The Body in the Library

People come from miles around to see The Body in the library: the new sculpture by pre-eminent post-modern artist Jacques du Pre de Sachoix. Some come to praise, some to scorn, some curious, would-be shoppers divert from the High Street simply to see what all the fuss is about. All leave unsatisfied, all unchanged.

The Body is exhibited in an inauspicious enough location, set back as it is in an alcove opposite the front entrance, by the large Chinese lions guarding the steps between ground floor and first. However, the reaction the sculpture creates is far from inauspicious: an eager crowd forms by the main doors two hours before they are due to open. Upon opening, several ordinary, regular library-goers audibly ‘tut’ when they are prevented from entering by people queuing into the street, waiting expectantly in the intermittent, occasionally heavy rain, as though at a popular butcher’s. Some swoon, some turn away in disgust, some laugh aloud at the perfectly cubic structure propped at its precipitous angle, one corner indented into a marble plinth.

Jacques du Pre de Sachoix had been expected to attend the grand unveiling personally, but does not, occupied as he is with new works, new conquests, his personal assistant. It is left to the removals men to assemble The Body, as they have been instructed to: perched on one tip so that the other seven are suspended in mid air, its top tip pointing at the decorated ceiling. The sylphs, nymphs and seraphs in the decorated ceiling above look down on The Body, as a bird looks down on a car it is preparing to defecate on: waiting, surveying, condemning.

Art critics abound at the library following The Body’s fanfare arrival. Jacques du Pre de Sachoix’s decision not to travel to England, preferring instead to wallow in the Paris art scene, proves to be well-made, for The Body does not receive the rapturous reception his pieces have been accustomed to. Instead, the critics descend upon the library like a swarm of sarcasm and tweed, greased hair and red-wine stained teeth. Some deride The Body’s conformity of design; a cube, after all, is as basic a three-dimensional design as it gets. Some belittle The Body’s ignorance of convention: for how can a sculpture entitled ‘The Body’, not derived from mythology or theology, not depicting a naked Aphrodite, Athena, but instead, a rudimentary, if admittedly necessary, geometric form - a mere building block, one could suggest - have anything to say?

One lone critic, who has somehow become disengaged from the swarm, eyes The Body suspiciously, wondering whether it is true art or simply hokum. He is nervous – his previous attempts at criticism have been fairly well-received and his anxiety is founded by the fear his recent reputation has been formed by luck alone. The critic fears his editor, his own critics, after all.

When the people have left, Malcolm, the forty-four year old custodian of the library, locks the outer and inner doors one by one and walks to The Body. Malcolm is not expected at the home he shares with his elderly mother for at least another hour and, rather than patronising the nearby ice-cream parlour for his sprinkled double scoop as per his usual routine, he decides to see what has held people so diametrically opposed. He leans into The Body, his ear pushing against its cheek, listening, his arms stretched over its shoulders in an awkward embrace, like a fly embracing a boulder. The Body tries to return the embrace, but is unable to. If it could, The Body would weep right now.

The Body is a girl. It takes Malcolm a week of staring, surveying, wondering, at her to realise this. When it does dawn on him, he is amazed he could have been so blind to her voluptuous figure before: it is spellbinding. He wonders how they all, these experts, can miss the point so spectacularly, can miss the beauty of The Body by such a margin when they are so learned and yet he, in contrast, as a mere custodian, can see the life, emotion and nuanced passion within her. There is no accompanying, explanatory note, unlike many other works of art in the library: The Body is to be taken at face value alone – that is its power, its weakness. It is a further two days before he musters up the courage to talk to her. This is not unusual for Malcolm: he has had similar problems with girls before.

The Body watches Malcolm making his timid, shuffling way around the library, sometimes with a broom, sometimes a mop. She falls in love with him. She loves him for: his soft, lightly accented voice; the pale brown corduroy trousers he invariably wears – slightly scruffy, somehow dignified; the vulnerability symbolised by his myopic need for thick black-rimmed spectacles; the way he will carry heavy books for old ladies; his unmistakable ardour for her; his stare; his place on the periphery - the fact that he is on the outside, like her, discarded, misunderstood.

Darkness and light. From certain angles, Malcolm notices, when The Body is cast in half-silhouette, dark tendrils of shadow hide her face, her arms, legs and stomach – hinting at some inner wantonness. From other angles, along her edges, her spine, her neck, the lights above and behind her glisten like Baily’s beads from a solar eclipse; like pearls spread across her back, glinting, wet, waiting for him to take them in his mouth and swallow them so that he can carry her with him – so that she can run through his arteries, veins, like poison, like penicillin.

