Collective stories: ‘The Art of Painting’

Here they are. (Johannes Vermeer)

Here they are. (Johannes Vermeer)

—How is it going?
—It looks nice; but hold the trumpet up, it’s going down.
—What did you expect? I’ve been like this for almost forty minutes. You can be glad I’ve got the book on my breasts. It’d be on the floor now otherwise.
—Support as many things as you can on them while you’re young. They’ll be the ones on the floor when you grow old.
—What an uncouth thing to say.
—Uncouth? As a painter I pay attention to geometry and the physics that affects it. There’s no uncouthness in acknowledging the power of gravity.
—I acknowledge the gravity of you analysing my beauties whenever you paint me. I guess your missus is still not willing to play with you.
—Don’t mock me. I once had plenty of women, women to spare.
—No, you didn’t…
—Well, not that many; however, I held regular and satisfying intercourse with them. But look at me now. I’ve done nothing since the boy was born. That’s almost two years. I’m close to virginity again.
—That’s awful. If that’s what being a mother is, I’m never having children.
—Sure. I can tell you’re a cheeky and playful girl. How long has it been since your last time?
—I’d have to count it. Let’s see; what time is it?

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