Small Forgotten Moments

by Annalisa Crawford

  small

  forgotten

  moments

  annalisa crawford

  For my sister, Kimberley

  ONE

  David Bowie sings “Suffragette City” from the corner of the room and my bare, paint-splattered feet stomp out the beat. I square up to the easel with my brush loaded with Winsor Blue.

  My hand hovers in mid-air.

  A blank canvas is full of possibility, a foe to be vanquished. The first mark will determine the shape of the whole thing—the style and tone and subject. Why am I finding it so hard?

  When I woke this morning, far too early, I was flooded with images and my hands itched for my paints. I skipped breakfast. My first mug of coffee is cold on the table.

  But those ideas have dissipated. I trail the brush down the canvas, creating tentative vertical lines. Some are solid and uniform, others dawdle erratically, tapering toward the bottom to create the illusion of rain. With my new tube of Crimson, I draw a dense crowd—vague anthropoid outlines squeezed together, the suggestion of faces, all looking toward the top right-hand corner. I avoid anything specific, anything that could be her. Where the colors intersect, deep violet occurs.

  I spurt Azo Yellow Medium onto my palette and add spots and streaks to resemble streetlights and reflections in puddles.

  Wham bam, thank you Ma’am.

  It’s a fussy and congested mess now—the doodle of a child let loose with poster paints for the first time. I run an acrylic-sticky hand through my hair, tugging at the purple knot which forms.

  Shards of light stream through the window as the sun sneaks out from looming rain clouds, catching the wet paint and animating the figures.

  Here she comes, here she comes.

  From the canvas, she stares back, sculpted and detached like a Vanity Fair cover model.

  Her. Zenna. She smirks because she’s not supposed to be here. I splash color onto the canvas, eradicating her with my paint-loaded brush. She raises her hand and blows a kiss.

  “Stop it! Leave me alone!”

  I throw the painting to the floor. It hits the corner of my coffee table—dented, ruined. I screw my hands into a fist, holding back from sweeping all the tubes and brushes onto the floor.

  Nathan stands at the door, jacket on, bag slung over his shoulder.

  I unfurl my fingers from the fist and take long breaths, counting back from ten until—theoretically—when I reach one, I’m calm and poised. Nathan taught me that; he said my artistic temperament would get me into trouble.

  “It’s going well, then?”

  I scowl at the naked easel and mutter to myself.

  “Are you still working on exhibition pieces? Surely it’s too late now?”

  “I was trying to start something new, something different.”

  “Oh.” And that oh makes my heart sink because it means he sees Zenna as clearly as I do.

  The picture lies dying at my feet. The colors on my palette are raucous and grating. The music is suddenly clamorous and engulfing. I lean to switch it off as Major Tom floats away and there’s a vacuum—the silence whispers to me.

  “Are you up early, or very late?”

  I glance at the clock: half past eight. My stomach grumbles for breakfast. “Up early. Have you just got home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, it’s going well, you and—?”

  “Simone.” He shrugs and heads to the kitchen. “It’s only been a couple of dates. I don’t know yet. Coffee? Are you working today?”

  “Yes, please. No, day off.” I follow him, gouging my heel into Zenna’s cheek on my way past. I feel victorious for a second or so.

  “You look awful. You should probably get some rest before this evening.”

  “Well, thanks—just what I wanted to hear.”

  I open the cupboard and flick through the boxes of cereal. Hungry but not wanting food. I take a slice of ham from the fridge and tear it into bite-sized pieces.

  “It’ll be okay, you know.”

  “What will?” Zenna’s lurking, distracting me—creeping in the shadows. I glance behind me, almost expecting her to be waiting in the doorway.

  “The exhibition. Your painting. You’ll get tonight out of the way and move on to the next project.” He hands me a mug. “Have you got any idea what that will be?”

  “Abstract. Something very abstract.”

