The Postcard Is Not the Point, Part 1

Sketchbook Moments, Grotesques, and What Led Me Upstairs

Crows like cemeteries.

Landican Cemetery was no exception. The first one appeared just as Neil and I arrived, and perched on a branch above his parents’ grave. Others clustered nearby. Until then, Liverpool had offered only gulls and pigeons. I took note. I took a picture.

And I made a sketch. For a possible… what?

If a postcard isn’t the point, then what is?

Last time, I wrote about letting go of the plan and following what pulled me instead. I get to choose, at each turn, what counts the most.

This post continues the experiment.

Not the Beatles: The York Minster Grotesques

In York, the plan was to walk along the city walls and take in the Minster’s Gothic grandeur.  I didn’t expect to fall for a collection of expressive oddballs.

They were high above me on the Minster’s walls—little faces frozen in stone. Many of the most remarkable ones congregate in the Chapter House, an octagonal space built around 1260, notable for being the only area in the Minster that isn’t consecrated. It was used as a meeting room—and, intriguingly, it hosted the trials of the Knights Templar in 1310.

Because it wasn’t consecrated, the stone carvers working there were given more creative freedom. As one docent explained, many of the faces were based on townspeople—ordinary folk, immortalized in stone with all their quirks.

Too far up to really see or sketch on the spot, I took photos instead. But days later, at the dining room table in Grange-over-Sands, it was those grotesques I kept thinking about drawing.  And draw I did.  My sketchbook versions were distorted, a bit stranger perhaps, but true to the spirit of the originals.  I wasn’t trying to replicate what I’d seen — I was after the impression.  Like when I draw portraits.  They come out, not caricatures exactly.  More like inspired by.

Back home, weeks later, I wanted to make a postcard of the grotesques.  From my photos, I sketched the Minister’s arches.  I built a color palette around stained glass windows — those deep reds, blues, yellows —and began carving out a plan for the postcard.

Once I had four grotesques on the card, it hit me. There they were:  John, Paul, George, and Ringo.  Not exactly the Beatles, but certainly a Fab Four.

The Grotesques Led Me There

Back in York, fresh off our visit to the Minster — and newly enchanted by its grotesques — I was emboldened to follow my fascination with oddball Gothic.

We have to eat after all. I typed “Quirky restaurant, York, Taxidermy” into Google.

The online description for The House of the Trembling Madness was irresistible:

The entrance to the House of the Trembling Madness is wonderfully understated—easy to miss if you’re not looking closely, which adds to its hidden charm. It’s located at 14 Lendal, sandwiched between shops just steps from St. Helen’s Square. Downstairs, you’ll see the Trembling Madness shop (craft beer, spirits, and curiosities). To the left of the shop, you’ll find a plain door with a narrow staircase leading up. There’s usually a hanging pub sign or chalkboard menu nearby, but the door itself is quite modest. Climb the creaky, winding wooden stairs, and at the top, you’ll emerge into the great hall: beamed ceiling, taxidermy, candles, and wooden benches. It’s cozy, moody, and full of character, like drinking in a 12th-century attic crossed with a cabinet of curiosities.

Crystal chandelier (and more) above the stairwell, dark walls, antlers, wild boar, and even a da Vinci grotesque on the wall.

We had a fabulous dinner of steak and ale pies and beer.  I didn’t want to leave.

A postcard might come later. But this?

This was exactly what I was after.

And it all began with the Minster grotesques.

A Full Sketchbook and a Moment I Wouldn’t Trade

Which reminded me of another evening when I got what I was after — and no postcards were on the menu.

A little heaven one evening upstairs at the unassuming (but beautiful) Oriel Chambers  Building at 14 Water Street.  An evening of drawing with the Liver Sketching Club, the oldest continuously active art club in England.(They’ve been hosting life and portrait drawing and painting classes in Liverpool since 1872.)

At ten to six, I stood on the steps and rang the bell.  Ian Graham, one of the Club organizers, came down to let me in.

Up the stairs, down the hall, through the supply room — where I picked up a Liver Club sketchbook — and into the portrait session, where about fifteen people had already formed a circle around a raised, still unoccupied platform.  The shabby classroom, with its high ceilings and long windows, had the scent of dust, charcoal, and graphite in the air.  Two dons, already set up behind easels, their pencils at the ready, made space for me between them.  I set out my color pencils, pan pastels, erasers, and grabbed a drawing board. 

The model was Jujuzoe, a real pro and an import from Italy who had recently returned to  Liverpool, a city she loved. 

We drew for an hour. Took a tea and cookie break down the hall in the kitchen — an intimate space where people were lovely and welcoming.  Then back for another hour of drawing.  I worked quickly and loosely, taking different approaches.   

I came away with seven drawings.  The dons? Just one carefully developed face apiece.

To my delight, Jujuzoe later shared one of my drawings on her Instagram account.

In a nutshell, I’m still following what catches my eye, what intrigues, what leaves an impression.

Next time, we’ll return to Liverpool — to the Metamorphosis Case I promised, and a modern cathedral as well — and then head north.

To castles and jackdaws.

The postcards? They’re still happening, but they’re not the point.

Come along with me.

Afterword

A few impressions from York