Untitled 17

Part 1 – Prune juice

Vicki looks a bit surprised to see me enter the main room with the baby in my arms. Ellie is not just awake, but crying, wriggling and struggling, all of which are more intense now than any other point since her constipation began.

‘Maybe you’re right. About the prune juice. It just feels … Excessive.’

‘There’s no time,’ says Vicki. ‘Unless you’ve finished that last painting?’

‘It ... It’s strong how it is.’

‘But you said Evil Bitch wouldn’t like it.’

‘She won’t.’

Vicki has good reason for looking uncomfortable about this. Evil Bitch has been a legend in the art world for decades on decades. Artists she dismisses fail spectacularly. But those she champions? They’re always incredibly successful. I’ve already chosen two pieces that will appeal to her eye for their commerciality. With a few adjustments, the piece still in the studio would too, but adding another layer to it would also dilute the authenticity that is its greatest strength.

‘It would be best to leave it as it is.’

‘In that case, we may as well do it now.’ Vicki bites her lip. ‘The prune juice. End the constipation. Ellie will be happier.’

‘Are you sure it’s safe?’

‘Of course. Mum used to give it to old people all the time when she was a nurse.’

‘But … Didn’t they die?’

‘Probably not from the prune juice ... She just wasn’t a very good nurse.’

Ellie moans and writhes in my arms.

‘Let’s do it.’

In the kitchen, Vicky crouches until the calibrations on the baby bottle are at eye level. Unconsciously holding her breath, she pours tilts the carton, watching the prune juice slowly fill the bottom of the bottle. A bead of sweat runs down the side of her face. At one point her eyes flicker, looking for mine, but she continues, until, finally, the liquid reaches the ten-millilitre mark. She releases a sigh of relief, puts the carton on the draining board and screws the teat onto the bottle.

‘Are you sure you’re sure?’

‘Definitely.’

We return to the main room. Walk around the large table, squeeze past the two easels covered with sheets and sit on the couch by the bay window. Give the baby bottle to Ellie. Watch her drink. Watch as consume every last drop. And feel a chill as she looks at us and smiles.

Part 2 – Shit

It begins almost straight away.

A sound. A loud gurgling sound from deep inside Ellie. It lasts several seconds.

‘It couldn’t possibly go that quickly.’ Vicki eyes widen. ‘Could it?’

‘Give her a sniff.’

‘Uh … A sniff. Okay.’

Because it’s a hot day, Ellie is only wearing her nappy. As the gurgles sound again, we see little waves ripple across her belly. My wife tentatively leans towards her, but pauses, looking me in the eye, before slowly, reluctantly, moving her nose closer to Ellie.

‘Oh dear fuck,’ she shouts. ‘Fuck! Fuck!’

‘Does it stink that badly?’

‘Fuck!’ Vicky starts blinking incessantly, her faced going pale, tears streaming down it. ‘My eye! My left eye just went blind!’

‘It can’t stink that badly.’ A little uncertain, I carefully sniff the air. ‘Oh fuck me! Quick! Open the window!’

Vicki runs to the window, but all it does is rattle.

‘Oh fuck no!’ I dry-retch, still holding Ellie with both hands. ‘Throw something through.’

Vicky grabs the cat. It bounces off the window, screeches and runs away.

‘Leave it. Quick! Let’s change her. QUICK!’

Holding Ellie at arm’s length, I race down the hallway to the studio where we keep the change table. Vicki, eye swollen and red, tries to do the same, only to run face-first into the doorframe.

Along with stacks of palettes, loose sketches and tubes of paint, a few completed canvases go crashing to the floor as I stagger through to the change table in the far corner of the room. Plonk Ellie down on the changing mat. Reach for a fresh nappy. Pop the baby wipe container open. But then there’s a sound. One from deep inside Ellie. A loud gurling sound.

‘No! Ellie! No –’

Liquid shit starts squirting out the leg holes of the nappy. It squirts out at the waist. Across Ellie’s belly. Up her back. It starts sprays out everywhere like a demented fountain. There’s no stopping it. The smell is horrific. I hold my breath, but it doesn’t help much. My eyes water. My nose bleeds. The glass in the window splits. Every dog in a three-block radius begins barking or howling. The liquid keeps spurting out of the nappy. Ellie, lying on her back, giggles as liquid shit pools around her.

‘No! Don’t splash your hands in it!’

Ellie tries to put her shit-covered hand in her mouth.

‘No!’

‘Pop her in the bath!’ Vicky croaks, stumbling in the door. ‘We’ll hose her off.’

‘Right!’

I’ve already grabbed both of Ellie’s hands with my left hand, but just as I’m about to pin her legs together with my right hand … There’s another loud gurgling sound.

The fart is so powerful it blasts me across the room and into the opposite wall. Ellie slips out of my grasp, skidding, crawling across the room, over the sketches and canvases littering the floor, a thick trail of liquid shit tracking her path. On my knees, eyes watering, slipping and sliding in the sludge covering everything, I stagger to scoop up the laughing, farting baby.

