Fractured Ekphrastic: The Conversation

Alice R. Henderson is believed to have painted the piece attributed to Matisse titled The Conversation.  The image is that of a dark-haired woman in a black robe sitting in a chair.  Standing opposite her is a red-headed man.  He is wearing pajamas.  The expressions on their faces are familiar but hard to put to words, although it is clear the woman is not happy.

Persephone wants to leave early, and Hades won’t let her. For six months of every year, for centuries now, she has gone to the underworld and hidden herself away.  The earth transitions to winter during her confinement, and the people long for a return to warmth and growth. But Persephone is forced to stay in her chambers and slumber. She is weary of sleep.  Weary of stillness.  Weary of the silence.  

The look Alice R. Henderson painted on their faces is one of yearning and discontent.  The people who line up to view this painting, all of them, instantly vibrate.  They know that look.  They know the feeling is uncomfortable, but they don’t have the words.  They can’t have The Conversation.

They want to.  Oh, how they want to.   Everyone views the painting and regards it as a Zen koan.  They don’t know what that look is, but when they leave, they are transformed.  They make changes.  They leave jobs, they leave marriages, they leave countries.  When asked to explain, they say nothing, or they say, “I don’t have the words” or they say “Go see the painting.” 

They know the feeling is uncomfortable, but they don’t have the words. They know the feeling provokes change.  They have had the conversation and expressed their discontent and expressed what it is they yearned to experience. The conversation between their heart and their brain was silent, but the silence reverberated. It is revealed in the lives they go on to live.

Persephone wants to wake.  She wants to return to warmth and growth.

Note: Alice R. Henderson was Matisse’s scullery maid. 
He noticed her artistic promise when he saw her drawing rather than eating during her meal break.
It has been alleged that Matisse’s departure from the open, spontaneous brushwork of his Fauve period in favor of a flatter, more decorative style coincides with Henderson’s employment at the Matisse residence.
No one is sure how much of what is attributed to Matisse is actually Henderson’s work.

*****

[An aside: As are many of my stories, essays, and poems, this one began as my response to a writing prompt.

For this one, we were given an image of an older woman holding a candle (I think-we were only given a moment or so to view the painting.]

The image was accompanied by this text: What story did she recreate as art?

There is no Alice R. Henderson. Matisse did indeed paint The Conversation, and it is a self-portrait of the artist and his wife. Matisse is an interesting guy, but so too was his wife. It has been postulated that many of Matisse’s shenanigans were orchestrated to draw attention away from his wife while she was working with the French Underground during the Nazi occupation of France.

This enigmatic piece has haunted me for years.]

The Embers

Photo by Michał Mancewicz on Unsplash

It took all the coordination she could summon, but Brenda crawled out of the sleeping bag, unzipped the tent, and was able to stand up without falling down. She had to pee.. 

I hate camping, I hate camping, I hate camping – the refrain was on repeat in her head as she made her way to where she thought the latrine area was.  Brenda unzipped her jeans and squatted, careful to spread her legs wide so as not to get urine on them. 

I hate camping. I hate camping. I hate camping.

As she was making her way back to the tent, she noticed that Mike was still sitting by the fire. It was dark, but still, the situation didn’t look or feel right.  Brenda headed over to check it out.

Mike was sprawled in his Big Man’s camping chair.  His feet were propped on the stones of the fire ring. The toe of his left tennis shoe was smoldering.

She tried to rouse him, but he was out good.

“Mike, dammit, wake up.  Your shoe is on fire.  Mike!”

Nothing.

He didn’t even twitch. 

Brenda looked around and spotted the plastic tub of dishwater.  It hadn’t been emptied after the dishes were washed. She grabbed it and poured the cold water with bits of floating food and grease over Mike’s shoe.

The fire was out, but so was Mike.  Still, he hadn’t moved a muscle.  She felt his forehead.  He was clammy and cool.  She couldn’t gauge his color in this light, but something was wrong.  Really wrong. She ran to the tent to get her cell phone.  Signals were bad up here, but she’d found one spot in the middle of the road where she could pull in two bars. 

She woke Craig and told him what was going on.  Mike was his best friend and had been for 30 years.  Craig raced out of the tent without even pulling on his jeans.

