scheme, all
seemed to point to something produced after the splurge
and rant of the abstract expressionists and their militarist
theories, more in line with the figurative impulses of pop art
and even beyond that.
The phone pulled her out of the tight squeeze of the
painting. She picked it up.
Wouter, hi,’ she said, still somewhere far away, slowly,
grudgingly, being pulled back to the world.
‘Hi,’ he said, sounding unusually brusque and downbeat.
‘I need to talk to you.’
She looked up at the wall, articles and notes pinned to a
small cork board. ‘Okay, talk,’ she said.
‘Not here, not over the phone.’
And she knew then what he was going to say. Almost like
all the other times, as if every man learned from the exact
same book. ‘Tell me now,’ she said, trying to keep her voice
steady, gripping the receiver to stop the shaking of her hand.
She could hear him cough, get himself ready. ‘It’s just not
working, Suze. At least on my end.’ She said nothing, forcing
him to continue. ‘I just don’t feel… you know we see each
other and everything and it’s nice but it doesn’t go any further
… I want it to go further, or at least try.’
She sighed, reached for her cigarettes then remembered
she couldn’t smoke in here. ‘I told you at the start, Wouter.
I thought we made this very clear.’ She wanted to sound
strong, confident. She felt so fucking weak. ‘I couldn’t spend
my life with you, no offence, and to pretend, to set things up
as if, it just seems an enormous waste …’
‘You’re too scared to try things,’ he countered, his voice
rising now, feeling an edge of righteousness. ‘You won’t give
it a chance. You want something perfect and nothing is, so
you flit from one thing to another. I can’t do it any more,
Suze, I can’t be just one of the many things you bounce off.
If you change your mind, call me.’
He put the phone down and she stared at the wall. She
held the receiver, the tone soothing and predictable, constant
and true. She took a deep breath, felt the hot swell in her
eyes, the blurring of vision, and the more she fought it, the
more it pushed forward until she was helpless and her
make-up had run down her face and the phone lay uncradled
on the desk, humming its one song.
She looked back down at the painting. Wanting to fall into
it, sink so deep she would never have to come back up. She
wiped her eyes and tried to carry on. There was always
Charlotte.
She loved the humour and the irony in her work, the
unexpected smiles and sudden, stark epiphanies produced in
those small gouaches. The spaces between the words people
said, between their bodies and thoughts. So different from
the world as it was. She’d studied art history for a long time
but had never found any other artist so commensurate with
her own feelings, with her own soul. She kept Charlotte to
herself, an endless repository of emotion that she could dip
into at will. She had the 1981 edition of her works that
included 769 gouaches from Life? Or Theatre? She read the
book like a bible, turning to it for comfort or hope or just to
see someone like herself. She knew that she was projecting
a great deal on to the artist and her work. She knew she
could never be objective. It was too close, too strange.
When the chance to do a doctorate had come along, she’d
grabbed it, knowing full well what the subject would be.
Knowing she would have to transfer to the University of Amsterdam and do her research there. The complete set of gouaches that made up Life? Or Theatre? was housed in
the city’s Jewish Historical Museum. Or nearly complete.
Rumours had spread of a further missing section painted
during Charlotte’s brief internment at the Gurs transit camp.
She needed to be close to them. Needed to feel that they
were real, not just some photos in a book, but real, tangible
objects which had a definite size and weight. She liked to
press
seemed to point to something produced after the splurge
and rant of the abstract expressionists and their militarist
theories, more in line with the figurative impulses of pop art
and even beyond that.
The phone pulled her out of the tight squeeze of the
painting. She picked it up.
Wouter, hi,’ she said, still somewhere far away, slowly,
grudgingly, being pulled back to the world.
‘Hi,’ he said, sounding unusually brusque and downbeat.
‘I need to talk to you.’
She looked up at the wall, articles and notes pinned to a
small cork board. ‘Okay, talk,’ she said.
‘Not here, not over the phone.’
And she knew then what he was going to say. Almost like
all the other times, as if every man learned from the exact
same book. ‘Tell me now,’ she said, trying to keep her voice
steady, gripping the receiver to stop the shaking of her hand.
She could hear him cough, get himself ready. ‘It’s just not
working, Suze. At least on my end.’ She said nothing, forcing
him to continue. ‘I just don’t feel… you know we see each
other and everything and it’s nice but it doesn’t go any further
… I want it to go further, or at least try.’
She sighed, reached for her cigarettes then remembered
she couldn’t smoke in here. ‘I told you at the start, Wouter.
I thought we made this very clear.’ She wanted to sound
strong, confident. She felt so fucking weak. ‘I couldn’t spend
my life with you, no offence, and to pretend, to set things up
as if, it just seems an enormous waste …’
‘You’re too scared to try things,’ he countered, his voice
rising now, feeling an edge of righteousness. ‘You won’t give
it a chance. You want something perfect and nothing is, so
you flit from one thing to another. I can’t do it any more,
Suze, I can’t be just one of the many things you bounce off.
If you change your mind, call me.’
He put the phone down and she stared at the wall. She
held the receiver, the tone soothing and predictable, constant
and true. She took a deep breath, felt the hot swell in her
eyes, the blurring of vision, and the more she fought it, the
more it pushed forward until she was helpless and her
make-up had run down her face and the phone lay uncradled
on the desk, humming its one song.
She looked back down at the painting. Wanting to fall into
it, sink so deep she would never have to come back up. She
wiped her eyes and tried to carry on. There was always
Charlotte.
She loved the humour and the irony in her work, the
unexpected smiles and sudden, stark epiphanies produced in
those small gouaches. The spaces between the words people
said, between their bodies and thoughts. So different from
the world as it was. She’d studied art history for a long time
but had never found any other artist so commensurate with
her own feelings, with her own soul. She kept Charlotte to
herself, an endless repository of emotion that she could dip
into at will. She had the 1981 edition of her works that
included 769 gouaches from Life? Or Theatre? She read the
book like a bible, turning to it for comfort or hope or just to
see someone like herself. She knew that she was projecting
a great deal on to the artist and her work. She knew she
could never be objective. It was too close, too strange.
When the chance to do a doctorate had come along, she’d
grabbed it, knowing full well what the subject would be.
Knowing she would have to transfer to the University of Amsterdam and do her research there. The complete set of gouaches that made up Life? Or Theatre? was housed in
the city’s Jewish Historical Museum. Or nearly complete.
Rumours had spread of a further missing section painted
during Charlotte’s brief internment at the Gurs transit camp.
She needed to be close to them. Needed to feel that they
were real, not just some photos in a book, but real, tangible
objects which had a definite size and weight. She liked to
press
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