‘Get the nappy off!’

Vicki bravely tears at it. A waterfall of chunky brown diarrhoea bursts out, hits the floor and splashes, covering every surface, as well as Vicki and I, with faecal gunk. But we ignore it and rush to the bathroom.

The moment Ellie’s backside touches the bathtub the enamel starts to peel away. Vicki is using the showerhead to squirt her down, the water pooling around Ellie, who starts reaching for the chunks of shit floating in it.

‘No!’

‘Give her something to play with!’

My left hand holds Ellie in a sitting position. My right hand reaches up to the shelf and hands her a toy that starts to happily buzz.

‘Shit! No!’ My wife reaches full panic mode. ‘You can’t give her that!’

‘Why the fuck not?’

‘It’s my vibrator!’

I look at what my shit-covered baby is slowly chewing on.

‘Fuck!’

I quickly swap the vibrator for the next item my hand finds, a kind of fluffy, spongey bath loofah. It instantly soaks up shit. Ellie squeezes it in her little hand. Brown shit-water dribbles out. Lifts it towards her mouth. I grab it and throw it.

‘Think! What do you use to clean shit off a baby?’

‘How should I know?’ Vicki shakes her head. ‘Babies don’t come with washing instructions!’

‘What about dishwashing detergent? Or acetone? Would it be strong enough?’

‘Just …’ Vicki coughs from the fumes. ‘Just start with the baby soap!’

I look at my Ellie. ‘We’re gonna need more.’

Vicki uses the shower head to rinse Ellie off while I rub baby soap all over her. And although she’s becoming cleaner, the plug hole clogs up. Vicki looks at me. I look at her. Reach down with my bare hand and start scooping out chunks of baby shit.

Which is when we hear it.

‘No. No, no, no, no, no!’

‘Is it?’

The doorbell rings again.

‘It must be,’ I tremble. ‘Evil Bitch must be here already.’

Part 3 – Art

Vicki wraps Ellie in a towel and plonks her down in the cot in our bedroom, before rushing around, opening windows and lighting candles. In mere seconds, I’ve wiped the shit spatters off my face, changed clothes, and raced back down the hallway to open the front door. Evil Bitch. There’s no mistaking the sour, puckered face, the look of utter contempt, the smell of formaldehyde. Her grey hair is pulled back in a bun, the wrinkles on her face almost unnoticeable due to the fangs showing in her demented smile. Less than five foot tall, more than a hundred years old, she still looks focused and determined, even compared to the pair of identical sycophants flanking her.

‘Thank you so much for coming. It’s wonderful to see you.’

‘And you,’ she croaks, breathing stale death and nonchalantly doing the obligatory air kisses. ‘My favourite up-and-coming artist.’

‘Please, do come in. Sit down. Would you like anything to drink?’

‘Coffee.’ She hobbles her way inside, what might be a peg leg making an unusual clacking sound on the floor tiles. ‘As hot and strong as possible for me. White and weak for these two. Use soy milk. They’ve lost their dairy privileges for today.’

Evil Bitch is famously addicted to coffee. The theory is that after years of feasting on the tears of orphans, all her tastebuds died off, leaving her unable to taste anything, except possibly, the strongest, most bitter coffee. Vicki and I scoured the town for the strongest coffee our machine was capable of processing. And although it takes a few minutes to prepare it, when I walked into the main room from the kitchen, the two sycophants have still not sat down. Like Anubian guards in identical black suits, they stand at attention either side of where Evil Bitch is sitting, he claws politely resting on the table.

‘Now …’ Evil Bitch sips at her coffee. She spits it back into the mug. ‘What do you have for me?’

‘A few pieces. They’re about—’

‘Don’t tell me.’ A little saliva escapes Evil Bitch’s mouth as she talks. A little tendril of smoke rises up from where it burns into the wooden table top. ‘You’re the artist. Why would you know what your art’s about? Just show what you have and be silent. You’ll appear less stupid that way.’

When I remove the sheet from the first canvas, Evil Bitch stands up, moves closer and leans forward, making musing sounds. The sycophants do exactly the same.

‘What do you think?’

Evil Bitch rubs her chin. With the professionalism of any self-proclaimed expert, she visually dismantles the image, analysing it and heartlessly comparing it to other pieces that have become wedged in her memory, for better or worse, so she’ll be able to witfully and knowingly make disparaging comments. Reaches for her coffee. Actually drinks it this time. It makes a clattering sound as it runs down her throat. And, after a long silence, she sucks in a breath to speak.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ Evil Bitch repeats. ‘Very fine work. Magnificent.’

‘Do you think it’s marketable? Is it the sort of piece that would sell?’

‘Goodness no.’ A shake of the head. ‘It’s excellent.’

‘But—’

She puts a hand up. And moves to the other piece. The sycophants follow her. They repeat the same examination ritual.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes?’

‘What else do you have?’

‘What else?’

‘What other pieces?’

‘Nothing that’s finished.’

‘I’ll decide what’s finished. Where do you paint? Where do you keep the other canvases?’

