Blackpool Lights
"Illuminations designer Donna has lit up Blackpool's famous displays for fifteen years. When light artist James proposes collaboration, sparks fly beyond the bulbs."
Blackpool Illuminations had been lighting up the Golden Mile since 1879—six miles of bulbs, tableaux, and spectacle that drew millions every autumn. I'd been designing sections for fifteen years, turning electricity into wonder.
"Ms. Collins?"
The man examining my latest installation was clearly artistic—the way he looked at colour temperature, the attention to spacing, the professional appreciation that separated designers from tourists.
"Donna. And you're admiring the gradient work."
"I'm admiring the emotional progression. The colours tell a story." James stepped closer. "I'm a light artist. I've exhibited at Tate Modern, the Venice Biennale. I've never seen popular illumination done with this sophistication."
"Popular doesn't mean stupid."
"Obviously not." He gestured at my display. "This is democratic art—millions of people experiencing something beautiful. My gallery installations reach thousands at most."
"Then why stay in galleries?"
"Because I didn't know this was possible." His eyes met mine. "Can I learn from you?"
Learning became collaboration. Over the autumn season, James worked alongside me, understanding the particular challenges of outdoor illumination—weather, crowds, the need for spectacle that also had depth.
"Why Blackpool?" he asked one evening. We were doing final checks before the switch-on.
"Because this is where working-class families come for magic. Because people who can't afford galleries deserve beauty too." I adjusted a string of bulbs. "Because my nan brought me here when I was little, and the lights made her happy. Making lights make people happy is worth doing."
"That's art as service."
"That's craft as compassion. Art is what you call it when you charge admission."
"I want to do craft with you." His hand found mine among the wiring. "Donna. You've changed everything I thought about light."
"I just put up bulbs."
"You put up wonder." He moved closer. "I want to be part of it."
We kissed while the illuminations waited for dark, his artist's mouth warm against my electrician's lips. The strings of bulbs seemed to pulse with anticipation.
"My flat overlooks the prom," I said.
"Show me where light designers dream."
The flat was practical but magical—views of the illuminations, equipment for repairs, the evidence of a life spent making darkness glow. James looked around with artistic appreciation.
"This is workplace as gallery."
"This is home as workshop. Gallery is what rich people call it."
"This is beautiful."
We made love while the illuminations blazed outside, our bodies finding rhythms that the flickering bulbs seemed to accompany. James touched me with artist's attention—understanding form, working with light and shadow.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm built for heights."
"You're built for illumination." He kissed down my body. "The brightest thing I've seen."
We came together while millions of bulbs lit up the seafront, both of us finding completion that felt like switch-on—sudden, spectacular, transforming darkness into wonder. When I gasped his name, it was with the same joy I felt when the lights came alive.
"Stay," I said.
"In Blackpool?"
"In my illuminations. In my life." I touched his face. "The season ends, but we don't have to."
He stayed. His gallery work now incorporates what he learned—accessible, spectacular, designed for everyone. And every autumn, he helps me light up the Golden Mile.
"We're glowing together now," James said one night.
"We're illuminating together."
"Is that different?"
"It's better. Glowing is passive. Illuminating is active—it means making light for others." I pulled him closer. "We make light together."
The illuminations still blaze. The crowds still come. And now there's an artist who became a designer's partner, who found on the Golden Mile everything he'd been looking for in gallery darkness.