I must finish the idea previously committed; one that I am no longer sure of; certain only of its physical presence in the room; its size and heft. Painting is not about impersonation, but here I have made it so. Tomorrow, I may feel differently, but today, what stands before me is fiction; the story of someone else. The man on the canvas is Ben; his arrogance and vulnerability in combat as posture and beauty compete for mastery. But the jumper he wears pulls my eye; that he is soaked through, his hair slicked. The softness of his face in contrast to the tension in his hands, gripping hard on the fishing nets at his feet. The definition of nerves, flesh and bone there; the fast coloring of his skin as he pulls.
There were days when I despised Vishni; each turn of her head and note in her voice aggravated me to near madness; angry with myself that I was so dependent on her frame for the paintings. Similarly, you; your compliance and surliness, each as reliable as the other; your openness, something that I was greedy for; needing to be repeatedly recorded. If you were here, this is how I would have painted you; not for any sentimentality over the jumper, but because mistakes can be corrected. The passing of time changes your point of view. Some things take longer to understand. Intelligence comes only from absence and atonement. How death is processed differently. You were against being painted; did not wish for death to sit so heavily in the room as it had done before. I disagreed. All I know. The body recognizes that this is a race against itself; the hand competing with the lungs; my breath fighting the speed of my thoughts. Ability over decay. Prosperity over rot.
Previously we battled nature. Only two years ago we went night swimming in the creek; our bulk pushing against mild currents and the detritus sent downstream following midsummer storms. We proved that nature could be overcome, fighting wild with wild, life with life, before we became frightened and allowed our bodies to turn in on themselves. If this is the last work, it must say something of this nature. I must be aware that it is so. It is a luxury to be in control of your end note; to know that the final coda is as you desire it. That I can finish the painting alone, happy in the silence of the room, reassured of Vishni’s presence nearby, and of yours, which never left. This is where we are. This is where I want to be found.
– THAT’S ENOUGH!
– I can’t watch you like this. I have to do something.
– Stop pushing me toward the couch. I can’t sit down. I want to lie here.
– Whatever feels best. If that’s on the floor, so be it. At least let me take the rod from your hand.
– No. I need it. I can’t explain.
– You don’t have to.
– I’ll give it back tomorrow. For now, I … I need something.
– Understood. Lie down now and rest. Try and close your eyes.
– I can feel you looking at me.
– That’s not what I’m trying to do. I’ll just be here in my chair, reading quietly.
You lie on your stomach, the sodden fishing jumper still clinging to your chest. Wendell’s fishing rod stays in your arms, your hands cradling your head; fingers pushing hard against the floorboards, as if searching for a way to bury yourself. To let the darkness cover you as it has done Wendell.
I hurt so much for you that I want to abandon painting, knowing the pain in your face makes a mockery of everything we have done before. It’s a false truth that can no longer be seen: a stack of canvases that should be left to dry in the wind and flake away, layer by layer; a crumbling epoch that deserves to be forgotten. I am redundant but still capable, needing to record the face you have now, so that it can be the point from which you move past; for the pain you feel now to fade into memory. This is the only way that I can understand things, using order and method to make sense of chaos; knowing that I will remove the rod from your slackened hand as you sleep; the rug gently pulled away from your legs, exposing your bare ankles and the damp roll of your jeans. That your shoes will be kicked closer to the rug you lie on; a line that runs diagonally from your face to mine. That the mud from the riverbed drying in clumps around your heels will be as important as the streaks of dirt across your face.
How I will wait for as long as it takes for sleep to do its work. Sitting here, quietly. Waiting for the moment when you open your eyes, somewhere between unconsciousness and a remembrance of what has happened. The story your face will tell.
– Don’t leave.
– You’re fine here. You’re safe. I’m still here, watching you. Relax your arms and try to sleep. Close your eyes. Let the sound of my voice carry you away.
Also by Niven Govinden:
We Are the New Romantics
Graffiti My Soul
Black Bread White Beer
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All the Days and Nights Page 15