The Corsini Collection - compare and contrast

The face of the virgin was perfect: calm, sorrowful, serene, smooth – her heavy eyelids with the sensual curve of a Tibetan arabesque, an ogive arch of adoration. The rest of the painting … one needed more time and, perhaps, chutzpah to start criticising Botticelli – perhaps.

It was interesting how many people walked around the gallery with their arms folded. Were all people so disconcerted in an art gallery? Anthony unfolded his own arms and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

The room was like a Leonard Cohen concert or a Jane Goodall lecture or the South Island – disturbingly full of white people. But then the old farts hanging on the walls were the proverbial old, dead, white men too: crusty popes, sleazy one-percenters and the long-suffering women they groped, one saint with a hole in his head …

Anthony walked swiftly round the walls – ‘Old crap. Boring old crap.’

He circled back and sat down on the low, broad seat before Madonna and Child with Six Angels by Sandro Botticelli and Workshop.

True, the composition was cool: around the calm, still point of that one face the composition rotated beautifully with just that bit of weird, stylised foliage in the bottom right to stuff it up. But one had to say – the rest of the folks portrayed had weird, misshapen faces. What was that about? And none more so than little baby Jesus Himself, intruding His ugly little mug into the centre of the painting. And why was He wearing Lady Gaga’s dress?

The painting did have a freshness and brightness, an apparent newness, which all the other paintings in the exhibition lacked. It was hard to believe that it was 530 years old – it seemed to have just come from the studio (and suddenly been lumbered with a giant gold frame as ugly and deadly as those on all the other paintings).

Enough.

Anthony exited past another of the ubiquitous bored guards. How to get out of this place? Through the International Contemporary Gallery?

The work of John Nixon – conceptual, minimalist abstraction: an orange square, a blue rectangle.

‘Ridiculous modern crap.’

At last the hallowed and reverent gloom of the gallery was broken by sunlight – the stairwell, windows and, beyond, a giant, green tree.

Barnaby McBryde

Side by Side

The school playground. June, 2005

“Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise.” We both smiled. “Why do you have to go?”

“Daddy wants us to move. But don’t worry, mommy says we’ll have a bigger house and more toys so when you come, we’ll play together!” She clapped her hands gleefully.

“Yay! I can’t wait!” And I hugged her.

We were only five, and neither of us understood the concept of distance and the price of flights. We didn’t think that we would not meet until today, almost 10 years later…

Starbucks. January, 2015

“One tall hot chocolate for Phillip!” I looked up from my work and smiled at the barista. She was grinning at me, still holding the beverage out towards me. As I got up, her smile didn’t falter but only got larger.

“Thank you.”

“You know, I had a kindergarten boyfriend named Phillip. I think I still have a picture of him, here,” She took out her phone, unlocked it and searched through her gallery. I read her name tag, Miranda J. That name sounded familiar. Could it be?

“This one, that’s Phillip. He’s holding my hand.”

She let me hold her phone and zoom in. It was her.

“Miranda Jess,” I gave her phone back. “It’s me, Phillip.”

Her smile faded, her eyes searching my face for any sign of humour. But I wasn’t joking, it was me!

“I thought you moved to the Philippines in 2005!”

“I did! I came back last year, but I didn’t think I would meet you again!” She came around to give me a hug, one that I gladly accepted and returned. “I didn’t think…”

“Yes well, you did promise you’d never take off our engagement ring,” I pointed to her left hand. “I suppose you broke your promise.”

“If you think that 5-year-old Miranda’s fingers haven’t grown…” she laughed.

“What time do you end your shift?”

She flashed a smile. “My shift ends in 2 hours.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Is this a date?” Smirking, she returned to her counter and read the drink description.

“Isn’t it?”

“Just you and me?” I nodded. “I don’t kiss on the first date, you know.”

“Thankfully, this won’t be our first date, will it?”

The ground shook slightly. I must be nervous I thought, but why would I be nervous? It shook again, and this time she felt it too, losing her balance slightly before looking up at me. The tables started to rattle, plates slid and crashed to the floor.  I looked outside just as a violent tremor threw me down. Someone screamed, the ceiling cracked above me and the lights violently swung from left to right. We were biscuits in a tin can rattled by an angry god.

“Phillip!” I heard Miranda holler before thudding. I turned my head, but I was on the floor and a counter was separating us. I took whatever strength I could muster to crawl towards her and hold her hand. I slipped on something, hot liquid and my knee grazed against broken glass before I finally got to her.

“Shhh,” I cooed, bringing her under a table and covering our heads.

