ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Kerry Hallam was born March 12, 1937 in Derbyshire, Northern England. He attended the Chesterfield Art School for two years, earning a scholarship to London University in 1954. He graduated with the National Diploma in Painting in 1957. He served for two years in the British Army, where he was attached to the Black Watch and The Gurkha Brigade in Malaysia and Hong Kong. 1961 he returned to London, spending three years in advertising as a draftsman and designer. In 1964, he headed for the South of France to take up painting full time.

With his companion and fellow artist, Ruth, they worked the restaurants of St. Moritz at night as "Ruth and Kerry," singers/guitarists, earning money to support their painting. Their singing enjoyed considerable success and they turned "pro," producing their first album for Polydor in Germany in 1966. Their concert tours took them to France, Italy, Germany, England, and the United States through 1967. After working in the Boston area for two years, the ensemble disbanded in 1971.

Hallam moved to the South of France where he resumed his painting career, returning to the United States the following year. From 1972 through 1987 he toured the U.S. with a series of art promoters. It was not until 1991 that his career took a major leap, when he signed a exclusive contract with Chalk and Vermilion, a U.S.-based international art-publishing firm.

Hallam's ties to Nantucket Island date to his first American show, which was held there in 1974. In 1981 he made Nantucket his permanent home and opened a studio and gallery. He travels to Europe several times a year to paint and visit what he calls his "spiritual home." Major annual shows of his paintings are held in the U.S.A., England, France, and Japan

KERRY HALLAM TALKS ABOUT HIS WORLD

This book begins about three years after I returned to the U.K. and drags you, panting and in need of a drink, up to the present time. Currently, I live and work on Nantucket Island. I earn my daily bread and a reasonable bottle of vin rouge every now and then through my painting. My art publishers sell what I produce, bless their cotton socks.

My guitar languishes in its case in the corner of my study. Every once in a while, I take it out, just to show that I still care. My fingers are not what they once were, though, and my callouses are gone. But I am quite content in my little cottage, It suits my needs at this time.

My daughter Karyad is now age ten, going on forty. I marvel at her exquisite soul, her delightful inquisitive mind, and the sheer wonder and magic that she finds in ordinary day-to-day living. Of course I love her deeply, but also, and perhaps more importantly, I like her.

Having reached an age that I thought I would never see, I am amused to find that I am expected to be wise. I suppose the rationale is that anyone that has lasted this long doing what I do must have some kind of answer. I wish this were the case, but it isn't. I am capable of making the same rash decisions and silly mistakes as when I was a spotty teenager with pubescent thoughts and unhealthy appetites.

But for those who find themselves traveling the rather rocky road of creative expression, I have a few thoughts. Society in general does not take kindly to creative people. We are a constant threat. We seek truth and enlightenment – dangerous stuff for most people. Disturbing stuff. Be prepared to be prepared. There is no such thing as overnight success. It usually takes about ten to fifteen years of very hard work. The strong survive and get to do what they want to do; say what they want to say; go where they want to go and, with luck, take a few of us with them. It takes grit, determination, and unshakable commitment or a very large trust account. Better still if you are lucky enough to have both.

