The moment of revelation(Christopher Long) It is a week into our holidays. My parents come into the living room. I look up from scrolling on my phone. My sisters, Margo and Catherine, turn down the volume of the TV drama they are watching. Mum announces in her sing-song voice: “We are going to the art gallery!” I protest: “Do we have to go again? We are always going!” Dad interrupted: “Yes, it will expand your mind. Please don’t argue, Hannah. Go upstairs and get ready.” I hoped my sisters would support me but they had already left the room. Storming out of the lounge, I make my way to my bedroom.

Later in the car, while my siblings talk excitedly about the exhibits, I put my earphones in, turn up the volume of the music and stare out the window. Unlike my sisters, I do not like art. Why are paintings so special? Anybody, even a child, can paint a picture. Art has no relevance in our modern technologically advanced world. My thoughts are interrupted by Margo pulling out one of my earphones as she exclaims: “Hannah, we’re here!” I snatch the earphone back from my sister and get out of the car, slamming the door behind me. I am amazed by the amount of people that are here on a Saturday afternoon. Have these people got nothing better to do than stand and stare at paint on canvas? I think irritably. As we get to the front of the queue I look up at the entrance of The Wayfront Gallery for so long that mum scolds me: “Get a move on Hannah, you are holding up the line.”

Inside, my family hurries away from me in their excitement. When I get to the first viewing room I am further irritated by the crowds I have to maneuvre around. “Excuse me!” I say quietly but no one seems to hear me as they are so engrossed in the paintings. The gallery is packed with people either in pairs discussing, in hushed tones, while gesturing towards the art work; or solitary figures moving from painting to painting with their hands laced behind their backs. I find my dad looking at a painting of a Victorian gentleman looking as bored as I feel. I stand next to him. He whispers into my ear: “Isn’t it amazing how the artist used subtle brush strokes to accentuate the melancholy of this gentleman.” My eyes flicker to the plaque of the painting. It reads ‘Sir William Wilburforce’. I know the feeling, William, I don't want to be here either. I leave my dad still admiring the painting and make my way, as quickly as the crowds will allow me, from room to room. I take care to give each painting the briefest of glances in case I am questioned about them later.

I never believed in epiphanies or in moments of revelation, believing they only happen at the end of films or TV shows. But, in a small side room of The Wayfront gallery, I have mine. There are no members of the public here. The only other occupant of the room is a security guard standing with his back against the wall. As I enter he gives me a smile in greeting. There is a viewing bench between me and the only exhibit in the room: a tapestry. With vivid blue and red threads running through it on a golden background, the spotlights above it make the exhibit seem to shimmer with a life of its own. I am transfixed by its elegance, realising in that moment why other people place so much importance on art. As if in a trance, I walk round the viewing bench wanting to caress it, to touch its beauty. “Don’t touch the artwork please!” the security guard admonishes. “Sorry,” I murmur, stepping back a few paces. I cast my eyes over the hundreds of images and discover that they do not tell the story of some long forgotten historical event, but they are depicting scenes from the previous year. I sit down and continue to stare at it in reverence, until my father places a hand upon my shoulder. I say: “It’s breath-taking.” He nods silently in agreement. We sit, each lost in our own thoughts, for a while. The spell is finally broken when my dad says quietly: “Come on, sweetheart, it’s getting late. Your mum and sisters are already in the car.” Reluctantly I turn away, not wanting to be parted from this magnificent piece. As we leave, I look at the plaque. The title is ‘Scenes from a Turbulent Year’ and the artist is Beatrix Moorhouse. Who is she? I wonder.

On the car journey home I am quiet, hardly noticing the scenery around me. My mind is still awash with images from the tapestry. When we reach home, I go upstairs and start researching Beatrix Moorhouse. I wait impatiently as my laptop comes to life, typing her name into the search engine and scrolling through the information and pictures of her work. I am overcome with a feeling of gratitude and the need to thank this stranger, who has so intrigued me with her art. I learn from the internet that she lives in Scotland, on the remote island of Foula. I begin planning a route to get there. At dinner I discuss the trip with my dad. At first he is against the trip but after days of begging and pleading he finally accepts my request.

Over the next few months my dad helps me to finalise the journey that he will accompany me on, to find Ms Moorhouse. According to my research, she chooses to live on such a secluded island, so she can focus on her work without distraction. Finally summer arrives and with camping equipment in the car, we set off on our journey avoiding main roads wherever possible and take in the sights, however, I mostly experience them through my camera lens on my phone, adding filters which alter reality.

We leave our car at the port and catch a ferry across to the windy and majestic island. After admiring our rugged surroundings we locate the stone cottage belonging to Ms Moorhouse. My father knocks on the door which opens with a creak. An elderly woman with white hair and a knobbly black walking stick stands before us. “Hello, can I help you?” she inquires in a gentle Scottish brogue. “I’m sorry to disturb you, my name is Henry Bishop and this is my daughter Hannah.” She looks at us with a blank expression. “My daughter saw your most recent tapestry and wants to meet you.” “You better come in! It’s freezing out there.” She turns and shuffles inside slowly, we follow her and find ourselves in a room with two armchairs and a side table. A small television set sits in one corner and a loom dominates the centre. Taking the seats she gestures to, she asks us whether we would like some sweet tea. We gratefully accept. After sipping in silence for several minutes, Beatrix smiles at me and says: “So, you like my piece Hannah?” “Yes, I think it is magnificent. I want to thank you for changing my opinion about art. Before seeing your piece I wasn’t at all interested.” Beatrix chuckles and replies: “That is a lot of praise to heap upon one person my dear, nevertheless, I’m very pleased you feel that way, what would you like to know?” “As much as you're willing to tell me!” I reply, hardly able to keep the excitement from my voice.

Over the next few hours she describes her motivation behind creating the tapestries. I am captivated. She tells me: “The modern world is so fast-moving, nobody focuses on one thing for too long and people readily forget what they’ve seen. I wanted to create a permanent record so that the things we’ve lived through can never be forgotten. I create a new work every year you know.” “You do this alone?” I ask in awe. “No, I have daughters who help me to bring my work to life.” She then describes her process and shows me the loom where she weaves the tapestries. While this is happening my father says nothing, just sips his tea with a smile on his face. When it gets dark we say goodbye: “Thank you very much for letting us into your home and allowing me a glimpse into your world,” “It was my pleasure, I’m happy to see my work exciting a young person. Be on the lookout for more.” “I will,” I promise.

After we leave, the conversation we had sticks with me. Ms Moorhouse is right, the world is too fast-paced and we don’t pay enough attention. I have an urge to grab my phone and take yet another picture of this beautiful island. I leave it where it is and gaze around instead, committing it to memory, not the memory card on my phone. I now want to experience and savour real life. When we begin our journey home, I have a new outlook.

Two years later, I have grown. Now I rarely use my phone, preferring natural beauty to the enhanced version on my screen. The art gallery outings that for so long had seemed a chore, now fill me with excitement. I finally understand what my family had been trying to instill in me; the value of art, the beautiful snapshots of life captured expertly by an artist. These trips are no longer just consigned to holidays. I often walk alone around the gallery and soak up the atmosphere, it no longer bores but inspires me. I invariably seek out the splendour of the latest creation by Beatrix Moorhouse, before leaving the gallery to return to my halls of residence. I study Fine Art thanks to my moment of revelation two years earlier and my meeting with Beatrix Moorhouse; my specialism is tapestry.

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