The Edge of Always

Chapter One

‘Art is a protest against death.’

AUbrEY FLACK

NOW

The Edge of Always: Oil on canvas. The most impressionist of Spencer’s work, The Edge of Always incorporates loose, visible brushstrokes to create a dreamlike quality and sense of movement. The figure appears to be in motion, caught in a fleeting moment as opposed to frozen in time. Date unknown.

‘Hello, Deathers, and welcome back to The Art of Dying, the blog where we connect you, the living yet slightly morbid public, with art inspired by death. Today, we’re going to be diving head-first into the paintings of Ernst Ludwig Kirchner who was a nice guy, if a bit weird.

Kirchner was one of the founders of the Expressionist movement.

Expressionists were great with decay, and Kirchner himself loved a bit of death art.

He painted a self-portrait as an amputee despite having two excellent hands. He’d had a bad war though, poor thing…’

My phone is on the coffee table (read dumping ground) in front of my laptop, vibrating constantly. I’m not meant to turn it off, just in case, but it’s an annoying distraction. I’ve spent all week planning this script on Kirchner and now I can’t get through it without being distracted.

It’s bound to be Mum with another round of reels about the benefits of bovine collagen. The woman never rests.

It vibrates again.

I hit pause, annoyed. I’m always annoyed these days.

Mae thinks that it’s a result of my being depressed, which I refuse to accept.

Still, I reach to snatch my phone from where it’s balanced on top of a pile that’s mostly art history books and magazines.

Mum would (and has) described the cottage as ‘squalid’. I’d describe it as homely.

Nine messages, all of them from Mae.

Mae: Look what I found! (There’s a link to an article.)

Mae: Did you read it yet?

Mae: Actually, I only sent it ten seconds ago.

Mae: How about now?

Mae: Are you there?

Mae: You’re not cutting your fringe again, are you?

Mae: STEP AWAY FROM THE SCISSORS.

Mae: Seriously, can you reply now?

Mae: HELLLOOOOOO

Mae’s my younger sister. She’s the most brilliant yet annoying person that I know. Ironically, she’s probably the only thing in the world that doesn’t annoy me. Or not really.

Me: I’m here, I was recording.

Mae: Shhhiiittt. Didn’t even think of that. The Kollwitz one?

Me: He’s next week. I was doing Kirchner

Mae: Cool. Cool. Dude with the hand. Well have you opened the link yet?

Me: I’ve literally been messaging you the whole time. Give me a second.

The last link Mae sent me and insisted that I read was a spicy Adam Brody fanfic.

She thought I’d like it since he and Emmett look a bit alike, with dark curly hair and green eyes.

The main character transformed into a dragon, and much was made of his dragon-sized penis and how, and I quote directly here, ‘it hurt so good’ – which is irrelevant, but it means that my expectations aren’t exactly high.

Still, my phone is vibrating with messages from her, so I scroll back up and hit the link that she’s sent, sinking back down between the couch cushions as I do. Kirchner will have to wait.

Mae: I’ll be home in five.

It’s the middle of the day. I’ve no idea why Mae is coming home.

The article loads, and something deep in my chest lurches.

‘UNE VIE EN COULEUR’ EARL JOSEF SPENCER – Nouvelle exposition temporaire au Musée d’Art Moderne de Paris.

‘Fuck me,’ I say, even though there’s no one here to hear it. Blood starts pumping around my ears. A persistent thud. Dum. Dum. Dum. I click the little Union Jack flag to translate the article to English and keep reading.

The MAM in Paris is hosting a new exhibition of the late, great expressionist Earl Josef Spencer. Spencer’s work, has yet to be exhibited in Paris, and Rise Art understands that this temporary exhibition will incorporate several pieces from his final years, including:

The Weight of Light

Portrait of the Longing for Human Connection

Montmartre in Motion

The Juxtaposition of Life and Death

The Rubicon

Mari Marigold, the curator responsible for the show, told Rise Art, ‘It is a true honour to display the last works of Earl Josef Spencer. He’s an artist I’ve wanted to bring to our space since my tenure here began.

His The Juxtaposition of Life and Death and Portrait of the Longing for Human Connection are two of my favourite pieces.

‘There’s no doubt about it; visitors are in for a treat.

Spencer’s work combines the emotional intensity of Expressionism with the objective clarity found in post-Expressionism, creating a masterclass in colour and form.

