Ghosts by Dolly Alderton

Author:Dolly Alderton [Alderton, Dolly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241988695
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2020-10-08T00:00:00+00:00

12

‘Pervert,’ Dad announced. ‘But a ruddy talented one.’

We were standing at the centre of a Picasso exhibition, in front of his 1932 portrait Nude Woman in a Red Armchair. Dad had loved Picasso since he was a student, and I thought that seeing some of his works in the flesh might stimulate the part of his mind that made him feel knowledgeable and confident. My hunch was right – the art seemed to be able to penetrate through the increasing thick clouds that passed through his brain. It seemed as though he and the works were in a conversation I didn’t understand that he could explain to me, rather than the other way around. While Dad was housed in the mind of a cubist – where there were no rules for reality; where the morphing and merging and reversing of structure was beautiful and celebrated – he was right at home.

‘They met at an art gallery,’ he said. ‘He and Marie-Thérèse. She was seventeen and he was married.’

‘How many portraits did he paint of her?’

‘Over a dozen. Some of his best.’

‘Did he leave his wife?’

‘No. But he moved Marie-Thérèse on to the same road as his family home. He got far more from the relationship than she did. She arguably revived his career.’

‘How awful.’

‘Yes. Wrong’un. A very brilliant wrong’un.’

I didn’t know how much of what Dad was telling me was fact according to history or fact according to him, but I was so enjoying returning to the parental dynamic in which he was the person with more information and insight than me.

‘Do the transgressions of the artist undermine the pleasure to be found in the art? If you could answer that, you might solve the internet, Dad.’

We both stared at the lilac-grey curves of her body and the brown swirly arms of the chair that held it.

‘Maybe I’ll meet a nice lady here and move her into the house,’ he said. ‘What would your mother say to that?’ I laughed. ‘I’m going for a wander.’ He placed his hands behind his back and walked slowly along the gallery, gazing up at the paintings as he went.

‘All right,’ I said, watching him intently, like a child I didn’t want to lose. ‘See you in a bit.’

I stayed in front of Marie-Thérèse in her red armchair and examined every part of her exquisitely scrambled form. The impossible positioning of her breasts stacked on top of each other, the surreal placement of her mismatched shoulders. How her face was split into two parts, one half of which could be another face kissing the other in profile, if you looked for long enough. Was the second face that Picasso saw symbolic of Marie-Thérèse’s hidden multitudes? Or was it his profile – did he imagine he dwelled within her, his lips on her cheek wherever she went? What would it be like, I wondered, to be seen through such adoring eyes, that they could not only capture you in a painting, but rearrange you to

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