  With a half-wave of surrender, I shuffle to my room. I lack the energy to remain upright, to concentrate on conversation; my eyes refuse to focus. In bed, I hear the downstairs people moving around, and the Radio 4 News carrying up through the floor, and the indistinct hum of planes soaring into the sky, and the hurried footsteps of straggling school kids. The noise diminishes as I eventually drift to sleep.

  ***

  Painting Zenna over and over wasn’t intentional. In the beginning, I had no concept of what I was creating, I just allowed the paints to flow, the ideas to flower. An almost ethereal creature materialized before me. Like a sprite or fairy. So different from my usual style. I relished every session, couldn’t wait to get home from work and throw on my painting shirt. It was exhilarating.

  Usually a portrait is planned. The subject has commissioned you because they’re aware of your work and like it, or you’ve sought out fascinating faces and pleaded with them to sit for you. You’ll have taken photos to work from or have them posing in front of you. Not so with the woman who appeared beneath my brush—I had no clue who she was.

  Once I started, I couldn’t stop. Every new piece was a variation of Zenna, telling a story of sadness and longing, of melancholy and hopelessness. I was compelled, driven to recreate this immersive creature time and again. As one painting was propped against the wall to dry, another began.

  In one fugue state, I drew her in charcoal. Broken shards were strewn across the floor, as though I’d been frenzied and hurried; black dust coated the paper and stained my fingers. She stared deep into my eyes—too real, too beguiling. Burrowing into my head, skulking into my mind, breaching the barrier into my soul. I threw the sketchpad aside and buried it beneath my pillows. The room had grown icy; I was shivering. I needed a hot shower, but my hands reached for another page.

  “You should take a break,” Nathan said more than once. “Come and eat. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

  I stared at him, his face merging with Zenna’s until I was uncertain who was talking to me. I probably hadn’t slept. His words were slurred and deep like a record being played far too slow. Despite his insistence, I continued.

  One of the early pictures—Blue Woman—was bought almost immediately. Nathan had posted a photo of me at my easel on Instagram for one of his ‘check out my weird roommate’ updates, and my benefactor contacted him.

  In the picture, I’m intent on my work, oblivious to Nathan hovering around me. My hair is a curly mop streaked with French Ultramarine where I’d repeatedly tucked a brush behind my ear. I’m molding my face into different expressions in front of a mirror because I was attempting a self-portrait. How long ago it all seems.

  The shape of my face was wrong, and I couldn’t rectify it. The complexion was too pale, the countenance almost regal; the whole essence of myself was missing. I persisted, curious to see what—who—would emerge. I painted until my eyes were blurry and my arms too exhausted to hold the brush, and Nathan had to guide me to bed.

  Blue Woman was the result.

  She was familiar—a face from my dreams or my unremembered past. I have no sense of when she became Zenna, or of ever naming her. I just knew it was who she was.

  I return to the photo occasionally—copied and saved onto my laptop from Nathan’s Instagram. It’s the beginning, after all, the origin.
The offer of an exhibition in a tiny gallery in the city came from it—my first show—so I’m grateful. Zenna, it appears, is my lucky charm.

  ***

  This gallery, this exhibition. Tonight.

  With its sharp white walls and high ceiling, all I want to do is scream. I need to hear my voice echo, want it to spin around the room and carry me to Kansas. The more I think about shouting, the closer I am to doing so. I chew my lip to suppress random exclamations from bursting out. I grab Nathan’s arm, to keep myself grounded.

  I’ve already spent several days here, overseeing the placement of the paintings, checking the view from different angles, scrutinizing the way they were removed from their crates and examining them for any damage. I’ve walked around this room and trailed my hand across the canvases, tracing the crevices and ridges of the acrylic, absorbing the almost magical atmosphere of the empty room.

  They’re smaller and less striking than when I was working on them—adrift, flanked by the stark expanse of wall. I’ve been to galleries where I’ve gazed up and up, and the piece has enveloped me. My work almost shies away; the opposite of when they were on my easel at home.

