Pigeon Variations - Ch 13 - Origin of the World

Jenna wanted to be a painter. “I adore Egon Schiele and Frida Kahlo,” she said, drinking a dark rum and coke.

They were in a club and had been drinking since seven in the evening. It was nearly two am.

“I’m going to be an artist when I leave university,” she said. “I don’t care if I’m famous or not.”

He kissed her, sliding his hand up her skirt and onto her thighs. Art was a disease in Brighton. The flowers of creativity would shrivel in disappointment and mediocrity, counselling and anti-depressants. It was odd how he went through a phase where wannabe artists were drawn to him as he had fuck-all interest in art and creativity. There was an art teacher who had laughed at him openly in a class and told him not to bother turning up for lessons. The music teacher, Mr Johnson, said something similar. Johnson taught six or seven kids from his class he thought were worth his time. He set the others up in a room and let them watch a film. There were four to choose from: Excalibur, Thriller or Nightmare on Elm Street, part 1 or part 2.

Staggering back to Jenna’s houseshare, she said, “I do appreciate you sticking up for me in the restaurant.”

“I thought you were annoyed with me?”

“No, it was cute,” she said.

They kissed in the street. They struggled up a steep hill and then cut through a graveyard. A shop was open where he could buy wine. “You don’t need any more to drink,” she said. Haha. Not heard that one before. He didn’t know when to stop. Keep on running. Get it down yer. Anne was leaving messages on his phone. Bad vibrations. As usual, he ignored them. Switch the phone off. Fuck it. Deal with it tomorrow.

The houseshare where Jenna lived was near the station. Her bedroom was downstairs at the front. It had a big bay window, French blinds and a fireplace where an acoustic guitar rested. A proper student house. She put the Violent Femmes on and they undressed. Jenna was slim and toned, with small breasts and dark, super sensitive nipples. She gasped as he sucked and licked them, brushing the tips with his teeth. She pushed his head for him to go down on her but he refused. He wasn’t in the mood. They had sex on the mattress on the floor of her room. He poured himself wine into a pint glass afterwards.

“Why do you drink so much?” she said, lighting cigarettes for them both.

He swigged the wine, feeling the booze push and pull like stormy weather in his brain. He noticed the blinds were not closed properly. Blades of moonlight through the slats. “Look at that,” he said, “it’s beautiful.”

She curled her skinny body around him. “I’m going to teach you to paint,” she said, “I think you’d make a great painter.”

He offered her some of his wine.

“No thanks,” she said, kissing his stomach, “I’ve had enough and I have a lecture early tomorrow morning.”

“What time?”

“Eleven,” she sighed.

“What’s it like?” he said.

“Uni?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s okay. Some of the teachers are great.”

“I was told I should try college. Couldn’t ever see how it was for me.”

“You could always try again.”

He laughed at the idea of being a student. “No chance,” he said, listening to the music. “These aren’t bad.”

“Hey, have you ever seen Courbet’s The Origin of the World?” she asked.

“Nope.” 

“I love the honesty of that painting.”

He was lying. He had seen the gaping vag in question at the D’Orsay when on that weekend with Jenny. He wondered how much time people wasted over the years talking about art.

Boosting their egos by feeding off the greatness of others.

Culture was a load of middle-class wank.