At least that’s what we believe here at Rise Art.

And if a Spencer exhibition isn’t exciting enough, we can exclusively reveal that MAM has acquired a new work which will take centre stage in the exhibit. ’

Spencer died at age eighty-seven, almost twenty years ago, and so the mystery of a new piece is taking the art world by storm.

Madam Marigold remained tight-lipped on the whole thing and refused to be drawn on where precisely the new painting had been found. But Rise Art understands that it’s a verified Spencer titled, The Edge of Always. And if you can’t wait to see the real deal, we have an exclusive first look here.

The exhibition is set to run for the whole of September. This isn’t one to be missed, art lovers!

I feel… confused. So much confusion. It spreads like mist on an autumn evening, clouding my thoughts and darkening my outlook.

How? How can there be a new painting by Earl? It’s impossible.

I click the link to see the painting, but the WiFi is dodgy and it won’t load.

I put my phone down. Pick it up again. It still hasn’t loaded. I hit back, confusion making way for frustration. I jab at my phone.

Work, goddamit. The article loads again, so I re-read it, trying to take it all in.

A new painting by the late artist Earl Josef Spencer has been unearthed.

It’s being exhibited in Paris throughout September.

No one knows where it came from.

It’s almost September now. Three days away.

My heart is still beating a persistent beat in my ear.

Why didn’t anyone tell me?

I dismiss the thought right away. Why would anyone tell me? I’m a no one. Before I gave it up, my own art had become so unprofitable it was just a hobby. Turns out people don’t want dismembered hearts all over their walls.

And who would connect my Art of Dying blog with Earl? So few people know everything that happened back then.

There’s Emmett. He’d know.

As thoughts go, it’s an unwanted one. I never even think about Emmett. And I’m certain that he’s not thinking about me. He probably doesn’t know about the new painting. I’m in the art world, and I might have missed it if it wasn’t for…

Mae.

‘I’m here!’

The door to our cottage bursts open with so much force that it whacks the wall behind it.

It’s a tiny cottage, just five rooms. To one side of the main door, there’s a small kitchen with the same round dining table we’ve always had, the only bit of furniture we kept. On the other, the living area. Then there are two bedrooms and a bathroom.

We’ve never needed anything bigger as it’s not like we have people over very much.

Zadie sometimes comes, and Ahmed the couple of times he’s been back to visit.

Mum has come for dinner precisely once, when Mae took the opportunity to announce that she was in a throuple, and Mum had broken into a literal, visible sweat at this and had never come back.

She’d tried to remove Mae from the family WhatsApp.

‘You didn’t need to come home,’ I tell my sister.

‘What? And let you see that alone, without support? And oh my god, you have cut your fringe some more.’

‘I like it short.’

‘It’s two inches long.’

‘I think it makes me look interesting.’

‘You’re wearing a waistcoat – you are interesting.’

Truth be told, my fringe is a bit shorter than I’d hoped it would be. I was going for edgy. I’m guessing, however, that edgy is rarely achieved on a steroid high, armed with a pair of blunt scissors late one Thursday night.

Edgy people have a team. I don’t have a team; I barely have an anyone. I have a Mae, some vaguely peripheral friendships that are hanging on by a thread, and a couple of hundred strangers, known as Deathers, who subscribe to my blog about death. And it’s the way I like it.

Mae flops down on our charity shop acid green couch; a little plume of flour puffs into the air as she does so since she’s still in her white uniform.

She works in the local café as a baker. I swear she could bake sawdust into a cake and it would still taste great. ‘I can’t believe that Earl had another painting.’

‘I know.’ My mind is racing now. Earl. Even just hearing his name brings back so many memories from then.

The time before.

Mae is still talking. Like me, her hair is red.

Strawberry blonde in summer, more rust-like in winter.

She absentmindedly blows a strand that’s escaped her hairnet.

I’ve tried to capture it so many times, the colour of her hair.

There’s a whole wall in the living room of the cottage that’s red, different shades and textures too.

Sometimes I feel this overwhelming urge to commit it so deeply into my memory that nothing could ever dislodge it.

Those are the days I have to adjust my meds.

‘Have you seen the painting?’ she asks.

I shake my head. ‘It won’t load.’

