Trafika Europe 9/10 - UK in Europe

Not Near London

That stud makes all the difference, according to Jasper. Like the highlight on the thumbnail in that Van Dyck portrait of those two young aristo mates, one of them grieving for his wife. Jasper the arts fag is into the classical stuff, surprisingly – when he sees a modern practice in them. One of the young men was holding a letter, but Van Dyck had left it white. A pure white square of paint at the centre. ‘The void, Suze. Or maybe the future, not yet filled in. Or maybe just paint. White on black. Franz Kline, Robert Motherwell.’ ‘Name-check.’ ‘What’s the other guy holding? Down there, at the bottom.’ They were looking at the original in a Tate Britain exhibition during the

spring break, only weeks before her exams. Trying to inject some intravenous inspiration from the masters. Jasper hadhis arm on her shoulder. They were in the middle of the room, people occasionally criss- crossing their sightline. She slid away and stepped closer, peered. Jasper joined her, sliding his hand up her back. ‘Er, something dark. A dark hankie?’ ‘Think, think, think, Suze. He’s grieving, right? Black square, white square.’ A grey sheet of paper, all crumpled up, half in the shadow. ‘It encapsulates death,’ she said, quickly. ‘The white one’s smooth, the black one’s crumpled. Well, it’s really grey-blue. Snow shadows, sort of.’

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