it let light in - at all times of the day. The walls were also made of glass and looked out over the Atlantic. Unlike the rest of the house it was almost empty, apart from the cooker, a modest gas stove, the dresser and a fridge. Whatever sculpture she was working on occupied the farside of the room and the massive kitchen table clearly doubled as her work bench as well.

Penelope Lipwerth was already at work. It was shocking to see her move so lithely around her work. She was almost 90. Did I read that right? Was she almost 90? Her frame was tall, athletic and very certain. Her hair reached down to the middle of her back - it was coloured blue and green. She wore a loose fitting beige dress which let her move freely, it was a little dusty and quite worn, but otherwise clean.

"Devon Blair's here, Penelope," announced the assistant.

"Ah yes," she replied, "and put down her modelling tool. "Come in, come in."

She headed to the stove and put on a kettle. "Tea?" she inquired.

I don't know what I expected, but I certainly didn't expect her to be welcoming and civil. She was, after all a recluse. I thought that maybe she would be crabbit and hunched over, and look... well... old. She did not look old at all. She looked - timeless.

"Please, sit down." she said, indicating the chair closest to the window. "We don't get the sunrise here, but still, it is very beautiful."

She then saw how I was staring at her, and laughed. "Yes, people never expect me to look the way I do. I suppose they think... she's 90, a recluse... there has to be a reason... and... there IS."

I felt a bit embarrassed and began fumbling into my bag. "I'm so sorry," I mumbled.

"Please, don't apologise. Come, sit."

She handed me a mug of steaming tea and poured one for herself. "I love my tea very very strong, I hope I have made yours right. It is so hard to make someone's tea right."

We both sat down and I placed my tea on the table beside me. "May I?" I said, indicating my little recorder. "Is it ok?"

"That's what we're here for," she replied, and then gestured with her hands, "by all means."

Where would I begin? So many questions raced through my mind. I could ask her what she was working on now, break the ice gently. I could ask her why now? Why give the interview now (to be honest, I thought it was because she was about to die, but clearly, this was not the case)? I could ask her to talk about her main inspirations... so many questions...

"Well, where would you like me to start?" she asked pleasantly.

I was still astonished by her candour. Then she said, "I hope you don't mind, but I was expecting someone else. Not... Devon Blake."

"Ah yes," I replied, glad to be able to get started. I was about to tell her a complete lie but then the truth came out. The call in the middle of the night, the research on the way here, the long drive down and then... I just blurted it out. "It's my first job."

She smiled. "Ah, it was meant to be. Like all the best things in life - it was meant to be."

It was very strange, SHE was putting me at ease, not the other way round. I never felt so cared for. So the next question then came naturally.

"Right, seeing how I have never done this before," I said... "And I have never given a proper interview," she teased... "The question I'd like to ask is, tell me about your childhood."

She clasped her hands together in delight, and said, "Oh, it has been a long time since anyone has asked me that." Then she shook her head, as if thinking it was a bad idea and then clapper her hands like a little girl. She stood up suddenly and then said brightly, "I will! I will tell you about my childhood. Only, you must promise me one thing - promise me you will believe everything I say."

I nodded.

She then walked out of the room and returned almost immediately with a small object. It was a stone. She gave me to me. It felt curious in my hand. Like it wasn't there and then suddenly, I thought I would cry. I wanted to give it back to her, but could not. She gently opened my hand and took it back to look at it.

"It is the last stone, the last stone from my homeland."

"And where is that?"  I asked her.

"It is gone."

"Oh," I said. "I'm sorry. Was it an earthquake?"

"Yes," she said wistfully. "Something like that." Then she was silent for awhile. "You must believe everything I tell you, yes?"

I nodded again.

"It was an earthquake of our own making."

"Fracking?" I offered helpful and hopefully. "My dear child, no, absolutely no. Not fracking. It was something much worse than that."

"Really, worse than fracking?"

"Yes...much worse. Everything, everything disappeared. Everything was gone. Only - this remained."

"Where was it, where was your home?"

"My home," she replied, her voice barely breaking, "my home was Atlantis."