35 292
Not Near London
35
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.’