SILLAGE
Yet the sense of overwhelm did not quite dissipate till a canvas at the far end enticed her attention towards it.
Yet the sense of overwhelm did not quite dissipate till a canvas at the far end enticed her attention towards it. Characters of facts and imagination, portraits, self-portaits—fifteen works were on display* at the show scattered across two floors. Greta Thunberg, David Bowie, Frank Ocean, Isolde. Fleeting, in soft strokes, Myia saw a lot of affection in the paintings. Vivid and tender, both. She really liked the portrait of Greta in its celestial blues and arresting purples. Sipping wine amid the visitors celebrating the works, she noticed that the drydown emanating from her wrist had now settled.
The perfume was a gift, a surprise Paul gave her while they were holidaying in Cairo over two years ago. He had crawled into the bed one morning spraying her ankle, her calf, and the small of her back, humming good morning, good morning in the softest of voices. I picked this for you, he said. The scent lingered in the sheets over the following days. Myia missed Paul more than she liked to admit; long distance was demanding. But then again, Paul was always present when she called. Supportive, he’d say, I love you and I need you and You are beautiful. Their relationship was alive and fruitful in a way that felt real. Besides, not being sequestered in the quotidian was surprisingly generative—liberating. Even so, what in a relationship are you sharing if not each other’s physical presence? Myia at times wondered if she might be missing the point altogether.
Earlier that afternoon, as she was getting ready for the art opening, the scent emanating from the bottle puzzled her. She paused. Gave the bottle a good shake and sprayed her wrist once more. Poked her nose at it: she could not decide if it was her. Was she out of sorts today? It was evanescent but it was here; she could sense it but not, if she really tried to think about it, quite figure it out. She placed the bottle atop a console nearby. Parted her hair to the sides and twisted it into a bun. She stood bemused, faraway, observing her reflection in the mirror. Watching herself come to her own senses was reassuring. The light reflected correctly, and what came out was loving.
Elizabeth Peyton at Sadie Coles HQ, 1 Davies Street W1, 03 May 2019