Brenda managed to get a signal long enough to call 911 and for them to lock onto her GPS location.  Help was on the way, but she knew it would take a while. They were deep into the Monongahela. She hoped they sent someone familiar with this camping area. Otherwise, it could be hours before they would be found.  She didn’t think Mike had hours. 

Craig dragged Mike, all 275 pounds of him, out of the chair and laid him on the ground.  He barked at Brenda to get something to use as a pillow.  He was afraid Mike would puke and choke on his own vomit.

By the time the EMTs got there, Mike’s breathing was shallow, and he was shivering — still unconscious.

The taller EMT, the one who had been driving, asked about possible drug use. Craig looked at Brenda, and she at him. Finally, Craig said, “It’s possible.  He’s been in recovery six months.  That’s what we’re here celebrating.”

“What substance?”

“Anything he could get his hands on.”

“Meth?”

“Sometimes.”

“Fentanyl?”

“I never heard him mention that one.”

The other EMT administered Narcan, and Mike bolted up, screaming for them to leave him alone. 

Tears rolled down Craig’s cheeks.

Brenda was just disgusted.

Craig had hoped.  Brenda had written Mike off years ago after he’d stolen her jewelry to pawn. Her mother’s wedding rings were never recovered.

The EMTs were patient with Mike and oriented him to time and place.  Brenda was surprised he agreed to go to the hospital. 

After the ambulance left and Craig put his jeans on, Brenda sat in Mike’s camp chair. Her sympathy for Craig was bottomless, but so was her impatience. Mike had burned every bridge but Craig.

Craig was jingling keys and hollered at Brenda that he was ready to go.

Brenda sat very still and quietly said, “I’m not going.”

“What?”

“I said I’m not going. I’m done. Just done.  I’m done with Mike, and I’m done with camping.  I’m not going to sit in the ER for hours waiting for them to discharge Mike.  You know they can’t commit him, and he won’t self-admit. He needs real rehab.  He sees you as his safety net.  Stop being a sucker, Craig. It’s time for tough love.  Do not go sit there.  Don’t bring him back here. Let him figure it all out. I want us to pack up and go home.  I hate camping.”

The sun was coming up now…Brenda could see the eastern sky begin to turn pink and golden light rim the tops of the mountains.  Birdsong was filling the forest.   

She and Craig silently broke camp. Silently packed the car. Craig’s last act was to put out the fire while Brenda waited in the car. He shoveled dirt on the still glowing embers, suffocating the last bits of the fire.

Still silent, as if speech would somehow break the spell, they pulled out of the forest.

Brenda didn’t know where they were headed.

You can see me?

Photo by Max on Unsplash

“You can see me?” 

I used to say that to strangers who insisted on talking to me when I just wanted to be alone.  Of course, they didn’t think I was really a ghost they just thought I was crazy. 

If they only knew.

I’ve been living in this town for just shy of 20 years. I have friends who are asking more and more about family and my origins-compulsing about how alone I am in the world. Wanting to be my family. 

It’s time to move on.  I don’t age and people start asking questions. There was that unfortunate situation in 1918 that I’d rather not repeat. Usually, I move on after about 15 years, but it’s getting harder to pull this off. 

In 1918 I didn’t need a photo ID or a social security card.  They’ve made identity theft harder than ever, but I manage.  I am resourceful.

I’m partial to college towns. There are lots of young women and they get careless with their backpacks especially when they think they’re sitting next to another young woman. 

“Hey!  Can you watch my stuff? I need a refill.”

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Platitudes

Young Lady Reading a Red Book
by Amalia Suruceanu

Where did you find this card?  It is scrumptious — hand-made paper and a soft watercolor image that I think might have been an original.  You didn’t make this, did you?  Was this all your handiwork?

If so, I’ve never had a handmade card deliver an I’m breaking up with you message before. 

Your card arrived in the mail today.  I noticed the pink envelope first, and then my heart beat faster when I saw it was your handwriting. 

You’ve always been an original. 

My heart stopped for a minute after I read the first line. Although those opening words were innocuous, I knew what was coming.  I knew as soon as I saw your writing on the envelope. 

I knew. 

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