The Socialite and the Gigolo

A woman walks through the crowd; head high, chin up, striding briskly on heels so high they seem an engineering feat. It had been years since she had braved shoes like these. Side stepping through the teetering platters of champagne and hors d’oeuvres, Felicity slips and twists her ankle. Completely thrown out of joint, she makes unnatural angles with her torso and limbs as she falls, bringing down a champagne laden waitress with her. The magnificent smashing sound of champagne glasses echoes through the gala hall like an exclamation mark. A reverberation of goshes and gasps follow.

Felicity’s shock comes in a quick wave of ice hot embarrassment. The position of her fall has landed her like a fish - gasping and flailing; pulling at the hem of her black cocktail dress, so as to conceal the suspender belt creeping up her thigh.

Her leather Chanel handbag lies open like an inverted udder, revealing its content; an ‘objet d’art’ exhibit of human detritus. Through the shards of glass Felicity picks up the pieces; hand sanitizer, make-up compact, dental floss, tweezers, coolmints, a horoscope clipping, a vanity mirror, lubricant, a cheque made out in jaunty writing, a business card from “Toorak Solicitors”, an empty packet of hormone replacement pills, mobile, keys....

“Are you OK Madam? says the voice of the toppled waitress. Can I help?”
“I’m really OK. No one's fault. No cuts...fine thankyou ” explains Felicity in a clipped matter-of-fact voice. There is a flurry of staff with brooms and mops. Felicity is helped to her feet, resting her weight tentatively back on the sprained ankle. She reworks stray silver strands of hair back into her french roll.

“Oh excuse me madam. This must be your wallet too. The fallen waitress picks up the crocodile print purse – open and exposed to reveal a photo a of a young topless man. The passport sized image, slipped over credit cards, smiles back at her from under the wallets clear plastic window; his tanned face and toothy veneered smile are framed by beach curled hair and an exotic pink flower tucked behind one ear.

Felicity snatches the purse, scowling through frozen botoxed eyes, and heads to the sanctuary of the ladies room.

The Spaces Between Them

It’s 4am. A pink mackerel sky ripples light into the studio window. Mia looks down at the Darlinghust Street; a spray tanned jogger, a budding Jacaranda, a tottering drag queen with one glass slipper. Mia was drawn to Sydney for her paradoxes; her city streets painted and polished like fingernails, chip away on closer observation – revealing dirt and stale blood. For weeks now she had been sucking in the grit and glamour of her new city and spitting it out in gestural dribbling colour.

Backlit in the terrace windows muted led-light, Mia realises that yesterday has just slurred into today. D-Day. The letter D clicks over in her brain in big red neon and she remembers yesterdays awkward conversation with James.

“We’ve already extended the opening night, Mia.” The gallery owners voice had a smooth gravelled diction; clipped with profanities. “Re-sending all the invites was a bitch of a thing.”

“It’ll be ready. One more day”. She surrendered.

Mia pushes all her weight against the studio wall. The stress of finishing off the last canvas in her condition makes her wish to push the walls away. Walking over to the easel, Mia switches off the fluorescent bulbs which had sustained last nights nocturnal visions. She closes her eyelids. The blinking feels acidic with tiredness.

In the mornings natural light she saw the two of them more clearly; the faces in the canvas – Dave and her. With a moments clarity of thought and action Mia dips the brush into Prussian Blue and drags at the point they meet negative space; their profiles face one another like in uteru twins. In energetic layers she works on those spaces between them, and the thought of their physical distance gives the strokes a lucid and considered weight. It was a month since she had been gone, leaving behind Dave and Lismore and the room they shared. She imagines his dawn slumbering, and connects to their collective present... imagines the bedroom with it’s unrelenting mold from tropic air.

She wishes for a lazy morning with Dave again – those hot northern dawns that seem to yawn like an oven. Plenty of time.... Mia remembers finding a busted antique egg-timer – blocked at it’s narrowest point, rendering it useless. She placed it on Dave’s bedside table and below the static grains of sand she had written playfully Plenty of time... 

If only.

Mia is running on empty. Although there is a  a makeshift mezzanine where she can sleep, there hasn’t been time for a recharge. At one point Mia drops her brush and pushes her palms hard into the sockets of her eyes. All acid and stars. Her back is tight and she arches her body, trying to detangle the twisted string of pearls of her vertebrae. With a deep breath she pushes on, zoning in once more on the callosal canvas and it’s untold story.

Hours of painting have gone by and Mia is startled by the knock on the door. It’s James, puffing slightly from the flight of stairs. He is dressed in a zingy red and white striped shirt. The bastard even smelt of sunshine Mia thought.

“Comrad.” James salutes, passing her a large take-way cup of coffee.

Mia raises a wounded wing in return.

“Thought I’d drop by. Coffee. Also a copy of the media release for the show.” Handing her the print out, James heads towards the centre of the room, eyes darting. Mia could feel his sharp thought-energy bounce around the room like lasers, eventually resting on the unfinished canvas.

“Ah. Your last peice. Fuck, I didnt expect it to be so big.“

“Yeah. The last piece. A real "Tour-de-Force” Mia answered facetiously, quoting the marketing dribble from the media release she was handed.

“ Well Jeez Mia, when’s it going to be finished? The art installer will be here first thing tomorrow. This needs to get over the line or they’ll be calling this show your Tour-de-Farce.”

At that James leaves muttering something about a text or email, leaving Mia to exhale. With a gulp of coffee she began to read the media release.

Wright’s ability to electrify empty spaces in
these very large paintings is extraordinary... 

As if possessed by an involuntary force she picks up a soft magenta brush and between the silhouetted profiles of Dave and her, Mia electrifies the empty spaces between them in delicate lyrical lines to form a third figure.

When the painting is finally complete Mia gives the canvas a title “Our Child” and staggers to the mezzanine mattress to sleep a glorious pink magenta sleep.