Malcolm’s mother sees changes in her previously extraordinarily quiet son. He leaves his clothes out to be washed by her more regularly. He combs his hair more carefully, ensuring each slick black strand is perfectly parted from left to right. He washes himself every night, purchases creams that promise to eliminate spots, blackheads, blemishes, from his skin. He comes home later than usual, without having had any ice cream, even. There is a woman involved, she can tell. She finds stains in his underwear, stains which have not been evident since he was a teenager in love. Malcolm’s mother is uncertain how to react, whether she should have it out with him, or this woman – the lively one from the library, she assumes, or the obvious harlot from the ice cream parlour who winks at Malcolm in an overtly flirtatious manner when asking if she can sprinkle nuts over his double scoop. His mother waits for other, more obvious signs – a name, anything – but Malcolm, despite his evident changes in routine, his new-found perkiness, gives nothing away. She even finds some half-finished, poorly written poetry in his trouser pocket.

Malcolm sits and reads his verse in the dim amber hue cast by the remaining lights behind the entrance hall. He is now almost giddy to go to work, almost depressed when he must leave – if it were not for the promise of his dreams later, he would find it nearly impossible to walk away from her. The Body listens intently to his words, absorbing each and every syllable of his desire like rain water into denim, growing, expanding, clinging to her.

And then: Malcolm reads the notice in the local paper. The Body is to be taken away. So secure was he in his daydream, so fixated in his routine, that the idea it would ever end had never entered into the realms of possibility. Now it is a given fact, it scares him. The crowds have died away following the initial furore. Jacques du Pre de Sachoix has decided his work should be removed from the public eye. Now there is no crowd, no critics, no one left to scorn or swoon, The Body has lost any resonance it once commanded and so, at 6am on Friday, a mere two months after its arrival, The Body is to be dismantled. Jacques du Pre de Sachoix has a new exhibit, entitled, simply ‘Block’ which has taken Paris by storm, and initial criticism is so favourable it will be arriving at the library in a mere six weeks. If it were not for Malcolm’s close attention, his bright yellow cloth, The Body would be literally gathering dust.

The lone critic wanders into the library to return ‘Soul and Form’ by Gyorgy Lukacs: it has served him well. His career has been steady for weeks now; his views accepted as scathing, yet honest, praising, without being overly sentimental. As he leaves through the main door he glimpses The Body out of the corner of his eye. He has mentally blocked out the Sachoix sculpture after he went against the grain of deprecation, of artistic decapitation and wrote: “The Body is a majestic and bold statement about the simplistic nature of form and beauty.” His editor, having been pre-warned about the blanket slamming of the work by other critics, pulled the article and ran with a critique of a novel by a first-time author instead. Howard was given another assignment, in a restaurant, of all places, and has not looked back since. His eyes narrow as he inspects the cube again, finally seeing its innate ugliness, its lack of grace; its over-simplistic nature is its aesthetic downfall. He makes a note in his notebook with words to that effect and exits the library into the rain.

Malcolm pulls the outer doors closed and fastens the procession of bolts that ensure the security of the thousands of priceless and near-priceless items within the library’s walls. Then he flicks switches to shut the vast array of lights down, casting each separate area into darkness. After checking the perimeter doors he closes many of the inner doors out of habit, although he knows he will not be setting the alarm this evening – knows he will be disabling the CCTV cameras around the entrance hall. No one else need see. He will not be home to his mother this evening. He will be standing guard himself, by The Body’s side.

The Body hears his footsteps approaching over her shoulder. She keeps her gaze fixed ahead, wanting the first touch to be unexpected, unseen, anticipated before it is felt. She tingles with the knowledge he is close by, bristles. She has no idea she will be leaving in the morning, just knows that he is here, he is with her – and that is enough.

Malcolm lays his arms around The Body, knowing this will be the last time they will be together, alone. He will not tell her what is going to happen; he must spare her the knowledge. In a few moments he will lie by her side and sleep until morning, dreaming of her until he wakes and she is taken from him. For now though, he grasps her to him, refusing to let go until he has to. His eyes are open and never lose their focus on hers. His hands clawing at her, he grunts involuntarily and the sound reverberates around the empty inner sanctum of the library. Overcome by the rush of his desire, he plants his hand against The Body’s breast, leaning in towards her glistening surface, relishing the cold beneath his palm, slowly warming the marble as his body heat passes through him to her. The Body waits patiently for his love, his warmth and accepts it, when it comes, gratefully.