  Slowly, I revolve on my stiletto heels. I hadn’t appreciated the discomfort of so many eyes following me around the room. No matter where I am or how quickly I move, she’s right there. Nathan is unaffected; the staff and caterers are busy with the final touches. I rub warmth into my arms and wish I’d worn a jacket.

  Nathan hands me a glass of wine from the long cloth-covered table near the entrance.

  “Are we allowed this now?”

  “You’re the artist; you’re allowed anything you want.”

  I sip quickly. We’re early. It was my suggestion—I thought I’d be less anxious without the panic of rushing through the city traffic. As I’m currently in a flouncy evening dress and heels I can barely walk in, I realize being late was only a small part of my angst.

  Nathan flicks my glass with his fingernail. It tings. “Slow down.”

  “I’m nervous, if you hadn’t noticed. This is a bad idea. Who am I, anyway? Just a nobody artist who should be sitting at home in her pajamas.” I bounce on my toes and finish my drink in three mouthfuls.

  Guests trickle in, to spend their Tuesday evening in a small art gallery on a back road just off Piccadilly. They take catalogues and glasses of wine from the table at the entrance and pretend to be interested. I’m nudged around, in the way, side-stepping everyone until I locate a quiet corner. Hiding is good—if only I could remain here all evening.

  Opposite me, Zenna in the Sea, the unanticipated centerpiece, is lit with soft spotlights so when people walk in, they’re drawn in her direction.

  At first, she wasn’t in the sea at all. Without it, she was a woman gazing with glassy eyes into the real world—our world—detached and apathetic, as though studying us. Her head and shoulders filled the picture, there was little room for any background, any context. Yet, something was missing.

  I left her on the easel and slept almost twenty-four hours, a black, dreamless sleep. When I woke, I was inspired. I grabbed all my blues and drew long, meandering strokes, a mélange of cobalt and cerulean and ultramarine. I swept watered-down acrylic across her pallid cheeks and chiseled eyes so she appeared submerged, and with a flick of my brush her hair floated under the water. Drowning but not; gazing into the room with fortitude and composure. Defying her own mortality.

  I tumble when I look at her. I dive into the ocean. And float. And sink. I’m caught in her lifeless eyes, lured toward her. One step, another. My feet sink into deep sand and languid waves crumple against the shore. The voices in the room are the tide, sweeping and swirling onto themselves, rhythmic and soporific. A salty breeze brushes my face and rests on my lips. The sky is clear, and miles of ocean stretch to the sharp indigo horizon.

  “Jo.”

  The floor and walls build themselves around me. The waves are voices once more. The air is stagnant with a mild odor of alcohol and sweat.

  “Jo, Lily’s here.” He places his hands on my shoulders and points me in her direction.

  TWO

  Besides Nathan, Lily is my only friend, and she continually surprises me with her patience and kindness. I watch as she and her husband dutifully accept the brochure and glass of wine they’re offered at the door and pause to scan the room for me. Nathan waves, which is what I should have done.

  “Congratulations,” Daniel says, bending to kiss my cheek.

  “This is incredible, I’m so proud of you.” Lily pulls me into a one-arm embrace and does a little glee-filled jig on the spot. “How’s it going?”

  “Good, I guess.” I crane my neck to peer between torsos, to check enthusiasm levels and eavesdrop on nearby conversations.

  Guests move slowly around, adhering to the accepted flow; several consult their catalogues and point out pieces to each other while also debating whether they’ll make their dinner reservation on time. One or two are alone, pausing for several minutes in front of a piece with their arms folded and heads titled in consideration—“serious buyers,” Lily stage-whispers with a wink, and I stare at them gracelessly.

  A few are already heading for the exit, and I want to rush over and usher them back inside. I bounce on my toes until Nathan holds me down with an effortless hand on my shoulder.

  “I can’t believe I’m this nervous. Is it normal?”

  “Yes, of course it is. You need a drink.” Lily scurries to the table by the door and returns with two glasses of white.

