The Fireside

A Painting by Degas, A Story by Caryn

Everything is wavy and hazy. My mind jumps from painting to painting. My head is spinning, or maybe it’s my body rocking back and forth, and out of the corner of my eye I spot a blurry, colorless painting. I hear Martine giggling; her laugh wipes out all other sounds and I stand there for a moment listening to it’s chime. Then I remember the painting; I’m drawn to it, compelled by a force stronger than me. It’s such an intriguing painting. I want to feel the artist’s purpose, comprehend his message and connect to him on a spiritual level.  I lean in closer to try to make out if the lighter smudge towards the front right. I’m squinting and leaning in really close, and I feel a force behind me followed by that perpetual giggle. I lurch forward, but I’m too late to catch myself in time and I cringe as I expect to feel the tear of the soft, oily canvas against my scalp, but instead I start falling. I’m falling and falling and falling and my body goes lifeless. My head drops back and my limbs sprawl out as if paralyzed.

Flying~ falling~ flying.

My head smacks into the ground and I feel my neck crunch as my back helplessly follows. No pain. I sit up and crack my broken neck back into place while looking around and begin to see stars as my head hits the wood again. Everything is black and white. I rub my eyes and open them again and still, black and white persists. I bang my hands against my head a few times and look up yet again to see not only colorlessness, but the figure that was at the front of the painting has turned her head just the slightest bit towards me. And it hits me; I’ve fallen into the painting.

Everything’s slow and hazy. I just assume this must be the worst sugar high and vow to never consume cookies again. The lighting is ambient as the fire crackles and hisses before me. Shadows pop in and out of the corners from the dancing flames and before me stands a naked woman. Music is playing in the background in what must be French. The lady turns her head back towards the fire and then speaks, in French. Another lady sitting cross-legged a bit closer to the fire turns her head to respond. It’s so strange, almost as if they don’t know I’m here. I gaze up at the clock on the mantelpiece. It’s absolutely stunning; an antique golden clock probably worth thousands. The cigarette from the woman’s hand on the couch emits smoke in my direction and I get up and brush myself off to discover that I too am nude.

The woman’s voice is rough as she asks without even looking at me,

“Tu es prête?”

From my limited remembrance of French I believe she’s asking if I’m ready.

Ready for what? I think to myself.

“Prête pour….?”

My voice trails off.

Her hoarse scratchy voice emits the closest thing I think she can to a laugh as she turns around revealing her full nudity and grabs my hand and pulls me.

What I thought was a small mansion turns out to be quite large, but I’m only in the foyer for a minute before I’m dragged into a bedroom. The lady turns to me.

“Ça va?” she asks.

I blink in response.

“Pourqoui les yeux rouges?” she asks.

I say nothing.

“Tu es prête.” She says.

“Tu es prête.” she repeats firmly.

She exits and closes the door behind her. I’m so exhausted and plop onto the bed. I want to put on some clothing. I’m confused, disoriented. What am I doing here? She re-enters. Following her is a man about 50 years old with wild eyes. His gaze depicts famish. And then the connection hits and I understand exactly what Degas was depicting.