I went right at my work, painting day and night. With the stultifying intensity of London behind me, I felt myself gaining creative strength. Long stretches of every day I was able to pour all my energy onto the canvas. I began to feel alive again, getting back to something I had turned away from years before. I was grateful that it had not passed me by entirely.
      My studio was soon well stocked. I produced twenty or so pieces on a variety of surfaces, ranging from proper stretched canvas to discarded grocery boxes.
      Although my paintings improved with every new start, making a living selling my work was proving difficult in St. Tropez. Every afternoon I would await the arrival of strolling tourists, but it was still early season, and only a few visitors straggled into my studio. Mostly they smiled, nodded, mumbled compliments, and went on their tourist way. I began thinking of my studio as a museum, rather than a gallery, with my role merely to preserve, dust, and watch over the Hallam Collection.
      Materials were expensive, and most of my brushes were down to their last hairs. The larder was beginning to suffer, too. I found myself eating reworked soups and an increasing amount of pasta. My supply of vitamin pills was rattling in the bottom of the jar.
      The moment of truth arrived as I shook the last two centimes out of my tin. I had been careless. I should have dealt with the problem sooner. Peter had given me a few day's work helping with a building project in the village, but he had returned to London to restock his funds. I was left to my own devices.
      The only solution I could think of was to drive to St. Tropez and set up my display on the waterfront, hoping to attract well-heeled passersby. I had no papers to work in France so this would be risky, but one must follow when the devil drives. Piling my paintings into the little orange minivan and strapped my easel to the top, I set off for St. Tropez with empty pockets and considerable apprehension.
      The Port, an upscale area of shops and restaurants adjoining St. Tropez proper, was just awakening when I arrived. The delicious aroma of fresh coffee and hot croissants made it hard to concentrate on unloading. I set up my easel and paints with a spastic coordination that would have done credit to The Comedie Francaise, and went to work trying to put hunger and thirst out of my mind. Setting up a fresh canvas looking out over the water at the fabulous yachts anchored to the pier, I made a nice start with my oils. Getting excited, I kept my mind on it (and off my hunger) and the painting progressed well.
      It was too early in the day for any action from passing tourists. A dog came by and lifted its leg on one of my canvasses, much to the delight of the old men taking the morning sun on a facing bench. I tried to join in their humour as I hosed down the painting. No harm done, but it was somehow ominous in view of my condition. The morning sun was bright and strong, the sky solid blue cobalt with a hint of turquoise. The noise of the little harbour picked up as the daily bustle of life began to click into gear.
      Fishing boats bobbed on the still water. A boat was making its way to the harbour entrance, trailing the faint smell of diesel as it put out for the day's task. Shops opened and cafés started to fill. The natives read the The Provencal in the cool shade of bars. The air sweetened with pastis and mais cigarettes. Seagulls circled the town and chattered and squeaked by the fishing boats. The morning sauntered along, my sale of paintings not keeping pace.
      By twelve noon it was uncomfortably hot. I had talked with a couple of strolling tourists, but had not made a sale. I was feeling weary, depressed, and very hungry. This was not good at all. I finished off my water bottle and had it grudgingly refilled in one of the cafés. The young woman behind the bar seemed to see right through me-artist, no money, hungry, few prospects.
      Returning to my spot, I found two other artists setting up a little way down from me. They were evidently less desperate than I because they had waited until a civilized hour to begin hawking their wares. I walked over to their displays, looked at their paintings, and made a rather awkward effort at introduction. They were French and in no mood for social niceties-this was business. I returned to my spot, foreign and humble. Getting hungrier by the minute, I continued working on my painting. The crowd was beginning to fill out, and I felt that there may be cause for optimism yet.
      By two o'clock I was as penniless as when I climbed out of bed. It was some consolation that the other artists were not making sales either, but by now there were half a dozen of us at intervals along The Port. My pale London skin began to fry. My nose was the colour of cooked lobster, my lips dry and chapped. I made a hat from a newspaper and finished the painting-not at all bad. I placed it on the easel foremost among my others, thinking that it might offer the best chance for sale since a potential buyer could look right out at the view represented in the painting. I was so thirsty by that time that I couldn't drink enough water to keep even. I flopped into the shade of my minivan and was about to fall into a fitful doze when I felt something pulling at my foot.
      "Monsieur?" A young woman was tugging at my shoe. "Monsieur, vous etes l'artist?"
      I sat upright, my head smacking hard into the roof of the van. "Oui," I mumbled.
      "Le piece sur le chevalier?" She indicated my still-wet painting on the easel. Her smile was utterly engaging. She was cool and lovely, dressed impeccably, her long blonde hair as carefree as the St. Tropez weather. "Ces tres bien. Quesque ces le medium?" she asked, inquiring about the medium I had used. I fumbled with my pitiful French.
      "Vous n'est pas Francais?" she asked.
      "Non. Suis, Anglais," I replied.
      "Oh. Well, I am from Belgium. We can speak English, if you like."
      "That would be better," I agreed.
      "How much are you asking for the painting?" My heart pounded-she was perhaps serious. "I'm sure it's worth several hundred francs," I said. "But I would take eighty for it." In those days that was about ten dollars. My tongue was dry and I felt weak.
      "I'll give you fifty," she countered, beaming. Oh God. Not enough for food, water, coffee, shade. My heart sank.
      "Perhaps we could split the difference? How about seventy?" She giggled and politely writhed inside her dress, moving a little closer and breathing perfume and female all over me.