‘Why don’t you wait here? I’ll bring a few of the stronger pieces.’

‘As if you know what’s strong,’ she makes what may be a laughing sound. At least the sound the sycophants make afterwards sounds like laughing. With her it’s like the sound of unicorns being tortured. ‘It’s my job to decide what’s good or strong. You’re just here to create it. You wouldn’t know what’s good or strong.’

With that, she hobbles towards the hallway, her peg-leg clacking and the sycophants following with the mindless loyalty of newborn puppies.

‘Please don’t! You really don’t want to look in there—’

Vicki has closed the door to the bathroom and the bedroom, which Evil Bitch passes, but the door to the studio is open. She stands in the doorway, stock still, her pinched, sour perineum of a face frowning slightly as it processes the scene before her. The two followers stand at rigid attention behind her.

‘What … What is this?’

The fear and desolation flips when I see Vicki has cleaned the room. Mopped the floors and walls, placed shit-stained canvases to the side, and filled the room with honey and lavender candles to hide the stench of diarrhoea. The piece I had decided not to add to is now clearly smeared with liquified faeces. And it’s standing on an easel in the centre of the room.

Evil Bitch stumbles forward a step. A cracking sound as, holding the door frame for support, she slowly bends her legs and kneels on the floor.

‘The statement …’

‘Daring,’ says Sycophant 1. ‘Audacious.’

‘Post-ante-art,’ says Sycophant 2. ‘Unless … It can’t be … But is it? Is it neo-post-ante-art?’

‘Yet ...’ Evil Bitch drools slightly. ‘It’s self-defeating. Finding strength in its inferiority.’

‘Maybe I should explain—’

‘Quiet!’

‘There’s humour. Immaturity. Silliness. Yes. Impudence.’

‘But it’s also an analogy. A meta-comment. Targeting himself. And us.’

‘Inconsistent.’

‘Yet fluid.’

‘For me …’ Evil Bitch pauses. ‘For me, it’s very … ∑.’

‘Extremely ∑!’

They all nod in self-satisfied agreement.

‘It’s … You don’t understand.’ My voice is flooded with incredulity. ‘It’s shit. Literally shit.’

‘No!’ Evil Bitch glares, furious at me for having an opinion about my own work. ‘No. There are frequent … Vague little references for us to (mis)interpret … It asks us to question whether it’s commenting on the creative process itself or what we perceive as being art. Maybe it’s about our role in assessing quality art and the compunction to ascribe meaning to it.’

‘No, it’s just … Shit.’

But my objections fall on deaf ears.

‘This … It reflects the art world as a whole. It speaks truth. It represents us all.’

Part 4 – Integrity

One of the sycophants is piling up different papers and contracts. The other waits until Evil Bitch is comfortably sitting at the dining table before handing her a fountain pen and bottle of what looks like a cross between ink and blood.

‘It’s time,’ she croaks, ‘Why don’t you make more coffee while we draw up the contracts.’

‘But …’

‘We must have a contract if we are going to represent your art.’ A pause. ‘Or purchase it.’

‘It?’

‘The piece. I’ve decided it will be called Untitled 17. The empty suggestion of mystery in the title is bound to appeal to the rich, the shallow and the ignorant.’

‘Brilliant!’ says Sycophant 1.

‘Love it!’ says Sycophant 2.

‘But what about the other pieces?’ I point to them. ‘They’re more representative of me.’

‘Who?’

‘Me. The artist.’

They all look confused.

‘You?’ Evil Bitch cackles, her slightly forked tongue quickly licking her lips before she continues: What do you have to do with any of this? Go make coffee.’

Vicki appears the moment the front door has closed behind them, her forehead contorted with a mix of sorrow and disappointment. Ellie is in her arms. Now her constipation has passed, the baby appears to be even more bubbly and happy than usual.

‘Thank you for cleaning so quickly.’

‘No problem. We were in the bedroom and heard them … Did you sign the contracts?’

‘What choice was there?’

‘You could have—’ Vicki’s eyes betray her lack of belief in what she’s saying ‘—not signed?’

‘And gone against Evil Bitch?’

‘Right.’ Vicki looks at the floor, nodding, and puts a hand on my arm. ‘You had no choice.’

‘At least she took it with her.’

We walk to the window and silently watch as one sycophant helps Evil Bitch into the back of the luxury car. The other waits, then hands her the painting, before closing the car door. The sycophants climb into the front. There’s a slight shudder as the engine starts.

‘You poured prune juice into her last cup of coffee, didn’t you?’

‘For the sycophants too.’

There was far too much prune juice for them not to notice there was something odd. But even if they were actually capable of independent thought, there was no way the sycophants would ever say anything to Evil Bitch. They wouldn’t now either. Evil Bitch would annihilate them for having kept quiet before.

‘How long do you think it will be before it hits them?’

A blast of liquid brown splatters across the inside of the vehicle windows.

‘Maybe not too long.’

‘Wonderful.’ We look at the scene before us, Vicki smiling. ‘Just beautiful.’