The Furies. Katie Lowe

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СКАЧАТЬ the way these intersect with the rest of your life experience.’ She leaned back, rolling her shoulders; her silver pendant sparkled in the light.

      ‘After all, this is not a course for the lazy student who wishes to sit around and have me talk at them for four hours a week. Quite the opposite, in fact. I expect you to posit your own judgements, and explore your subjective appreciation of art. Those of you taking my practical course – which I believe is most of you – should take the opportunity to develop these ideas beyond what Wittgenstein called the “limits of language”, which, I am sure, you will grow familiar with in this class.’

      A ripple of excitement ran through the room. For all their bitterness and dramatics, it is a fact known only to the very best of educators that teenagers are uniquely susceptible to the poignant phrase, the encouragement of their own, individual talents. It may be a cliché – but I am sure a great many creative spirits have been forged through the power of a single glimmer of inspiration at this age.

      Certainly in the moment, it seemed as though each of us was alive with potential, though none of us knew, for instance, who Wittgenstein was (even now, I will admit my knowledge is rudimentary at best, his theories a little esoteric for my tastes), or why such a limit to language might exist. Or, for that matter, why a group of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds might be somewhat unqualified (to say the least) to create our own theories of art. No – in the light of this encouragement, we saw ourselves anew, thrilled with the sense of possibility.

      ‘Marie,’ she said, turning to face a dark-haired girl – recognizable as she spoke for her reedy, high-pitched voice, the shadow of a nervous laugh familiar from the canteen. ‘Give me an example of a work you find beautiful.’

      ‘Michelangelo’s David,’ she said, confidently.

      ‘Why?’ Annabel said, wry smile revealing gums almost white, fading into teeth.

      ‘Because it’s a symbol of strength and human beauty.’

      Annabel said nothing, the silence deathly, yawning like a trap.

      ‘Is that what you think, or what I think parroted back to me?’ she said, finally, as she leaned over the desk and peeled away a sheet of paper, her book on Renaissance sculpture open underneath. The girl stared down, turning pale. ‘Though other members of the faculty may enjoy it when their students mindlessly repeat phrases they do not believe, the point of this class,’ she said, turning her back on the girl, ‘is not to give me the answer you think is right. It is to tell me what you really think. I already know what I believe, and I don’t need you to remind me.’ She looked around the room, eyes cast on each of us in turn. I felt my stomach lurch as she settled her gaze on me.

      ‘Violet.’

      ‘Yes, Miss.’ My breath caught a little, nerves shaking through. It was the first time she’d spoken to me directly in either class. There was some brightness to her, that seemed almost to glow from within; as though her blood ran silver in her veins, instead of blue, lighting her skin from below. When I look back, now, I wonder if she could ever have been quite as we saw her, or whether we simply imposed the light upon her, the force of our wanting turning her into something half-divine. On cool days – rational days, when the grey hush of autumn seeps into everything – the obvious occurs. It might simply have been a trick of the light.

      ‘Annabel, please,’ she said, without smiling. ‘Tell me, what would you choose?’

      I felt the class turn to face me, expectantly. Marie glared, her fury at Annabel boring into me. I thought of things I’d read about, seen, their names lost to me in my panic. Finally, I alighted on an image: women laughing, raving furiously, at a town far below; the wild-eyed devil gnawing limbs. ‘Goya’s Black Paintings,’ I said, the words catching on my tongue.

      She drew three circles in the air with her fingers, teasing out my meaning. ‘There’s just … There’s something about them I really like.’

      ‘You really like?’ Annabel said, eyebrow raised. ‘Surely you can go a little deeper than that.’

      I felt my heart tumbling in my chest. The truth was, I’d seen them in a book when I was five, maybe six years old, and felt a strange thrill at the horror of it all. Mum had ripped the book from my hands almost immediately, but the images had stuck. Years later, I’d stolen the book from a second-hand shop, too ashamed to admit how much I wanted it, cruel faces grinning deathly from the cover. Three days after that, wracked with guilt, I’d returned with a stack of my dad’s old books – a donation that would cover the cost several times over.

      ‘Well, it’s not really an aesthetic thing,’ I said, slowly. ‘But he painted them on the walls of his house, just for him. So, even though he was known for his portraits, which are nice, but … Well, kind of boring …’ At this a flicker of a smile crossed her face, willing me on. ‘When he was on his own, he wanted to paint these horrifying things, like the devil eating a man, or the descent into madness. It was like a release he could only get when he was alone.’

      She nodded, brushed a curl of white hair behind her ear. I almost felt as though she turned a little towards me, as though the better to hear something unsaid. ‘I assume you know The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters?’

      I blanched. ‘Sorry?’

      ‘The etching. From a very similar period.’

      ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘No. I haven’t seen it.’

      ‘Look it up. You’ll like it.’ She turned away. ‘In fact, bring a copy with you next time, and we’ll discuss as a group.’

      As she went on, I felt the girl’s eyes on me; tried, but failed to resist the temptation to look back. The red-headed girl from my English class chewed thoughtfully at a thumbnail, grimacing as the chalk covered her tongue; catching my eye, she laughed, and I laughed too, an echo.

      She turned back to face Annabel, and I did the same, though the rest of the class passed in a haze, the fact of having met Annabel’s approval – a least briefly – leaving me dazed with relief.

      The bell rang, and I began to pack my bag, while the red-headed girl and her friends gathered by Annabel’s desk, voices lowered in hushed conversation. The tall girl glanced at me, pointedly lowering her voice further. When it became clear the three of them were waiting for me to leave (my cheeks flushing hot with the realization) I scooped up my bag and walked towards the door.

      ‘Hey, wait,’ a voice called after me. ‘Fancy a smoke?’ I turned to see the red-head grinning at me, slyly; the other girls – and Annabel – looked at me, their expressions blank, mask-like.

      I didn’t smoke, but – taken by surprise, I would later claim, though in fact merely desperate to make a friend – I nodded.

      In the corridor, we walked in step. ‘So how do you like Elm Hollow?’

      ‘It seems okay. Everyone’s been pretty nice so far.’

      She pushed the door, the fresh air outside exhilarating. I felt the sweat droplets freeze and dry on my brow as we walked in silence to a graffitied smoking shelter hidden behind the main building, away from the car park, and away from disapproving eyes. A cheer drifted by on the wind from the playing fields; swallows circled overhead in bursts, as though catching themselves mid-flight.

      ‘So … I’m Robin, by the way – thanks for asking.’ She grinned, waving away my clumsy apology, the words still unspoken. СКАЧАТЬ