I recently threw myself on the mercy of Substack Notes, asking for ideas for paintings that might stir up some art-inspired fiction. There were some fantastic suggestions; from Vermeer to Van Gogh, Rockwell to Ralph Steadman … I was also introduced to Jacques-Emile Blanche and Ilya Repin.
But for the latest art-inspired ‘A Picture Paints a Thousand Words’ I have gone with one of the choices offered by
So, a handful of possibilities, all adding up to one thousand words inspired by ‘Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe’ by Édouard Manet.
“Good afternoon, Officer. Yes, it does look a little unusual … it’s a new revision technique being trialled in the finest universities. If students focus on their theorem in the face of sharp questioning and flagrant nudity, they’re prepared for anything the examination board can offer. It started in Heidelberg, you see. A robe, Officer? Surely that would render the experiment void. A bit chilly? Well, dear, are you … oh, I see what you mean, Officer. Perhaps a light covering. Onwards, Herr Rubenstein, do tell us more about the theory of relativity. We’re utterly entranced, aren’t we, my love?”
(100 words)
“I was thinking, perhaps, that I should paint her alone first. Yes, that would be lovely. A Greek goddess.”
“And my wife’s nakedness, that is entirely essential?”.
“Yes, Sir. I hardly see it myself, of course, just pigments and tones to me. But nakedness, for the Greek setting. Quite essential.”
“But your other model, in the pond, she is partly clothed.”
“Right now, Carruthers, she is. She will accompany your wife to my studio for this afternoon’s sitting and I can assure you she will soon be naked. Vital, you see, for the light, contrasts of tone, the way different shapes wrap around one another.”
“Essential, then?”.
“My dear Sir, your wife is in very safe hands. I imagine there will need to be several sittings. I am free every afternoon this week. Though perhaps we will rest on Thursday. What say you, Mrs Carruthers?”.
“Every afternoon, you say? Delicious”.
(150 words)
She looked away deliberately. Anything to avoid her husband’s intense, accusatory stare. Her eyes scanned the horizon for a distraction, even as her toes wiggled with the pleasure of having her lover so close at hand. The balmy Summer warmth conjured daydreams that stirred her. The flimsy wrap she had draped artfully around her post-swim nudity had long since slithered off her smooth skin, pooling around her, framing her nakedness. She could feel her husband’s disapproving gaze, his stuffy upbringing in marked contrast to her own bohemian tendencies. The girl’s splashing caught her attention but she dared not look. They swam together most mornings, giggling as they helped one another undress. Caught up in the playfulness of Summer, they knew she would return to the Balearics when the first frosts nipped at their toes. Without looking, she knew, and relished, every inch of her tanned body. She was not jealous of the man opposite her, the man who watched them during lazy afternoons in the apartment looking out on the lake she now bathed in. She was not jealous of the love he had for her. The young woman’s heart was big enough for all the love they both had to offer her. If only her husband had an ounce of the generosity these two young people had brought into her previously cloistered, buttoned-up existence. She slid her foot forward, teasingly, lightly caressing the Italian banker. Her husband hissed in her ear. Words of disapproval, mutterings about reputation. But it was his gambling debts that compromised his reputation, that had brought them to this place. It was a debt to the man opposite that was to be discussed, a line of credit that needed to be extended to cover another night of losses. It was another night she had spent wrapped around the beautiful young woman, basking in the glow that only she could summon, watched by the man with the money and a voyeuristic nature. Her husband could complain all he wanted, she smiled to herself, but he had brought it upon himself. She wriggled her toes, relishing the Italian’s response. Summer heat contrasted with her husband’s iciness. “I think I shall swim, dear, and leave you gentlemen to make whatever arrangements are required”.
(375 words)
The idea had come to him at the moment she had adopted her favoured coquettish pose. He had smiled. The idea coalesced as she leaned over affording him a view of her breasts and the latest account from the overpriced dressmaker she patronised. Theirs was a marriage of some convenience to him. It was her inheritance, after all, that paid for his regular visits to the card salon and her exorbitant couture bills. Unbeknownst to her, the swell of her modest breasts offered less enticement to him than those of the voluptuous kitchen maid who served him warmed cocoa as late-night candles flickered in his bedchamber.
***
When he had explained to the dressmaker what he required, her eyes widened. Three gold sovereigns sealed the transaction.
***
Two nights ago she had regaled him with details. The dressmaker had earned her coins. “Oh, but darling, I shall be the talk of the town. It is everything I ever wanted. ‘Diaphanous’ she told me, and ‘gossamer thin’. How delightful. Can you even imagine?”.
He had asked when the outfit would be ready and used the pet name that always flattered her. “Empress, we should picnic by the river, show off your finery. I will arrange it. I shall invite Monsieur Bonnet, you always seem to enjoy his company”.
If there was a hint of a blush at the mention of Bonnet’s name, he discreetly ignored it. The arrangement pleased him.
***
He collected her directly from Madame Facade’s atelier, his flattering words adding to those of the proprietress.
“Simply divine”.
“Gossamer thin, indeed. The finest weave, so elegantly folded.”
“You will be the talk of the town, my dear”.
“You should wear it now, Madame, I shall pack your clothes and send them on. One more twirl, let me see how the seam looks at the rear. Oh, parfait”, she effused, clapping excitedly.
Heads turned as they promenaded.
“Good afternoon, Bonnet. Would you look at my wife’s new outfit, a suit fit for a birthday, do you not think?”.
He could have sworn the man’s Adam’s apple bobbed three times as he swallowed hard. Perhaps he was considering how to say that his lover’s new outfit, the Empress’s new clothes, were in all truth beyond diaphanous.
(375 words)
Absolutely wonderful, Barrie - inventiveness at its best - and I think Manet would approve even if the Salon did not.
I can't pick a favourite. I relished every one. And I'm really enjoying the way your stories make me look more closely at the work of art, too, often a picture I 'think' I know.