Whimsy Took a Holiday, But Now It’s Back!

Dearest, most spectacular readers,

You might have thought whimsy had died. That my absence meant it had shuffled off this mortal coil leaving only the faintest whisper of its twinkling, sardonic self. Fear not. Whimsy did not die, it was merely otherwise engaged. But now we’re out of the woods.

Whimsy spent Christmas and New Year partying like a demonic warrior, fuelled by sticky 13s winnings, pub quiz fancy dress glory, and the sheer merriment of the season.

I embraced the Hallmark virtues of Christmas with gusto: carolling, local fêtes, and a New Year’s Eve ball that I assure you was equal parts glamour and revelry. But most importantly, I made the conscious choice to step back from all social media outlets and blogosphere and immerse myself in real life. It was marvellous.

To top it all off, seven pieces of my art found loving homes in December, and three more have already been red-dotted in a local gallery exhibition this month.

My garage is in the throes of an artistic metamorphosis into a studio, and I now feel it’s quite within my rights to call myself an art philosopher of the highest order. What kind of artist, though, is entirely debatable and I’d rather you didn’t say it to my face. 

Talking of faces…

A Whimsical Encounter With Fate on the Pavement

The other day, as I was making my way from an art exhibition, I spotted something on the pavement.
“Hey, hold on, I’ve just seen a face!” I called out to my friend.
“Whatever, of course you have,” they muttered, rolling their eyes.

Rude.

But curiosity lured them over, and while they couldn’t see it at first, I zoomed in with my phone. And there it was: the undeniable outline of a face staring back at us. Then the most extraordinary thing happened…

The Real Face of the Future 

A short story by Jules Smith

I walked huddled in my puffy coat trying to stop the January air cutting against my cheeks. My boots rasped against the pavement, steady and predictable. The sky above was a painter’s Payne’s grey pressing down like an unwelcome weight; the kind that made me feel smaller.

It was on the stretch of cracked asphalt by the shops that I saw it. At first, it was just a peculiar patch of pale white amidst the black and nothing unusual. But something made me stop. A whisper of instinct, a sensation like static at the nape of my neck. I crouched to look closer and zoomed in with my iPhone. The face was there and quite unmistakable. White shards of stone and the fractured veins of the pavement had conspired to create it. A skull-like visage with hollow eyes and its mouth open in what could have been a laugh or a scream. The face was imperfect but distinct, glaring up from the underworld of tar and gravel like an ancient secret. Waiting.

For someone. 

I stared, and the longer I did, the more it seemed alive. Not moving, no, it was still fixed in that macabre expression. But alive in the way shadows can sometimes seem alive, as though holding a second meaning. There was something hidden and urgent. A thought crossed my mind, Is it a warning? A message?

Questions tumbled in with overwhelming rapidity. Was it trying to speak to me? It felt as though its mouth was open mid-shout, frozen at the point of some terrible truth it had no way to convey. I shivered. Dante’s Inferno came to mind with its grotesque images of punishment. Or perhaps this was something older? Erebus, Tartarus, the chasms of Greek lore. Myths and epics had warned of signs like this: faces etched into the earth. Harbingers of reckoning. I blinked hard, trying to disconnect. The world around me continued with cars growling in the distance and voices extending on the wind. But the face anchored me. The face demanded my attention. Then, in the silence, a question filled my mind.

What are you running from?

I flinched. The voice was not external; it was my own. But was it? It didn’t feel like it came from me, not entirely. It felt planted like the seed of a thought I hadn’t consciously sown.

What are you running from?

I stared into the hollow eyes and the gaping mouth, searching for a reply. None came. The question reverberated through me like a bell in an old, empty church.

Was this face a manifestation of something I had buried? A reflection of the truths I dared not confront? Or was it some messenger from the depths pushing me to look inward and see? For the first time in what felt like years, I allowed myself to pause. My life was a frantic race of work, family, and obligations, piling up like too many spoons in a kitchen drawer. I had been running, yes, but not on foot. Running from decisions. From fears. From myself.

The face said nothing more. Perhaps it never would. But it had opened something raw and unrelenting.

I backed away slowly, brushing my palms against my coat. The air felt charged with an awareness I couldn’t quite name. The face stayed etched into the asphalt. I turned away, my footsteps hesitant as I felt the face behind me. And as I walked the question lingered, trailing me like a shadow.

What are you running from?

And for the first time, I thought I might be ready to find out.

Fin

Never ignore a face – it might be watching you for a reason. 

Rolling Into the New Year

I hope everyone has rolled into the New Year much like a large cheese down a steep hill. I am ready to jump back into my routine with a little more focus. What do you mean you’ve heard that before? 

Whimsy has been ordered to calm down and restrict itself to Whimsy on a Wednesday. All other days will be dreadfully mundane apart from the occasional tipple on a Saturday.

In the meantime, keep an eye on this space because I’ll soon be releasing a short course on watercolour techniques at  my arty site   It will cover all the tips and tricks I’ve learned about embracing abstraction, loose lovin’ and conquering the fear of having a go (at painting, not goat-herding, though who knows where my whimsy might wander next? Goats do yoga so they could paint…) 

A Whimsical Sign-Off

Here’s to art, life, finding faces in unexpected places, and the new Wolf Moon. May your days be full of whimsy, your Wednesdays delightful, and your pavements mysterious. Until next time, keep creating, keep laughing, and remember – whimsy never dies; it just throws one hell of a party.