The Suspension of Work

BACKGROUND VOICES

The Suspension of Work
CRITIC: This picture seems to be without a story; more a
study in greens and abstraction merged with figurative
observation. The subject is depicted in an inverse
crucifixion, yet the narrative is ambiguous set among…..
MRS EVERYMAN: Yes, yes, we’ve heard all that before. And
anyway, if there isn’t a story, let’s make one. Now, this lady’s
had enough. She’s exhausted and has been working her legs
off……….
CRITIC: Hey, I don’t really think this is appropriate.
PAINTER: No, no, on the contrary. I like it! Let’s go on with the
story. Why is she so tired?
MRS EVERYMAN: Well, as I was saying, she’s exhausted
through working hard on her latest detective novel and the
summer has passed her by. Now she’s hitched up her skirt,
much to the interest of the neighbours, who think she’s gone
beyond what’s modest for a Corsican village. Your turn!
PAINTER: She’s lying by the still pool and her ultramarine skirt
has fallen into a hundred fold sand rills, as if reflecting the
Mediterranean’s gentle inflow to the bay beyond the garden.
She looks down at them and is reminded of the non-stop
movement of ideas through her mind as she grapples with
plot lines, character combinations and permutations for
chapter arrangements in her novel. And her upper body and
lower body are swapped around, her exposed flesh is inviting
whereas her face shuns any human contact.
CRITIC: She feels the weight of gravity on the inside of her
body, quite at odds with the lightness of summer she can see
around her. Just as she appears to be youthful and carefree in
her posture, beneath it is a recognition that the zenith of her
life is behind her. At sunset the last rays will catch her heels in
a valedictory gesture, a kiss marking the end of another
creative struggle and the birth of a new text.
MRS EVERYMAN: Now that the novel’s finished she can think
back on how the characters came to be. Was Bruno too
obviously based on the farmer she had seduced in the fields
last July? And the opera singer, Pelotti, wasn’t he the spitting
image of her first husband? How uncomfortably close does
our imagination run to the progress of our life.