Increasingly, I rely on George Bothamley for my art education. His ‘Art Every Day’ is an exploration of paintings and the artists behind some of the best-known works (though lesser-known painters often pique my curiosity).
Most recently, I was taken by the story of John William Godward, an artist seemingly ‘out of time’, a man influenced by the neo-classicist style at a time when it was falling out of favour for what would be known as modern art.
George shared a number of Godward’s works in this fascinating post:
This painting ‘Waiting for an Answer’ reputedly includes a self-portrait of John William Godward. The scene looked promising for a dialogue-based tale of young lovers. As I was musing about it, I was having a random thought about the potential comic value of a deaf eavesdropper, hearing an approximation of what is actually being talked about.
Perhaps there is a story in there somewhere … you can be the judge.
I crouch behind the wall, hidden from view save for the occasional glance downwards from my faithful friend and confidante Erroneus (stop looking down, I hiss).
As usual, I am desperate to get him to hear me without having to raise my stage whisper to a volume that might be heard by my ‘leading lady’ Shylia. He is my oldest friend. We were together on the fateful day the full load of amphora crashed to the ground, deafening Erroneus in his left ear and creating an echo in his right. I should tell you that I escaped with no more than a thorough dousing in Phoenician wine, not a drop of which has touched my lips since in spite of my bacchanalian tendencies.
Now, talking of lips, as we were, the gorgeous Shylia has a goddess’s lips, more alluring than a Siren’s song, temptation beyond measure. Just to be clear, I wish to kiss those soft lips but … but … Shylia’s father Furius has warned her about ‘layabouts like him, drinking and carousing as if tutored by Bacchus himself’. Fair point, I agree, but no need to go on about it, and, who knows, it might just bring Shylia out of herself if she indulges in a little frenzied drunken whirling only to collapse in my arms.
Right, back to the moment in question.
Erroneus is acting casual (well, looking dumb) as he leans on the wall gazing upon the apple of my eye (apple in the sense of strong Persian cider, you understand). I am crouched, which is tough on thighs already exhausted by last evening’s drunken frenzied whirling (or was it ‘frenzied, drunken whirling’? - it is hard to remember after five skins of Persian cider).
Today, he is my voice piece, the key to unlocking her love, my way of getting close to her without her father becoming furious.
Just repeat what I say, Erroneus, okay?
[Me] How are you on this beautiful day?
[Erroneus] How would you like some bounciful play?
[what, thinks I]
[she smiles quizzically]
[Me] Your eyes are like pale moons, dearest girl.
[E] “Your thighs are like balloons I’d like to twirl”
[stop that, Erroneus]
[she giggles]
[Me] Do you miss me when I am not there?
[E] Will you kiss me like you don’t care?
You’re so funny (she laughs, smiling at Erroneus, as she says it)
[Me] I love the fountains in your garden and the ripples they cause.
[E] I love your mountains and the nipples, of course.
[she blushes, looking at Erroneus anew through fluttering eyelashes. She adopts a slightly enigmatic air. Unexpectedly, she adjusts her robes a little, affording our go-between with a fleeting glimpse of her ‘go-between’)
Perhaps, says she, we should reward your boldness. Come closer, lie with me for a while.
[Wait, what, says I … Erroneus, explain yourself … Erroneus? … you have not been accurate … ERRONEUS!!]
And a bonus painting, because you’re worth it:
Oh, I just love this one! I’m having such a good chuckle over it and the cats are wondering what is wrong with me 😆