All the Other Days. Jack Hartley

Strabler and the Black Rebels Motorcycle Club are my gang. I’d drive far away like he does. Never knowing where he is going. Just always away somewhere different. I lie in bed thinking about how my life would be if I was Marlon Brando. When I look at the clock, it’s 2:34 am. I turn off my lamp and try to fall asleep.

      Judd

      Day 6297

      The only time I look forward to being at school is at 8:35 am on Wednesdays because first period is art and I actually enjoy this subject. My teacher is Mr Churchill who is the most eccentric person I have ever met and fulfils every possible cliché of art teachers. He always brushes his scruffy white-grey hair as he speaks to you, like he’s trying to shake away what is going on in his head so he can concentrate on what you are saying. He is mad and loves to talk about anything and everything to do with art. And by his understanding of art, that encompasses almost everything in this world. But I love having him as a teacher, mainly because he is interesting and doesn’t seem to fit in, much like me. Maybe he is what I’ll be like when I’m older. The crazy art man. But God he is talented. He knows every medium of art inside out and can recite quotes from painters, photographers, actors and directors from any era. I swear Mr Churchill has a book for every artist who has ever existed. I love coming to his classes because the time flies by and I don’t feel like I’m pretending to be anyone. He has this unique ability to connect with all his students and really does take an interest in what their strengths and weaknesses are. Often, in the middle of class when everyone is silent, he’ll have an ‘aha’ moment and yell this as loud as he can. Everyone will usually stop and laugh with him, but then he’ll point out something that we would have never seen or understood before. In those moments, I love being at school.

      I sit next to Arthur in art, and we always talk absolute shit with each other. That’s the other reason I like being in this class: we don’t get told off for talking and laughing while we’re working, as long as we get our work done. Mr Churchill doesn’t like to interfere with our ‘artistic freedom’ as he likes to call it, so that pretty much means nothing is off limits in this class. Half the time, Arthur talks about the girls he wants to get with, and I sit there listening and envying him. He’s so confident with girls, and they like him because he’s different. Me, on the other hand, I’m sure most of the girls think I’m just the weird quiet guy who clings onto Arthur to guide me around. But that doesn’t bother me too much because without him I’d probably never even talk to any of the girls here or have much of a social life.

      Mr Churchill comes over to me while all the other students are working and looks at my sketch pad. ‘What are you trying to show in this?’ he asks.

      ‘I don’t know. I just like the tones of it.’

      I’m drawing the corridors at school. The dark shadows that are cast on the floorboards from the little light breaking through the old windows. The lockers all lined in their rows, and at the end of the corridor in the darkest part of the picture, I draw a figure standing there, heavy and dark, only an outline.

      ‘I’ve got some images you should have a look at. I’ll go and photocopy them for you now.’

      He comes back to my table five minutes later with a whole pile of A4 photocopied sheets and places them on the table.

      ‘Do you know any of these artists?’

      ‘No not really. Who are they?’

      ‘This is Lee Friedlander and László Moholy-Nagy. They’re photographers and painters. I know you are drawing, but they combine a lot of elements you are depicting in this drawing. They were pretty influential in their time. It’s always good to look at others’ work and recreate your own style from others.’

      I look at the images. I love the way they capture everyday people in normal places, using lighting to make the image look distorted. I feel an ‘aha’ moment coming on.

      ‘Yeah, their work is pretty cool.’

      ‘You know your work is really good, right?’ he says.

      ‘Really? I doubt it.’

      No one’s ever said I was good at anything before, and it feels even better coming from Mr Churchill.

      ‘No no, it really is. Have you thought about studying some sort of Art at college?’

      ‘No, not really,’ I answer, staring at my drawing. ‘I don’t think my family can afford the fees anyway.’

      There is an awkward silence as he thinks of what to say back, but then the bells rings. I’m glad because I don’t really want to talk to my teachers about my family’s money issues. I pack my work up and walk out the room with Arthur.

      At home, I sit at the computer looking for films to watch. I find one called Birdsong, a World War I two-part mini-series by the BBC. I search it on Google images and find a picture of a solider kissing a lady with birds flying out of his body into the sky. The lady from the film, Clémence Poésy, is beautiful. I get fixated on her and start to draw. I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic; I don’t know where it comes from. Probably because I wish I was living in films because they make love look so beautiful. Like it really is a force as strong as the elements of the earth. In films, the woman a man loves is the reason he’d do anything. He would drive himself to the brink of insanity to get her. I start to draw Clemence. I wish I had someone like that in my life. Someone I could look at and everything that is wrong in the world wouldn’t matter. I could escape my parents fighting and go anywhere and everywhere with. Someone I could be just me with, and they would do anything just to see me smile. I decide this drawing can go on the happy side in my room, as one day I will look at a face as beautiful as hers and she will smile back at me. I won’t have to draw these moments to feel them. As I’m watching the film, a quote from one of the soldiers sticks out, mainly because of all the thoughts I have in my head of love right now.

      ‘There is nothing more Sir, than to love and be loved.’

      It makes me hopeful, because even though these soldiers are going to die, love is what they grasp onto, the thing that keeps them going.

      Judd

      Day 6298

      I love the time I spend with my Mom and especially when it’s away from home. When we’re driving, we’re always singing. We take turns at picking an album to listen to, and today it’s Mom’s turn, so she’s picked the Into The Wild soundtrack by Eddie Vedder. We both know all the words off by heart and belt them out in the car as we drive to the beach. We often go here because it isn’t too far from home, and as Mom got to finish work early we decided to go to for a walk before it got dark. As we are walking along the beach, I get this feeling that Mom is upset. There’s a tension in the air that surrounds us, kind of like how it’s at home. We don’t know what’s the right thing to say, so we’re not saying anything at all. But we both know we’re thinking the same. I know it’s Dad who is getting her down. You can see it in her eyes, like there’s an entire other conversation happening in her head. It’s different from when she seems depressed, because then she’s just quiet and her face is expressionless.

      ‘Why do you let him treat you like that?’

      ‘What do you mean?’ she asks, with a sort of puzzled look on her face.

      ‘Dad, the way he talks to you, hits you, ya know?’

      She pauses for a second then looks at me as we walk.

      ‘One day Judd, you’ll understand. When you’ve loved someone for so long, you’ll do all kinds of things to excuse the way they are. Make up reasons in your head why they’ve changed, but it’s never enough. I love your father, but I’m not in love with him. I can’t do it anymore.’

      ‘Then, why do you?’ I ask.

      ‘If I could leave, I would, darling. Things just aren’t the best at the moment, you know, with my job and everything.’

      I want to tell her he shouldn’t be able to get away with hitting her and how much I hate seeing her like this, but I don’t. I don’t want to upset her more,