Terra Nova by Henriette Lazaridis

Author:Henriette Lazaridis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pegasus Books
Published: 2022-12-06T00:00:00+00:00

16 24 January

In Ganton Street the next day, Viola rings the bell at Isabella’s flat and rings again until she hears a window opening above. Isabella looks down at her, hair bundled in a colored cloth.

“What is the ruckus, Vi? For goodness’ sake.”

“Izzy, come down.”

“Why? What have you got for me?”

“This.”

Viola dances the portfolio at her.

Isabella groans and pulls her head inside. A moment later, she appears in the doorway to the building.

“It’s practically the middle of the night,” she says.

“Izzy, it’s ten in the morning. Didn’t you get my note?”

Isabella makes a show of squinting up at the winter sun.

“You’d expect better from the dawn.” She leads the way towards the bottom of the stairs, her peony-printed robe waving out behind her. “You know,” she says and looks back at Viola. “Rosy-fingered and all that.”

At the door to the flat, she stands aside as Viola hastens through.

“Good Lord, Vi,” she says. “Why on earth are you so—” She searches for a word. “Hearty?”

“I’ve been to the house,” she says. “In Dalmeny Avenue. And I’ve got photographs.”

“And I need tea,” Isabella says and flings herself down onto the deep cushions of the settee.

It is clear that Viola is to make the tea, for Isabella has closed her eyes and wrapped her robe around her. In the kitchen, Viola lights the hob and sets the full kettle on the flame. She rummages in cupboards for a tin of biscuits, brings a half dozen out to Izzy on a plate.

“Izzy, you were right. It’s incredible, the women there. They are—what did you say?—extreme. And what they’ve done. My God. I must show you.” She spreads the prints out on the low pouf that serves as table. “What do you think? I need a critique. Like in our Slade days.”

Isabella glances once, takes a biscuit, and then chews slowly as she sits up to look. Viola recognizes the scrutiny she has welcomed from her friend for years. They set their work out for each other at the Slade—Viola’s paintings first, along with Izzy’s, and then Viola’s photographs to make Izzy sit up as she is now. Viola watches her for signs.

“Come on, then,” she says, and Isabella nudges her turban up from her eyes.

“Well, this is interesting,” she says finally.

“How?”

“It’s the nakedness. Changes everything, doesn’t it.”

“The originals are nudes.”

“Yes, but you’ve done something else here. They sort of flicker.”

“Flicker how?” There is no trick of the light here, no sparkle made with something on the enlarger lens, no gelatin smeared for the soft focus Julia Margaret Cameron admires so much.

“Between the classic image and the new thing. This one.” Isabella takes up the photograph of Molly as Olympia. “It’s that famous Manet, isn’t it? I recognize the neck ribbon.”

“I used my hatband,” Viola says.

“But you look closely and you see this woman has been struck or battered. She’s a classic painting, and then, hey presto, she’s something very much of our time.”

“Exactly.” But she senses Isabella is not satisfied. Viola perches by her on the settee and waits for her critique.

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