Painting Dorothea Grant

When I saw her on the swings, I knew that she would be my next
subject. The way she sat with the chains wrapped about her upper arms
and her fingers interlaced was pure poetry. Her hair trailed in the mud
in furrows made by the toes of her plastic buckled shoes. I'd watched
her for a half-hour and now she sat motionless, gazing into the dirt,
body parallel to the ground, just staring. I knew that her mother was
late, I knew that her mother was always late and I knew that this was
what she was thinking. I had to paint her. There wasn't a doubt in my
mind. It would happen. With but a little manipulation I would make it
happen. It really was as simple as that.Mummy's new boyfriend is a
shit. When I bought home my story with a big A at the bottom and Mrs
Stephenson's comments saying that it was V. Good and I showed it to
Mummy and she said "That's wonderful, darling. Show it to Donald," so I
showed Donald and he snorted and said that it wasn't going to make me
any money because they only published Best-sellers and I'd never be
able to write a Best-seller because I didn't like spinach and all great
writers liked spinach because it makes their brains work faster like
the new processor in his computer and I'd be better off writing a
rendering routine for the Internet and I left the room and cried for a
little while before tea. We didn't have spinach but I don't like
carrots either. Donald makes me cry.Insinuating myself into their lives
was simple. Armed with a newspaper cutting about someone else and a few
old canvases from my college days, I rapped on their front door. I
though this might suggest eccentricity, avoiding the modern electric
doorbell and preferring the feel of knuckle on wood. I don't think she
even noticed."Yes," she stood with cigarette dangling and hair
squirming beneath a cotton scarf, "what do you want? I don't need
brushes, fresh fruit or my windows washed, before you start."I looked
down as Dorothea arrived to clutch at her mothers' hem. The woman
barely registered her presence. I bit back a curse and flourished my
forged Student Identity card, "Madam," I simpered, "I am an Art Student
at the Polytechnic and I've come to discuss a matter potentially
advantageous to us both, indeed, to the three of us. If I might come in
for a moment??"The Painter's funny. Ha-ha, funny. Mummy doesn't like
him but that's because Donald says he's a "posing ponce, painting his
poofy pictures of little girls. It's not right!" But I like him. He
made me a hat from Newspaper and a paper Plane that really flew!
Donald's' planes always nose-dive and I feel sorry for all the little
paper people inside. The Painter's little paper people are much
luckier. They know that they're only a few hours away from their little
paper Hotels. The Painter said that as I'm pretty as one, he'd like to
make me a picture. And he winked. When Donald winks at me he smells of
Beer and Onions and it's scary. The painter just smells of something
else. "Serpents Spine," he says, but I think he's just teasing me. I
didn't think Mummy would let him paint me, but I think that secretly,
she likes him just as much as I do. I want to be a picture. Really, I
do.We arranged, the Mother and I, that the sittings would occur three
times a week. Wednesdays from seven till nine, and two three hour
sessions over Saturday and Sunday. She seemed pleased with the
arrangement, and I knew that she saw me as a Sitter; I would take her
child off her hands so she could continue her liaison with The Fool,
Donald. It pleased me that she thought this, to have her in my debt so
swiftly would be advantageous, and though the painting would take
longer to create with such infrequent meetings, the time could be
easily filled with research. I needed to spend some time in The
Library, so I did.When I look at the cut under the Elastoplast it seems
so red. Like a purple smiley mouth, the edges are hard. It hurts a
little when I press them but it's a nice hurt. The Painter was so sorry
and even cried a little bit. I don't think it was his fault that he
dropped the jar. It was so slippery with Meflay that he just couldn't
hold on. Mummy was furious until she saw his face and then she cried a
little bit too. She was sad and nasty because Donald hadn't turned up
for their Dinner. He'd promised a Posh Dinner for her Birthday and
their anniversary so it was horrible for him to forget. She 'phoned him
a little while ago but he wasn't there. The Painter was nice to her and
he'd patched my leg so nicely that I think that made her feel better,
too. Donald's rubbish at patching and plastering and his hands are so
dirty and covered with Germans that I wouldn't have let him. Germans
make poorly people.It is, if I say so myself, a real Work of Art. I've
caught her essence. She's there in the picture like the earthbound
angel she is. The blood really helped, just like the Book said it
would. I mixed it with cochineal, mint and ether to give stability and
hide the aroma. I was surprised how much it smelled, being such a small
amount. I've used the mixture sparingly; a little around the mouth and
some more for the bonnet of the car in the background. I think that
might represent me, the car; a means of escape? I don't know. I won't
'till it's finished.I couldn't sit today. I'm very, very poorly. I
think Germans got into my cut and have made my tummy upset. I have to
go to the toilet all the time and it hurts when I do. Mummy isn't
worried because The Painter is staying with us now and he's good at
medicine. He says that his Daddy was a very good Doctor until he was
run over by a bus. He saved lots and lots of people from being dead and
so that's why the bus hit him. I don't really understand this, but I
think that the Painter is a very nice man. So does Mummy. It's good;
he's nicer than Donald.I used the lining of Donald's stomach to make a
small bag. It was already perforated from the years of alcoholism and
therefore perfect for my purposes. Don's dipsomania helped me kill him.
Drunks are easy. The Book gave me the idea in the first place.
Cagliostro says that emotional connections enhance the Art, and so the
Divining. There's certainly an emotional connection between Dorothea
and Donald, a rather negative one just being all the better. Making
love to the Mother can't hurt either. I placed the DonaldBag behind the
U-bend of their toilet. I used fishing line, very fine, to hook it to
the rim and trusted to the Muse that it would hold. It did. Then I made
coffee for Julia and I and Ribena for Dorry. Ribena has such a strong
flavour that it obscured the emetic utterly. Julia made a Lasagne while
I continued painting the girl. Within a half-hour she was pale as a
dove. In another ten minutes she was shitting and retching her life
away in the bathroom. All good paint. All good paint.I'm so poorly and
Mummy's so worried. I can't even sit for my painting now, but the
Painter says that it's all right, that he's nearly finished and soon
I'll be able to look at it. I tried to sneak a look when I could still
walk but he came in when I was lifting the pink sheet he covers it
with. He looked ever so angry and I think he knew what I was doing, but
he didn't say anything. I went to sleep and dreamed of a beautiful
garden filled with other children. They all look so pale and some have
bandages around their heads and arms. Their smileys are too big for
their teeth and their mouths look hollow in shrinking heads. I don't
know what this means. I'm so tired. It hurts to be awake and the garden
is so lovely, being there with all my new friends.So, it is
done.Garden. I never imagined it could be so wonderful.Dorothea takes
pride of place at the end of the Galley. Seven to her left and seven to
her right, she stands resplendent in her favourite corner of the park.
James, Ann, Bobby, Sandra and Ian look towards her best side, the left,
and clearly adore her. Stuart, Patrick, Adam, John, Fiona and Susan
stand to my left hand, my fingers still stained with the living paint I
have not yet washed away. I watch my children play, as they might never
have dreamt of in life.I return to my study. I swab a fresh canvas. For
another painting. My self-portrait.