Big Sue, Muse Oozing
Belly, breasts, ooze, a lava flow of flesh in gravity’s grasp, no room for dunnage; the sofa, plump itself in faded floral, reminds us of lounge furniture before its distant descendants, Danish chic, et al, sturdy, as needs be supporting 130kg. No mottled sunbeam shafts through a window, no need for effects, just a backcloth.
A book she shall write, and a kind of pseudo-fame, await. Her Job Centre clients, sad litany of losers sluicing down unemployment’s drain, many with her body shape but none regularly posing for an artist, entertained by his jokes, his cooking, his studied rudeness, would be amazed.
Wire-thin, crow-like, he stares at the canvas she can see, squeezes paint, glances at her, colours out her tattoos. His name, famous grandfather’s, resonates, but the work, the visionary artistic existence, this current lure, ‘flesh without muscle’, his ode, this disclosure of her life in splendid, sprawling impasto, impresses her.
She can’t know a Russian who also bought a football club, an oligarch ogling her, shall fork out a record price for a work by any living artist, this but one of several nude feasts featuring her, and whenever she looks at her leg it shall remind her of a leg in these paintings.
Ian C Smith’s work has appeared in, Amsterdam Quarterly, Australian Poetry Journal, Critical Survey, Live Encounters, Poetry New Zealand, Southerly, & Two-Thirds North. His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide). He writes in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, and on Flinders Island, Tasmania.