      "Sixty," she practically whispered in my ear.
      I casually held onto the van roof for support. "Sixty-five." My voice was two tones higher than when I had begun.
      "Done!"
      I took a breath, composing myself. "It's still very wet," I said.
      "Yes?" She reached out with a well-manicured finger and dabbed at a corner of the painting. Her fingertip came back light blue. "So it is," she smiled, holding her blue finger erect.
      I reached into my painting box and pulled out an old rag. "Allow me." I wiped off the blue with a little turpentine, polishing and buffing the end of the exquisite digit.
      "Could you perhaps deliver?" She demurely retrieved her finger. I asked if she were staying in town. "A little way out on the beach road." She drew a small map on my sketch pad.
      "All right. The day after tomorrow, say around five in the afternoon?" I offered.
      "That's fine. I'll be back from the beach." She turned to leave.
      "Could you perhaps leave a deposit?" I asked as casually as I could, swallowing hard. "Oh! Silly of me. I forgot." She reached into her bag and pulled out a fat roll of bills. She peeled off the entire sixty-five francs and handed them to me. "A bien tot!" She flashed her dazzling smile and sauntered away, leaving my moist hands clutching the lovely money. It took all my willpower, but I waited until she had floated out of sight before diving into the café and inhaling several coffees and a large omelette. I settled back into the café chair. For the first time in a week I felt at peace with the world. I had eaten well, had sold a painting, and had a little money in my pocket. With any luck, I was well on the way to a rendezvous with a gorgeous lady. Life was as sweet as my coffee.
      When I returned to my easel, two gendarmes were waiting. They smiled thin, professional smiles and touched their hats in a perfunctory salute. I was English, yes? The passport please. The van-mine? The papers. The green card. You are staying in an hotel? Oh-in a house. Your own? You rent? You sell paintings? How much? Ah so. You will please come with us.
      I was alarmed. What had I done? I protested, but with my halting French I was lost. I packed my paintings and easel into the van and locked it. All eyes followed as I was escorted to police headquarters at the far end of The Port. A dour little man with neat sideburns, a large mustache and pig-like, humourless eyes took down the particulars. I was instructed to empty my pockets. They scooped everything into a tray, and I was briefly frisked, no doubt to make sure that I had no brushes or tubes of alizarin crimson concealed in or about my British personage.
      I was becoming decidedly uncomfortable and angry, but scared, as any self-respecting artist would be. The coffee and omelette were making their way toward the nearest exit. In a quaking voice I protested my treatment, demanding to see the British Consulate (the nearest was probably in Paris). This had no effect whatsoever, and I found myself pushed into a jail cell. I-in jail!
      The cell was about ten feet square, smelling of old wine and stale urine. Flies buzzed continually. Probably even they were afraid to land in such filth. A single naked bulb hung from the ceiling. Two bunks were placed head to foot along adjoining walls. One had an occupant, who was in quiet conversation with a chair. I could make out the French words for police and idiots and fuck off. He had a three-day growth of stubble on his chin and rags for clothing. Apparently he was not aware of my entrance, for which I was grateful. It was chilly in the dank cell, and I began to panic. The sale of my painting certainly was at the bottom of this, but to be tossed in the pokey seemed a bit extreme. I had heard hair-raising tales about police brutality in foreign countries, about barbarous beatings and generally despicable behavior by the "flic."
      An hour passed. The gendarmes were enjoying a joke at the far end of the hall outside my cell, their group swathed in blue clouds of cigarette smoke that was cast through with shafts of late afternoon sunlight. My cellmate had fallen asleep. I sat despairingly on the end of the other bunk. The flies never let up with their incessant buzzing. Finally, an older man entered the station. The others greeted him with deference. Cigarettes were put out and uniforms adjusted. All at once everyone tried to look busy. He was unmistakably the chief.
      He shuffled through the papers on his desk, drumming his fingers. After much pondering and sighing, he signaled to have the wretched English painter brought before him. As they released me from the cell, I told them that I would like a pee and a drink, in that order. I tried to sound as calm as possible, but my voice had an uncomfortable flutter. The older man spoke halting English but ignored my requests. "Monsieur, you are ze English and 'ave no aussority to work in ze France. Zis is a zerious affair."
      He ran his fingers down his long nose and pulled his mustache. "I am informed that you were zeen conductin' a tranzaction on ze Port earlier today. Zis is zo?" He leaned back in his squeaky chair.
      "Well- er-I suppose that's true," I said. "But... ." I was cut short.
      "You were conductin' ze business 'ere in ze France."
      "Well-" I really had nothing to say in my own defense.
      "Zis is not allowed. You 'ave broke in French law. Yes? No? Yes."
      "I didn't know," I mumbled. My resolve and calmness evaporated. I envisioned myself shipped off to the Foreign Legion or a penal colony in the Caribbean. A long pause. He examined the money found in my pocket, my sketchbook, my passport, my wallet, my Swiss army knife. Abruptly he pushed them across the desk. "My advice, monsieur, is to remain in your village, stay off my Port. Ca-va?"
      Before I could say a word, I was bundled out into the street, rather like a stray dog. It was early evening. The air was sweet and clear, spiced with oregano and barbecue. Aperitifs were being taken in the cafés. Early diners were assembling for the nightly battle with the cornucopia of gourmet food.
      I was free. A close call-but all's well that ends well. I probably would have kissed the chief if I'd had the chance. I sat with a large cognac and a heart overflowing with gratitude. Close calls seem to produce a reverence for life, which is otherwise taken completely for granted.