Laila & Lucien - a love remembered
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When
13 year old Laila stumbles on a secret kennel beneath the studio of established
artist Lucien Reynolds she becomes captive to this man who until age seven was
raised as a dog – and in whom the
instinct to attack still surfaces at any danger (especially human approach).
But
a silent traumatic bonding begins to occur and sees Laila question all
opportunity to escape. Could she possibly be falling for him?
Having
fled together to South-West France Laila makes a remarkable discovery
concerning a deathly mauling to which Lucien is being linked. Dare she then
finally approach Lucien – will he acknowledge her long secret love – or will he
devour her?
From
this curious and dark sequence of events Laila puts together a mosaic-memoir
from her own writings, from those of Lucien, and from their conversations –
it’s a story told through collage-like collisions, fragmentary conversations,
elliptical images, remembered glances . . .
Extract:
*
Extract:
She was coiled foetus-like
on the floor, naked except for her hijab. She had chosen the pose: she was afraid
of showing her body openly.
She had never thought in her
life that she would be like this before a man – let alone with this man; yet
since she now understood about artists and art she thought it would be all
right. ‘An artist is like an explorer,’
she recalled reading. ‘It takes courage
and it takes boldness to conquer the unknown but that’s where you must go!’
Yes, there was an edge of
fear; but she had to trust the savage would not appear.
How had she come to be here
like this at all, she wondered?
Although she had never seen
it, she was glad the exhibition painting, ‘The
Corruption of the Children’ was out of the studio. Since then, he had seemed
easier, lighter. He had even started what he called studio clean-up days –
after which she thought everything looked exactly as it had before.
It was while stacking
canvases, she came across a painting he had done on his return from Iraq. He
explained he had seen a painting in the National Museum in Baghdad, an abstract
depicting the five pillars of Islam. In his painting he had supplanted the
abstract pillars with stark images of bodies that he told her he had originally
sketched while they were floating in the Tigris.
She said, ‘It’s strange how
it’s still kind of religious – something offered up to Allah.’
‘I’m not sure he’d approve
of the nakedness.’
‘Would He mind so much? I
mean, painted like that, there’s nothing shameful about it, is there?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. He
paused. ‘The desire is for final redemption, a plea perhaps – the bodies you
see are instruments for such a plea. That was my thinking. It might be
interesting to work the same theme with you one day.’
She felt a little fear at
this, wasn’t sure what he meant. Did he mean the whole of her body? No clothes?
Well, was there anything shameful about that? The body in a plea for
redemption?
‘Yes,’ she replied and said
no more.
The subject of the painting wasn’t
mentioned again until one morning after he had been up at 6 a.m. to start work,
she came into the studio still wrapped in towels after her shower to inform him
the shower had blocked and she was sorry: it must be her hair.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll fix
it.’ He paused from his work, noticeably looking at her and then said, ‘We
should think about that painting sometime.’
She put her head to one side,
paused. After a moment she said, ‘Okay.’
And a week later she stood
thinking should I take my gown off before I’m in position or afterwards? But if
it’s after won’t I have to reposition myself? She just wasn’t sure now about
taking off her gown, letting it fall while standing before him.
She would be naked before
him. Might she not give off some scent that would trip the animal in him? Not
to talk about the shame she should be feeling.
Astaghfiru’llah!
Allah forgive me!
It was only the second time
she had sat for him. The first was the Vermeer like portrait as they called it
– she didn’t think the painting from the Polaroid counted and that was only a
sketch anyway. Now of course it wasn’t to be a portrait but a full length nude
study. She would be without her clothes!
But irritated with her
indecision, she finally whipped off the gown, tossed it to the sagging chaise
and putting on her hijab since he had asked for this, she knelt to the floor.
‘Maybe I want to be like a
baby,’ she said. So she coiled into herself, aware that she was hiding herself
and guessing then that this would be the essence of what he would paint: that
which is not seen. Isn’t that always what he paints? She’d seen it so often
before in his paintings: repressed and shameful bodies, thin wasted carcases,
skeletons. Is that how the world feels to him?
He began to mark the board
on which he was working with what he called ‘the
landmarks of a map about to be drawn . . .
They talked intermittently,
talking as much to themselves as to each other but mostly she just lay there
thinking, who would ever have believed I’d be like this? Offering her body up
like this she thought, this much trust and openness must be like being married
or something. And then she wondered, or could he be arrested for this? He could
be arrested anyway she thought; but then wondered would I really want that now?
She asked, ‘What are you
going to call it?’
He didn’t answer for a long
time, just continued working.
‘Girl with Hijab,’ he
eventually said.
‘And will people see it?’
‘I don’t think anyone would
recognise you.’
‘In the exhibition?’ she
asked.
‘Would you like me to put it
in?’
‘I haven’t seen it yet have
I?’
‘In principle? There’s still
time.’
‘I don’t suppose it’ll be me
will it?’
‘No.’
‘Why not then?’
‘So I have your permission?’
She had to smile, him asking
her permission for anything.
He went on working. She
watched him and wondered if ever he’d reach out to hold her – if ever the day
would come when he’d tell her he loved her. But I always was a bit crazy, she
thought.
