Still Life

by Sarah Winman

She blushed and would blame it on the shift to evening light, on the effect of the wine and the grappa and the cigarettes, but in her heart, in the unseen, most guarded part of her, a memory undid her, slowly—very slowly—like a zip.

And what of life before all this? Globes, he said. Dad made ’em and I sold ’em. Then he died and I just made ’em. You made the world turn!

We just need to know what the heart’s capable of, Evelyn. And do you know what it’s capable of? I do. Grace and fury.

A 1902 Carruades de Lafite. Pauillac! he shouted. Heavenly! (A word he used a lot, which was odd for a man whose idea of the afterlife was oblivion.)

It’s what we’ve always done. Left a mark on a cave, or on a page. Showing who we are, sharing our view of the world, the life we’re made to bear. Our turmoil is revealed in those painted faces—sometimes tenderly, sometimes grotesquely, but art becomes a mirror. All the symbolism and the paradox, ours to interpret. That’s how it becomes part of us. And as counterpoint to our suffering, we have beauty.

Beautiful art opens our eyes to the beauty of the world, Ulysses. It repositions our sight and judgment. Captures forever that which is fleeting. A meager stain in the corridors of history, that’s all we are. A little mark of scuff. One hundred and fifty years ago Napoleon breathed the same air as we do now. The battalion of time marches on. Art versus humanity is not the question, Ulysses. One doesn’t exist without the other. Art is the antidote. Is that enough to make it important? Well yes, I think it is.

He thought her the most beautiful woman alive and he’d have done anything for her. Even given her the moon, if he could. (And what would I do with the moon, Cress? Exchange it for the sun. Think big, girl.)

I feel lucky, son, was what he said. A precursor to disaster if ever there was one.

that was the Peggy spell. She had class. She may have stolen it, but she had it. And she told you so when she sang, because she sang for her life, and for yours too, because the world never turned out the way you wanted it to. It simply turned. And you hung on.

There are moments in life so monumental and still that the memory can never be retrieved without a catch to the throat or an interruption to the beat of the heart. Can never be retrieved without the rumbling disquiet of how close that moment came to not having happened at all.

I’m a tree. I’ve done this a thousand times before. Done what? Good-byes. Really? Think about it. Leaves.

It was the season of blossom and leaf growth, and the bare branches appeared bewildered by the vibrancy of emerging livery.

Because you’re unforgettable, Evelyn Skinner.

The terrace was inching toward shade and he handed her his sweater. She brought it to her nose as she always did. One day she wouldn’t. For now, he was hers and she was his.

The power of still life lies precisely in this triviality. Because it is a world of reliability. Of mutuality between objects that are there, and people who are not. Paused time in ghostly absence.

time heals. Mostly. Sometimes carelessly. And in unsuspecting moments, the pain catches and reminds one of all that’s been missing. The fulcrum of what might have been. But then it passes. Winter moves into spring and swallows return. The proximity of new skin returns to the sheets. Beauty does what is required. Jobs fulfill and conversations inspire. Loneliness becomes a mere Sunday. Scattered clothes. Empty bowls. Rotting fruit. Passing time. But still life in all its beauty and complexity.