In the age of the internet, it is increasingly tricky to nail down the provenance of a particular quote or phrase.
And, so it is with the origin of "a picture paints a thousand words", often attributed to a newspaper editor Arthur Brisbane (1864-1936), who, in a 1911 newspaper article, advocated the use of images with the advice "Use a picture. It's worth a thousand words".
The same search will unearth British artist Frederick R. Barnard (noted for his work on the novels of Charles Dickens) who wrote an article on the use of images for the journal ‘Printer's Ink’ entitled "One Look Is Worth a Thousand Words".
Wherever it originated, I am stealing the phrase for an art-inspired burst. Using one picture I intend to ‘paint’ a thousand words made up of a 50-word short, two 100-word stories, a 250-word tale, and finally, a 500-word fiction.
The challenge is to conjure five angles from one piece of art.
I thoroughly enjoy the inspiration shared by
in her ‘Beyond Bloomsbury’ series. Victoria recently shared a painting rich in possibilities.Revealed (100 words)
“Coffee, cake, and a snifter of brandy for the gentleman in Coach B, Seat 27”. The senior steward had told me not to dawdle but sometimes you have to wait for the right moment. Should I cough discreetly? I don’t like to interrupt. There’s an art to stewarding, you see. The rather ‘indelicate’ poses of the (shall we call them) ‘actresses’ on the inside pages of his magazine call for {ahem} circumspection, I believe. “Coffee, and brandy, Sir?”. I hate it when they just grunt. Rude. “Little tart”. “Yes, she is, dammit”, the ‘gentleman’ splutters.
Snippets (50 words)
“ … and I said to her, Bertie …”. She paused for effect, drawing deeply on the foul-smelling Turkish cigarette that she rather hoped made her more exotic than the librarian on a day trip to the seaside she actually was.
“You simply must return that book by next Tuesday”.
Just Friends (500 words)
She was furious, that much he knew.
Her mouth tightened around the end of the unfiltered cigarette. Her Great Aunt imported them from Morocco, or was it Italy? He forgot the details. She had said so much, and yet so little, during the course of this long weekend. He felt he had discovered many things that had remained cloaked in mystery throughout the lengthy courtship.
That had been her idea, of course. Everything was.
Her mouth puckered around the menthol tip, smoke billowing around her.
“But, darling”, he implored.
He had seen this face before. In fact, he had become all too used to it over the course of four desperately awkward days by the coast. Passive indifference was the phrase that came to mind.
She had studiously avoided his advances. “But, darling, it is our honeymoon”, he had ventured that very first night just before she sent him to the bar to fetch her a glass of water. By the time he returned, she was fast asleep. This pattern repeated itself the following evening, and each night thereafter. Affection was hard to find, though her mood lifted noticeably after she called her friend Veronica and reported that ‘Ronnie will be coming to join us’.
She had looked at him that morning with a hint of a smile, a softening perhaps. “Be a darling and book another room. Ronnie and I will bunk up together, a little sleepover, just like being back at boarding school. You’ll be alright in your own room for tonight, won’t you, Henry dear?”.
They had retired early, the girls. “The sea air, it’s so very tiring”, she murmured as Ronnie took her hand and led her upstairs. They looked exhausted in the morning, poor things.
Now she was angry. There had been a tension in the air since he had caught sight of their farewell. A lingering goodbye. He had stared, open-mouthed, though he knew he shouldn’t. He also knew he should have kept his counsel, and held his tongue.
“But, darling”, he stammered, not for the first time. “I didn’t mean … I mean … I am terribly sorry for bringing it up … but, darling …”.
Her expression darkened, this was neither the time nor the place. He knew that. She had told him so, a moment or two before she lit her second cigarette and the train had yet to leave Platform 3. Knowing it would never be the right time and holding back the question were two very different things though.
Right there, on the 11.05 for London Victoria, Henry leaned forward, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“Did young ladies at your school always kiss one another quite so … so intimately, darling?”.
He could immediately tell from that rather pinched expression, from those puckered lips, that the question should have stayed in his head.
“Darling”, she said rather acidly, “Ronnie will be staying with me for the foreseeable future. Perhaps you should visit your mother in the country”.
Sleuth (250 words)
He had been carefully keeping his distance. He was too close now. Her fragrance was intoxicating, muddling his thoughts, and clouding his objectivity. He turned back to the report hidden inside the ‘penny dreadful’ he had thrust into his valise as he packed in a rush, not one hour after the Inspector had bellowed down the corridor, words that echoed in his subconscious.
“Do not fail us, Jenkins”.
[I never bloody have, he mouthed to no one in particular]
Focusing on the report, he refreshed his memory and matched the details to the young couple sitting across the aisle.
Do not let outer appearances fool you. They will be smartly, but unobtrusively, dressed. He wears tailored suits, always grey, an affectation to match his name. She will appear unassuming, plain almost. Left-handed, she nonetheless smokes using her right hand, a deliberate deception. She is lethal when armed. He is stronger than his wiry frame would suggest. They have killed before and it is assessed that they would do so again, without conscience. She is charming, beguiling even. Do Not - repeat, Do Not fall under her spell.
He gazed over, absentmindedly, at the moment she smiled enigmatically. The usually gruff ex-policeman grinned, embarrassed at being caught, quickly turning back to the report.
His weapon of choice is his bare hands. Her skill is with a stiletto knife, often disguised as an everyday item. Be alert at all times.
He turned his head subtly, noticing the hatpin for the first time.
Overheard (100 words)
“It simply will not do”.
He leaned in attentively.
“No, no, I will not tolerate her interference any longer”.
He looked concerned and slightly distracted. His eyes flicked to the (rather handsome) steward.
“Sister, dear, she is our stepmother. Perhaps she could”.
“No, she could not. And I certainly will not. You will have to speak with Father”.
“Sissie, no, I simply cannot. Father is not talking to me since {why was the ridiculously good-looking waiter lingering there so enticingly?}. You know why”.
“For god’s sake, Charlie, will you just tell him that you prefer boys? Now, back to me”.
Great steal Barrie and well done an a wonderfully engaging series of short stories from one picture
Love this Barrie,
It's lovely reading beautiful stories, short or longer that are accessible and a joy to read.