“I don’t want to die!” She screamed as the room was being turned upside down, with coffee scattered on the floor and bodies thrown here and there. I was pretty sure all the plates and cutlery, mugs and glasses were scattered on the floor, mixed with various liquids and crumbs of food left uneaten.

“You won’t die,” I looked at her, my vision hazy. “Not as long as I’m here. Not as long as we’re side by side.”

Katya Tjahaja

November

Every month I think that if there are only one or two stories, it might be time to stop. And then, as so often happens, I get four or five within a few days right at the end of the month  Thanks for your dedication to the notion of writing creatively once a month (at least).  For November, the artistic director has provided this as a starter:  Side by side. 

Happy writing and if you are new to the project, all contributions 300 - 500 words in length are welcome, emailed to rosemary.mcbryde@gmail.com by the end of the month.

Here and Now, There and Then

Evelyn had taken the subway to the Empire State building and ridden an elevator all the way to the observation desk, a famous tourist destination for the millions of visitors to New York each year.  It had been a tough year, one thing happened after another, sometimes several at once.    She can’t even remember what the first real thing was that started the whole cascade; maybe it was Bradley walking out, the realisation she was pregnant and having to face a termination on her own.  Seeing him with someone else just added to the despair.  When her car wouldn’t start and her dog died in the same week, it was a bridge too far.  The winds of change had blown upon her and now there was no grief, no tears left to give.  Evelyn felt renewed, she felt like she had taken back the power she had lost. 

Earth Wind and Fire belted out ‘After the Love Has Gone’ in the lift in some cruel send-off ballad as it sped towards the viewing platform.  She stepped out of the confined box into a swirling breeze that whipped up chocolate wrappers and plastic in all directions. The small group already present on the deck were engaged in photo taking and peering through binoculars. Nobody noticed the dark-haired twenty-something woman exit the elevator and make towards the opposite side of the deck, that side of the building now coated with shades of grey from the failing late afternoon sun.  Evelyn took a moment to look at the ground far below, unintelligible black dots appearing to follow some predetermined route moving like a colony of ants. 

Without the fear or hesitation she expected to feel, she gripped the fence and hoisted herself up with just enough strength in her nimble fingers to reach the top and clamber over the barrier, her fingers savaged by the sharp metal fragments.  She placed herself on the ledge, eyes closed.  And jumped.  The sound of a scream remained on the one hundred and second floor and for a moment she was on the back of Bradley’s Honda as it sped down the freeway, hair lashing her face and the wind screaming in her ears. 

Evelyn awoke .  Through one blurry eye she could see security personnel, paramedics and firefighters and an elderly couple who looked distraught. The pain in her right hip stung like a bitch and she dared not move.   Snippets of radio chatter faded in and out like shortwave radio and it made about as much sense.

“a stretcher…86^th floor... suspected hip frac..”, the firefighter said in to his handpiece.  

 “Someone’s lookin’ after ya”, said the paramedic tending to her, “a cross-wind is the only explanation I have for what happened”, she continued, almost as shocked as Evelyn. 

From the bottom of the tower she looked up before she was placed in the ambulance.  The top looked no bigger than a fingernail.  There was no wind.

Andrew Hawkey

*based on an actual event in 1979

Sorting day

After the funeral, they agreed on a sorting day, when what remained of Dorothea’s life would be packed, distributed, repurposed, dumped.

Ruth was late. Sorry, traffic, she said by way of explanation to her grieving step-sisters. Carol nodded, lips thinning, her eyes flicking towards the clock above the sink.  Balanced on kitchen steps, Judy paused momentarily before resuming her red-eyed exhumation of unused tea sets and preserving jars.

Ruth did as she was bid, aware that even after all these years of trying to be family, the fractures were heightened in death.  Her step-sisters drew together, consulted in whispers over items deemed worth keeping.  Occasionally there was an exclamation, or a story from childhood days that Ruth had not shared. Otherwise, they worked in silence, doggedly sorting, allocating, wrapping in tissue or adding to the growing collection of oddments that nobody wanted.

“I’ll take these bags outside,” Ruth offered.

“Thanks, there’s a pile of rubbish in the garage.”

Ruth welcomed the fresh air, the soundtrack of normal life. The bus to town grinding up the hill, a distant lawnmower, children shrieking in the school yard a block away.

She dropped the bags with the heap inside the door, and as she paused to enjoy the cool earthy basement air, she saw it. The marquetry table, folded and on its side tucked between two cardboard boxes. She tugged at it and lay it on the ground. The top was marked with dirty circles, water stains and dried remnants of maidenhair fern.

“What’s this one?” she had asked her father.  

“That’s boxwood.” His eyes were intent on the pattern as he bent over the baseboard.

“Which one do you like the best?”

He had smiled. “Which one do you like, Babe Ruth?”

