Katie In Love: full length erotic romance novel by Thurlow Chloe

Author:Thurlow, Chloe [Thurlow, Chloe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-03-20T18:30:00+00:00

After receiving warm reviews in local papers and magazines, Sibylle Durfort left the serene eye of the storm to do an interview with the infamous poison pen of the art critic for Le Figaro. The critique, illustrated with photographs of her work and Sibylle in her studio, was unusually generous and her cityscapes in silver frames began to fly, like migrating geese, from the gallery walls. Astutely priced at 10,000 euros, Sibylle's art hit that golden mean figure that touched the nerve endings of both the old rich and nouveau riches, who believed in 1999 that the paintings would go up in value and the champagne bubble would never burst.

In the autumn of that year, she had a show in Dijon featuring for the first time her pastel landscapes, Kamarovsky, her familiar imprimatur, now scrawled like streaks of blood in the bottom right corners of the canvases. Dealers were calling from New York, Frankfurt, Barcelona. Sibylle Durfort was acclaimed, sought after: at forty-six she had reached artists' heaven, the airy space between the twin-peaked mountaintops: recognition and financial independence.

Those winter months she worked night and day on a fresh theme, merging her landscapes and cityscapes in what became known as 'autoscapes' – the curving graphs of the autoroutes with their bridges and service stations, the drivers and passengers faceless automatons isolated in steel cases, snappy cars like small dogs beside 16-wheel behemoths, like Trojan horses, smears of red lights and white lights in night parallels skirting nameless towns and dividing forests and field, day and night, the rational and the insane.

All life is random. All life is absurd. A snap of the fingers and it's gone. A shooting star is already dead by the time we see its light. There is no reason, no purpose; except reproduction. The animals know that. Our cells know that. Sibylle Durfort's last exposition was in Villebleven, sixty kilometres from Beaune. She had hung the show with her new work. The catalogue had gone out. It was January 2000. A new year. A new millennium. Snow coating the hills. Ice on the road. She skidded at speed, the car struck a tree and she broke her neck.

C'est la vie.

Such is life. Such is death. These things happen and when they happen it seems in some strange way as if they were meant to happen, that synchronicity has an eerie will of its own. The conjunction of the car, the ice and the tree rely on the human element – an excess of speed, alcohol, fatigue, the gift of self-determination that makes us the masters of our own fleeting pause upon the planet.

Forty years before, almost to the day, Albert Camus, at the age of forty-six, was the passenger in a car that likewise hit a tree outside Villebleven. Like Sibylle Durfort, he died instantly from a broken neck. The coincidence – celebrated author, celebrated artist – turned the mills of the national press, and they kept on turning. A book was published a year later. A production company acquired film rights.

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