intended. Gets up.
âYou are part illusion.â Her lidless eyes, the scalded arm accuse me.
âHowâs my starling?â The wet lapels of his coat, the thickening waist beneath, the hands that rub, smooth, caress new clay.
âCold. Lonely. Miserable without you.â
He peers fixedly at me. His eyes are the colour of the veins in my hand. What does he see? The ordinary girl? Can he distinguish me from my surroundings, the second-hand goods on display?
âDo you remember this body? How you used to say it was like the sun breaking through the clouds?â
âI remember.â
âPromise then. Promise youâll visit soon.â
âI promise.â Hollow. Hollow as a tree where fairies dine, blow dandelion clocks. This paperweight could hurt someone if I let it. I imagine it splintering off his heavy skull, startling the henna-haired woman. Time released, recontinued.
I watch them all wave away. From now on I shall paint pale women in pale rooms, their hands left holding the dead weight of some object: a book, a letter, the body of a cat. The story told. The narrative gone elsewhere.
Elizabeth
Augustus Gloop
Time treads water in the Blue Room, nearly drowns. Light comes up, blinds go down, we endure. A talk on dog breeding with Daniel and his bitches, Debbie gets crafty with crochet, and cinematography of the early twentieth century by somebody from Gower.
âAnd what did you think of that?â Nurse Tinkerbell always asks, after ushering the visitors out; but most of us have lost consciousness by then and donât know where to find it again. Peter Pan stays away. I caught sight of him once in the corridor. He was fat as a buttery bollock. He looked like Augustus Gloop. I smiled, he turned, went back into his room. My heart descended a scale in A minor and when the G came it cut sharp. Surprisingly sharp. What is life, after all, but scales in contrary motion, one hand going up, the other going down?
Gwen
Drafts
First draft.
Mon Maître,
My heart stopped yesterday at two oâclock in Les Deux Magots. If you do not keep your promise you will be responsible for the death of this artist. If you are sincere when you say that I can produce great work it is your duty to the world to keep your promise. I have it on good authority from the horloger on Boulevard St. Germain that if a clock is stopped for more than twenty-four hours it will never keep true time again. It jolts, sticks, gets ahead or behind. It slowly begins to rust. A pendule must be kept well-oiled and in use to stay true.
Your starling.
Second draft.
Dear Rodin,
You say I am wild, childish, barely civilised. Would you draw me just this side of the fence, the way Augustus draws Dorelia? Or would you draw me outside the parameters of respectability, looking in? You say I take your energy, your teeth, your nails. Well, I can give them back to you. I keep them in a little box by the side of my bed. You say the winter fills you with chills and gloom. Come and see the sun breaking through the clouds as I undress. Come and hold spring in your arms.
Third draft.
Rilke says you lie down on the floor and listen to the gramophone with that woman. If you do not keep your promise I shall make a scene. I shall follow you to Notre Dame and I shall make a scene. Before God I shall make a scene. Edgar has just jumped in from the moonlight, left muddy pawprints on this letter to show his displeasure at you too.
Gwen John.
Moth
God
Drew tries to make love to me. I refuse for the first time in seven years of marriage. The guilt makes me angry.
âFuck off and leave me alone. Iâm exhausted. Iâm thirty-two and I feel like forty-two and we havenât got any decent contraception. If I got pregnant now Iâd have to consider a termination. And I donât want you coming off on the sheets either. Nothing dries in this weather.â
I get up, look at the night sky. The stars have vanished like
âYou are part illusion.â Her lidless eyes, the scalded arm accuse me.
âHowâs my starling?â The wet lapels of his coat, the thickening waist beneath, the hands that rub, smooth, caress new clay.
âCold. Lonely. Miserable without you.â
He peers fixedly at me. His eyes are the colour of the veins in my hand. What does he see? The ordinary girl? Can he distinguish me from my surroundings, the second-hand goods on display?
âDo you remember this body? How you used to say it was like the sun breaking through the clouds?â
âI remember.â
âPromise then. Promise youâll visit soon.â
âI promise.â Hollow. Hollow as a tree where fairies dine, blow dandelion clocks. This paperweight could hurt someone if I let it. I imagine it splintering off his heavy skull, startling the henna-haired woman. Time released, recontinued.
I watch them all wave away. From now on I shall paint pale women in pale rooms, their hands left holding the dead weight of some object: a book, a letter, the body of a cat. The story told. The narrative gone elsewhere.
Elizabeth
Augustus Gloop
Time treads water in the Blue Room, nearly drowns. Light comes up, blinds go down, we endure. A talk on dog breeding with Daniel and his bitches, Debbie gets crafty with crochet, and cinematography of the early twentieth century by somebody from Gower.
âAnd what did you think of that?â Nurse Tinkerbell always asks, after ushering the visitors out; but most of us have lost consciousness by then and donât know where to find it again. Peter Pan stays away. I caught sight of him once in the corridor. He was fat as a buttery bollock. He looked like Augustus Gloop. I smiled, he turned, went back into his room. My heart descended a scale in A minor and when the G came it cut sharp. Surprisingly sharp. What is life, after all, but scales in contrary motion, one hand going up, the other going down?
Gwen
Drafts
First draft.
Mon Maître,
My heart stopped yesterday at two oâclock in Les Deux Magots. If you do not keep your promise you will be responsible for the death of this artist. If you are sincere when you say that I can produce great work it is your duty to the world to keep your promise. I have it on good authority from the horloger on Boulevard St. Germain that if a clock is stopped for more than twenty-four hours it will never keep true time again. It jolts, sticks, gets ahead or behind. It slowly begins to rust. A pendule must be kept well-oiled and in use to stay true.
Your starling.
Second draft.
Dear Rodin,
You say I am wild, childish, barely civilised. Would you draw me just this side of the fence, the way Augustus draws Dorelia? Or would you draw me outside the parameters of respectability, looking in? You say I take your energy, your teeth, your nails. Well, I can give them back to you. I keep them in a little box by the side of my bed. You say the winter fills you with chills and gloom. Come and see the sun breaking through the clouds as I undress. Come and hold spring in your arms.
Third draft.
Rilke says you lie down on the floor and listen to the gramophone with that woman. If you do not keep your promise I shall make a scene. I shall follow you to Notre Dame and I shall make a scene. Before God I shall make a scene. Edgar has just jumped in from the moonlight, left muddy pawprints on this letter to show his displeasure at you too.
Gwen John.
Moth
God
Drew tries to make love to me. I refuse for the first time in seven years of marriage. The guilt makes me angry.
âFuck off and leave me alone. Iâm exhausted. Iâm thirty-two and I feel like forty-two and we havenât got any decent contraception. If I got pregnant now Iâd have to consider a termination. And I donât want you coming off on the sheets either. Nothing dries in this weather.â
I get up, look at the night sky. The stars have vanished like
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