‘Well, you just wait till you see it. The Edge of Always. Great title. He was always good at coming up with titles, wasn’t he? Fucking smashed it out of the park Earl, my man.’ She looks up at the (also painted) ceiling as she says the last part.

‘Yep.’

I’m only half in the conversation. Less than that, even.

A part of me is looking to the past, remembering.

You’d think that so long ago, it’d be like looking through a murky window, but it isn’t.

Looking back is like seeing the person I was in the time before under a spotlight. Everything is in technicolour.

‘Obviously, you need to go and see it,’ Mae says.

That makes me laugh.

‘Of course, I’m not going.’ It’s such a ridiculous notion and it makes my heart rate pick up even more. I don’t want to overwhelm myself; I’m not meant to. So, I steady my breathing, count to four over and over to match my inhale and exhale, and once I’m done, I answer Mae. ‘You know that I can’t.’

Mae completely ignores me. ‘Do you think Emmett knows? I wonder where he ended up. I still can’t believe he dumped you. What a dick move.’

I tell Mae everything, but I’ve never told her that I know something about Emmett’s life.

I know he trained to be a doctor and works abroad in places that look dangerous, and only very occasionally updates his social media.

It’s a tragedy of the highest order to admit to still keeping tabs on your boyfriend from two decades ago.

‘No idea,’ I tell her. ‘But did you hear me? I said I’m not going to go to Paris.’

Mae twists her head to look at me dead on and laughs.

Her face is so similar to mine; everyone has always said that we could be twins.

She’s only thirteen months younger than me, but if people looked closely, they’d see that her face is fuller, more joyful.

Her features are arranged in a way that’s just a bit nicer than mine.

I’ve always thought I was too symmetrical, too ordered.

It annoys me, but then like I said already, what doesn’t.

‘You have to go but you could wait a bit, miss the opening if you like. I’d understand that with your fringe, the selfies will be appalling. But either way, you’re going.’

I have no idea why Mae is pushing this.

‘We’ll call it The Paris Plan,’ she says, sitting on her hands. ‘Aren’t you just a bit curious to see the new painting?’

‘Yes, of course I am. But that doesn’t mean I can go. I just can’t… You know that I can’t.’

‘You could blog while you’re there, do a Spencer special. Be honest, there’s literally no one better placed than you to do a Spencer special.’

She’s talking so fast she’s barely breathing at this point.

It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.

‘Stop saying the words Spencer Special. What about my other work? Earl’s stuff isn’t exactly my bag these days.’

It’s the first objection that springs to mind. The first, but far from my last.

‘It’s an art history blog. You’re not contractually obligated to only talk about death art.

Plus, no one will die if you don’t turn up to work for three days.

’ Unlike Emmett – who I definitely never think about – people would actually die if he didn’t turn up for work.

‘And anyway, you can finish and edit the Kirchner episode today if you work late – I’ll help. ’

It’s a stupid idea. In a lifetime of questionable ideas (she has a tattoo of a pigeon on her thigh), this has to be one of Mae’s worst. I don’t want to go to Paris. Too many people, too much stuff.

Mae isn’t done. ‘Plus, you’re the one who’s always droning on and on about the difference between seeing and looking at art.’

I start biting my nail.

‘Dr Dave would never agree to it.’

‘Dave loves me. I’ll ask him.’

Mae has swivelled round to face me and has one leg tucked under her on the couch.

‘You can go to Paris,’ I tell her, ‘if you’re so desperate to see the painting. I like it here.’

‘Trust me, I would. But Gemma said I can’t have any more time off.’ She sighs dramatically.

‘Now look at that painting. That painting will make you want to go to Paris. Trust me.’

Mae reaches out and laces her fingers into mine. We’ve been like this for years. Trauma bonded, she calls it. I’d just say we’re close. Best friends.

With my free hand, I reach for my phone and try to open the link again.

Mae squeezes my hand as the page loads, slowly, clunkily revealing the painting.

‘This is going to change everything,’ she tells me as it loads.

I go to say that she’s ridiculous, way too dramatic, that nothing, not even a painting from Earl, could change everything.

But as the painting fills my phone screen, I see what she means.

It’s beautiful, so beautiful.

But it’s not the beauty of the piece that’s making my eyes fill with tears.

No, it’s the fact that there’s a girl in the painting, and well, that girl, it’s me.