Her nine year old brow furrowed while she examined the bands of veneer. “I like this one because it’s red like Mummy’s hair.”

“She did have pretty hair.  Almost as pretty as yours.”

It had taken him a year to make the table, to build the sunburst pattern one piece at a time.  Sometimes they talked; mostly she just watched as he skillfully united the fragments of veneer: aspen, chestnut and cherry, grained and smooth. In hindsight, perhaps it was no surprise that when the table was finished, he took her to meet Dorothea and her teenage daughters.

“She’s not your new Mummy, Babe Ruth. She’s a friend for me and for you. And I hope you’ll like the girls.  I’m sure we’ll all get along.

Ruth found a rag and wet it under the outside tap. She wiped the dirt and foliage from the table top. The stains were indelible, from a lifetime of use and wear. Not everything gets the respect it deserves.

Ruth carried the table down to her car and turned back to the house.  Carol and Judy were standing at the kitchen window. Carol raised a mug and beckoned her in.  Ruth took a deep breath, and went to join them.

Rosemary McBryde

Here and Now

Drip. Drop. Drip drip drip.

God, he was going to have to turn on his windshield wipers, though his battery was already dangerously low, sitting there in the parking lot, waiting.

For the beginning or the end.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have results….” The voice crackled over the radio as the rain began to wash over the windshield. He remembered she had told him that when her president had finally been elected that fateful day, the skies blackened and there was such a fierce thunderstorm her students had aptly asked, “is this the end of the world?”

He prayed the rain did not presage similar results for his country. They had fought to preserve and protect and make their voices heard – SHE, the one he was waiting for and had long followed (how he had envied his brother that picture with her!) -  SHE was one of them and had fought along with them and he knew in his heart, she was the one who could turn things around and return his country to its original greatness.

Though he loved it now, make no mistake – he would not live anywhere else – (she sometimes tired of reading how great his country was when she lived in the most powerful one, but she had to admit she loved his country too) - but this one, this one that captivated him, she knew what was needed, what to preserve and protect, what to genuinely fight for and what to back away from or stand up against.

The dashboard lights began to blink. Reluctantly he turned on the car engine, hoping no one would notice he had been sitting there for an hour, but it was the only radio he had and he wasn’t leaving until he knew.

Finally – thank you George!  – it was announced. He sent the text though he knew she’d be sleeping, and shouted a great woop from the confines of his Honda Fit, before driving into the here and now, rain be damned. 

Jasmin Webb

The Golden Takin

When Han-shan returned to this world, the first thing that he recalled was that today was water day. That was why he was lying on the ground halfway down the mountain with his water barrel beside him.

On water day, it usually took Han-shan most of the morning, after his dawn devotions, to scramble down from the hermitage to the spring with his small barrel – sometimes lugging it, sometimes chasing it as it careened out of control, sometimes hunting for it in a bamboo grove into which it had cannoned.

The return journey was considerably more strenuous – scrabbling over rough terrain, practically vertical in places, pushing or carrying, grappling the heavy container in incremental steps uphill. The effort left him quaking with exhaustion but he needed water and his little stone hermitage was not near a water source.

Han-shan had been just beginning his laboured ascent. The rising Sun painted the landscape. He paused. All was silent and still, the matutinal calm draped softly over everything. The dew shone like jewels on the bamboo.

A range of animals shared the mountain with him, unafraid of his quiet presence among them. Sometimes herds of golden takin would move with surprising silence around his hermitage. They were large and muscular goat-antelopes with shaggy coats of long fine golden hair and with long smiling faces topped with a crown of horns. It made him smile to see them.

Through the bamboo, Han-shan saw a single takin cross a rocky space above him. Its golden coat shone, its neat hoofs clicked on the rocks. At its side was its tiny child – a calf, tiny and dark brown, as takin children are, like a little wooly sheep by its dam’s side.

The takin paused and turned its patrician nose down to touch the calf with the infinite tenderness of bovine motherhood.

It was at that instant that Han-shan fell.

The Sun, the pelage of the takin, transformed into an overwhelming light, a tunnel of fire, light calling to light, expansion, speed, and space, space, it was not Earth it was a high place and it was beautiful, everythingness, totality, the absolute, nothingness, void, only the observer, doing nothing but everything was done, eternity’s child in the garden of infinity.

And then – silence, the takin moved on, the fallen barrel.

Han-shan righted the barrel and heaved it a little further up the slope.

The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on:
The long gorge choked with scree and boulders,
The wide creek, the mist blurred grass.
The moss is slippery, though there’s been no rain
The pine sings, but there’s no wind.
Who can leap the world’s ties
And sit with me among the white clouds?

Dhiraja