strong smell of turps, of a room chaotically crowded with canvases propped three and four deep against the walls, a trestle table littered with junk. Of an unmade mattress on the floor with a grimy under-sheet and grey army surplus blankets screwed up in a heap.
He was standing in the far corner, quite still, his back to her. She saw his hair tangled with splodges of paint. As she took a few steps into the room, treading gingerly across bare gritty floorboards and weaving a path through squashed paint tubes, jam jars full of brushes, clothes, newspapers, scummy paper plates, she saw that he was at work on a drawing. It looked half-finished, but she could make out a tousled female figure, nude and spread-eagled across a bed.
'Is that by any chance me?' she'd said. It came out more belligerently than she intended.
His hand stopped on the paper. 'Of course it is. Can't you see , now? Do you need glasses? Or do I need to get your permission?'
'It would be nice to be asked.'
'That's too bad then, because I never ask.' He hadn't turned round.
'Mischa,'she said,'I've come to get you.'
'But you are leaving me.'
'Only for three weeks.'
'And then you are coming back?'
'Of course.'
'Back to me?'
He hadn't moved. She felt a sensation of vertigo, as if she were teetering on the rickety verandah rail outside his window.
'Yes.'
'If I come now, Gigi,' he said,'there is a condition I want to make. Do you agree to it?'
'Well, I don't know what it is yet.'
'We will go in together.' It was a statement, not a question. He still hadn't moved or looked at her.
She took a deep, steadying breath in an effort to find her balance.'All right.I agree.We will go in together.'
He clasped my hand tightly as we came into the gallery.Verity looked up. She registered, I saw her eyes.Then she whisked him straight back out of the door to the lunch meeting.When she went past my desk she shot me a look.
I had to leave at 4 to pick up C. from the airport. I had to lock up first because they still hadn't come back. I drove to the airport in a manic state, radio at full blast, smoking, very nearly smashed into a turning tram in St Kilda Rd. C. didn't notice a thing, but told me off for smoking.
I'm writing this sitting on the sand on the Isle of Pines. C. has gone out in a boat fishing for a few hours, thank the Lord. It's day 3 of the 'holiday', the first chance I've had to be alone. 18 more to go, an eternity. My life is in the worst sodding mess it's ever been or ever could be in, & I'm sitting in this ravishing tropical paradise with waving palm trees & pristine white sand that's like the softest, silkiest clay.
It's all lost on me. I might as well be locked up in a dungeon, living on bread & water.
The page was creased and smudged. A few grains of sand were stuck in the spine. Small greasy blotches punctuated the writing. Suntan oil.
What would an objective person make of this? To Greer, looking down the long lens of retrospection, the remarkable thing was the selective nature of the writing. What was not on the page was as important as what was included, and in some ways more telling. And quite apart from the back story, what was left out was the other side of her life. The flip side of her interior life, one might call it. The young diarist's omissions were, on any objective reckoning,breathtaking.
An objective reader was, of course, a detached person in full possession of the facts. Until this time only one person came close to fitting this description: the writer herself. But she was personally involved.And now there was a detective abroad, nosing and prying. Who might be hell-bent on putting back in what had been left out.
Unlike the hot-headed young diarist, the biographer had a balanced narrative to construct. He was unlikely to be wilfully or self-servingly selective. His bias should be neutral and dispassionate, which made it diametrically opposed to hers. Was there any reason why Antony Corbino should view Mischa and herself
He was standing in the far corner, quite still, his back to her. She saw his hair tangled with splodges of paint. As she took a few steps into the room, treading gingerly across bare gritty floorboards and weaving a path through squashed paint tubes, jam jars full of brushes, clothes, newspapers, scummy paper plates, she saw that he was at work on a drawing. It looked half-finished, but she could make out a tousled female figure, nude and spread-eagled across a bed.
'Is that by any chance me?' she'd said. It came out more belligerently than she intended.
His hand stopped on the paper. 'Of course it is. Can't you see , now? Do you need glasses? Or do I need to get your permission?'
'It would be nice to be asked.'
'That's too bad then, because I never ask.' He hadn't turned round.
'Mischa,'she said,'I've come to get you.'
'But you are leaving me.'
'Only for three weeks.'
'And then you are coming back?'
'Of course.'
'Back to me?'
He hadn't moved. She felt a sensation of vertigo, as if she were teetering on the rickety verandah rail outside his window.
'Yes.'
'If I come now, Gigi,' he said,'there is a condition I want to make. Do you agree to it?'
'Well, I don't know what it is yet.'
'We will go in together.' It was a statement, not a question. He still hadn't moved or looked at her.
She took a deep, steadying breath in an effort to find her balance.'All right.I agree.We will go in together.'
He clasped my hand tightly as we came into the gallery.Verity looked up. She registered, I saw her eyes.Then she whisked him straight back out of the door to the lunch meeting.When she went past my desk she shot me a look.
I had to leave at 4 to pick up C. from the airport. I had to lock up first because they still hadn't come back. I drove to the airport in a manic state, radio at full blast, smoking, very nearly smashed into a turning tram in St Kilda Rd. C. didn't notice a thing, but told me off for smoking.
I'm writing this sitting on the sand on the Isle of Pines. C. has gone out in a boat fishing for a few hours, thank the Lord. It's day 3 of the 'holiday', the first chance I've had to be alone. 18 more to go, an eternity. My life is in the worst sodding mess it's ever been or ever could be in, & I'm sitting in this ravishing tropical paradise with waving palm trees & pristine white sand that's like the softest, silkiest clay.
It's all lost on me. I might as well be locked up in a dungeon, living on bread & water.
The page was creased and smudged. A few grains of sand were stuck in the spine. Small greasy blotches punctuated the writing. Suntan oil.
What would an objective person make of this? To Greer, looking down the long lens of retrospection, the remarkable thing was the selective nature of the writing. What was not on the page was as important as what was included, and in some ways more telling. And quite apart from the back story, what was left out was the other side of her life. The flip side of her interior life, one might call it. The young diarist's omissions were, on any objective reckoning,breathtaking.
An objective reader was, of course, a detached person in full possession of the facts. Until this time only one person came close to fitting this description: the writer herself. But she was personally involved.And now there was a detective abroad, nosing and prying. Who might be hell-bent on putting back in what had been left out.
Unlike the hot-headed young diarist, the biographer had a balanced narrative to construct. He was unlikely to be wilfully or self-servingly selective. His bias should be neutral and dispassionate, which made it diametrically opposed to hers. Was there any reason why Antony Corbino should view Mischa and herself
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