  Nathan’s pointing to On the Beach at Twilight. He’s telling Daniel about the tiny mark he made when the paint was drying. “I threw a tangerine at Jo, and she missed,” he’ll be saying, trying to contain his mirth. He didn’t laugh when I chucked it back and hit his ear, leaving sticky juice trailing down his neck.

  The hubbub ripples around us—low voices and indistinct conversations. Somewhere, the gallery owner is mingling and when she spots me, shielded by friends, she’ll expect me to do the same. I stare at the jumble of faces and my heart palpitates.

  Lily nudges my arm. “Smile. You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself.”

  “Have you seen anyone buying anything? I don’t think anyone’s—”

  “It’s the opening night. These people are here by invitation because they’ll get good press coverage, not because they’ll necessarily buy everything today. You know that.”

  She works in marketing, handling events like this for her own clients all the time. Sometimes she gives me tickets when the numbers are low, so I do know. These guests are prominent art patrons and critics and minor celebrities who’ve just returned from a house or talent show or jungle. They waft past the paintings, more interested in their own careers than mine.

  “I could be at home, reading a book …” I mutter.

  “Stop being a grouch, or I won’t let you have any more wine,” Lily hisses with a twinkle in her eye. She nods toward a bejeweled lady in a floral brocade jacket. “Her. Go and talk to her.” And she propels me across the floor.

  I stand awkwardly beside the stern, austere woman who reminds me of a headmistress or librarian. “Hello,” I say as Nathan and Lily gesture fervently. “I’m Jo Mckye. The artist,” I add as she folds her arms and surveys me with derision.

  “Ah, the artist. I see.”

  I wait for more, but she purses her lips.

  “This is Goddess in Pink,” I say, as if introducing two people at a dinner party.

  “Yes, I read the card.”

  In this picture, Zenna is walking across a field of bright yellow rapeseed, wearing a pale pink dress—Potter’s Pink, the tube said. She’s facing into the picture, slightly turned toward us, as though her attention is caught by something unexpected in the room. It almost makes me turn to look.

  “I prefer the one over there.” She points limply to In Grief in the corner but doesn’t seem altogether interested in any of them. “It has …” She flourishes her hand in lieu of any actual opinion.<
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  “Thank you.”

  “Is it a self-portrait?”

  “No.”

  “I see.” She pauses as though she’s going to say something more, and then edges away, leaving me alone.

  Zenna in the Sea, across the room, winks at me. An icy draught spirals around me, and I’m lifted from the floor, floating inches above the heads of everyone else. The noise of the room is muffled as though I’m under water alongside Zenna.

  “She’s a bit of an obsession, isn’t she?”

  The room jolts. I land with a thud, and everything is normal again. Lily and Daniel are talking to another couple, Nathan is loitering by the small table of hors d’oeuvres, and the general vibe is refined but charitable. The interloper grins expectantly, and I smile politely.

  “She’s the focus of the exhibition; I wouldn’t call her an obsession.” Except, I would. She is. I can’t extract myself from her grasp.

  “I’ve still got the postcard you drew for me. It’s the same woman, isn’t it?”

  “I—” I gawp; my heart quickens. Someone from before, but I have no idea who. I take in his graying temples, the worn collar of his shirt, the sheen of sweat across his forehead. One of my uni lecturers, perhaps, come to check up on his star student. Or an old boyfriend from whom I parted when his intentions veered dramatically from mine.

  He laughs self-consciously. “I haven’t changed that much, have I?”

  “No, of course not.” I swallow my puzzlement. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Um …”

  “Jo?” His easy smile gives way to confusion.

  “I’m sorry, I … I don’t remember …”

  He takes a step away from me.

  “No, don’t. It’s not you. My memory …” I never explain it properly. I avoid people so I don’t have to. “I’ve lost a few years here and there.” I grope for the right word. “Amnesia.”

  Such a small word; it never feels enough. My memories from the last three years are sharp and clear; beyond that, I have nothing but vague emotions and the odd incident which spikes through.