Free The Art School Dance by Maria Blanca Alonso

mystery
of such rites which held me to the church, this rather than that
blind faith which was the comfort of others. My mother and Gran
were devout Catholics still, despite all the troubles they had
suffered, but theirs was a truly blind faith; I felt sure that if
their God was a good God then he would be forced to look kindly on
my reasoned agnosticism, certainly more kindly than he would look
on their unreasoned acceptance. If their God was good, that is.
    *
    I suppose that
Sunday coming around further turned my thoughts to religion; with
no religion other than my painting the holy day seemed such an
empty day, nothing more than an interlude between one week and the
next. My mother and Gran went to their usual early morning mass,
and as always, just before they left and immediately on their
return, there was an uncomfortable silence, looks cast in my
direction which I could only regard as accusing; we no longer
argued about the lapsing of my faith, but I always sensed their
disapproval.
    Perhaps to
ease the tension which would come with their return, and in some
way make amends for their disappointment in me, I prepared
breakfast for them -they would never eat before mass, they always
went to communion- fried up platefuls of bacon, eggs, tomatoes,
black pudding. I timed it just right and the food was ready as they
came in and took off their coats, all they needed to do was sit
down at the table.
    ‘ This is
nice,’ said my mother, pleased, but Gran just stood there, all
dressed in black with a shiny silver brooch on the breast of her
coat, and looked me up and down. I knew Gran was looking at my
clothes, the paint stained jeans, and noting that since I hadn't
got on a sober dress this meant that I wouldn’t be going to church
at all. I told her to sit down and get her breakfast before it went
cold -mother was already at the table- but she just stood there a
moment or two longer, then turned away.
    ‘ What
about your breakfast?’ I asked her.
    ‘ I need
to go to my room and say the Rosary,’ Gran muttered, not even
having the courtesy to face me as she spoke.
    I wanted to
curse her as I listened to her slow step clumping up the stairs.
Seething, I set about my own breakfast noisily, knife and fork
flashing like the tools of a psychopath.
    ‘ It’s
Sunday,’ my mother excused the old lady, ‘and she always hopes
you’ll go to church. So do I.’
    ‘ And if
I did would it make me as unchristian as her?’ I asked
acidly.
    ‘ Now
there’s no need for you to say that, Ginny. You know she’s a good
woman at heart.’
    To others,
maybe, to her fellow church goers, but to me she was becoming a
wicked and vindictive old hag. I couldn’t stomach Gran and I
couldn’t stomach the food I’d cooked; I pushed my plate to one side
and told my mother that I was going for a walk.
    *
    Luckily Sunday
was only one seventh part of the week and it was soon over with, I
was able to get back to work. I’d finished the painting of the meat
a week or so before the end of term. In it the pope was wailing and
screaming like someone demented, his face on the body of Arthur the
butcher who I’d painted into the background, behind the carcass of
meat, white apron spattered with blood and gore, a dripping cleaver
in his hand. I’d reached that crucial point where I knew the work
was finished, where to do any more would be to spoil it; the same
went for the portrait of Stephen, and I was at a dead end. There
was less than a week to go before I started work on the post, after
that was the holiday, I didn’t want to begin another major work
just then, there wouldn’t be time to get into it and it would be
too easy to lose the rhythm. I passed the last days of the term
with minor stuff, then, objective drawings to fill out my
portfolio, still-lifes, sketches, studies of corners of the studio.
And then came the last life session of the term.
    *
    Ben had Paula
in a standing pose, against a low screen; the screen came just
about up to her