Art Pact 192 - Consistency

I ask Bellows. He is working his forge stripped to the waist, his heavily-muscled upper body glistening with sweat. He is not actually at the bellows themselves, but motions me to work them while he lifts the metal shape in and out of the flames. With every press of the bellows-lever a blast of hot air rebounds from the fire and licks uncomfortably at my face. My ears clamp shut painfully every time Bellows's hammer hits the shape, and when he holds it up to inspect it I discover that I have clamped my jaw shut so hard in order to avoid the pain that I have a cramp in my throat.

"Consistency, you say," he says. I rub at my throat, and nod. He holds the shape closer to me - its cherry-red glow has dulled to a less exciting grey-orange colour, but I can feel the heat still pouring off it, and I know that if I touch it it will burn me. It is a curlicue, a spiraling shape that does not spiral but winds around itself. Something for his latest commission, I suppose, but I cannot tell whether it is supposed to be a depiction or a more arty representation. "Consistency is the bugbear of small minds."

I fumble in my back pocket, trying to find the notebook, but the cramp in my throat spasms slightly and I have to go back to rubbing it. Bellows holds up a finger, then shakes his head. I wonder what I have done wrong, and start to pump at the bellows again, but he reaches out with one strong arm and removes my hand from the lever by a simple push at the wrist.

"I'm wrong," he says carefully. "That's not the whole of it. A foolish consistency is the bugbear of small minds, that's the whole quote."

"I see," I croak.

"Good. Because it's important not to misquote people. Words are an art, just like painting or sculpture. If you sample something out of context, even words - well..."

#

I ask Virtue, who I am surprised to find in the garden, kneeling in the centre of a circle of daisies that have somehow infiltrated the lawn. She beckons me in, and we both kneel facing each other. I feel as though I am part of a ceremony - a Japanese tea ceremony, perhaps. But she has no cups, no teapot, merely a dictionary. After I ask her she stares off into the sky for a few seconds, taking three slow and measured breaths before opening the book and rifling through it to the correct page.

"The following of constant forms or principles," she recites. "To conform or agree to similar patterns or designs. Bellows has consistency, you should ask him."

"I already have," I say, leaning forward to offer the sleeve of my blouse. She sniffs at it, taking in the aroma of the smithy, the scent of hard work and smoke, and she nods. My bona-fides are proved. "But he's doing something different now. He hinted so when I asked him, anyway, and I didn't recognise what he was making."

"Perhaps it's for the best," she says. She sweeps an arm out to indicate the circle of daisies we're sitting in. "Look at this. The lawn lacks consistency here, because I have prevented Posy from mowing it."

"Prevented?"

"I sat here. I've been here for three days now. It was enough. She cut around me, and I plucked at the daisies inside the circle. Here is the result. The lawn lacks consistency, but it has something better. Mystery. Art. This circle could be a sacred place, or just a place where a woman sits to read her books."

"Have you been reading here?"

She shakes her head, laughs sadly.

"I have only this"--she holds up the dictionary--"and it is perhaps not the most interesting read. But if I get up, Posy will mow the lawn and the circle will be destroyed."

"What will you do?" I think that I might offer to get her a book, but she has other ideas.

"I will stay here until I begin to resent my prison," she says. "Then I will leave, and I will not be so sad to see it destroyed."

#

I ask Manse. He is staring at a book, deciphering the scratchy writing within, his bowls of ingredients set out beautifully around him so that he seems as though he might be setting up a shop display. He looks up pensively as I come in, then nods when I ask him. He does not answer straight away, instead pointing to the book.

"I can't quite work out what it's telling me about the ratio of flour to oil," he complains. "It seems to be saying a ten to one ratio is ideal for the texture, but then the recipe is more like eight to one."

"That seems like quite a discrepancy," I say. "But I was asking about-"

"That's what I thought. I mean, eight to one and ten to one, that would be the difference between a runny dough and damp crumbs. That's a lot. I'd say ten to one is probably about right, but I'm not sure whether other things in the recipe are taking the place of the flour. I mean, there's this stuff"--he indicates a bowl of black mush that I cannot identify--"it would help with the cooking later, but it's also somewhat wet, so it wouldn't help the ratio during mixing."

"Well, I guess you'll sort it out," I say, patting him on the back. "You're a good cook-"

"I'm a good baker," he corrects me. "I'm a terrible cook."

"Ok, well, you're good at what you're good at. But I was asking you about consistency before we got distracted into all this stuff."

He frowns.

"What do you mean distracted? What do you think we've been talking about for the last two minutes? This," he says, pointing at the recipe. "The consistency of this mix."