You Never Know Which Artwork Will Stay with You, Becoming Entirely Beloved, Entirely Necessary ~ fiction by Sumitra Singam

In the third month of our relationship, we attend a Bonnard exhibition. There is a feeling that the exhibition might go on forever; one room of artwork endlessly spilling into another. I have a thought that our relationship could be like that, with no sense of an ending, just a series of experiences tumbling into each other. I am looking at a portrait of Bonnard’s partner, Marthe. She is towelling herself after a bath, her voluptuous pot belly and bushy pubic hair unashamedly on show. I feel a stirring in my own belly. Maybe tonight, it might not matter that I haven’t waxed. I have a flash of you lifting my arms over my head, inhaling greedily at my armpits. I feel like I could show all of myself to you now.

In the seventh month of our relationship, we attend a modern art exhibition. It is labelled as “brash and inventive.” You pull me over to look at a single black line on a sheet of paper, as if drawn by a child’s hand; the sort of artwork that makes us wonder why we haven’t made it big. And you begin humming the pompous trumpet intro from Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition, and we fizz with laughter. An angular woman in a silk skirt and combat boots frowns at us. We clutch each other, giggling like teens, escape to the café for cake.

In the ninth month of our relationship, we go to an exhibition of expressionist painting. There is a Kandinsky, a couple on horseback. The woman has her face to me, and she leans on her partner in an attitude of complete trust. I look for you, but you’ve moved on. You catch my eye, mime lifting a cup to your mouth. I notice the startling pairing of wallpaper in the gallery—magenta checks on a yellow background. It should be jarring, but it is a beautifully unexpected combination, soothing to the eye. I nod, moving into your outstretched arm.

We mark our first anniversary with an exhibition of First Nations artists. The colours are strong—ochre, brown, red, yellow. They echo the scenery outside, leaves falling like coloured snow. You say that you want the swirl of life proving in my belly to be steeped in culture from the start. I am caught by “Narripi Worm Dreaming” by Clifford Possum Tjapaltjarri. The plaque says that this is the story of how the male worm wanders around, seeking his mate, singing love songs to attract her. As he wanders, he leaves tracks on the ground. It looks like a labyrinth to me, one with no exit.

One-and-a-half years into our relationship, we go to a Picasso exhibition. We move from precise line drawings to disorienting cubism. There are pictures of women everywhere, pinned to the walls like butterflies. “Genius,” you say, your face admiring. My swollen belly holds me in place in front of the portrait of Dora Maar, and I see myself fractured through the prism of your eyes, pieces of me falling like a burst rainbow.

Three-and-a-half years into our relationship, we go to a Yayoi Kusama exhibition. You say that the geometric patterns and bright colours will be good for Alfie. I read a summary of Kusama’s life and learn that her childhood had been cloistered and traumatic, and that her art is a representation of her hallucinations. I wander through the hallways of dots and stripes, losing our son’s bright jacket in the disorienting artwork. I think of Tjapaltjarri’s labyrinth again, I think of what it might take to be found.

The day our relationship ends, we go to a Francis Bacon exhibition. Alfie runs through the gallery, shrieking. You are oblivious to my entreaties to our son to stop. I am embarrassed by how much I long for your help, even just the calm of your arm on my hand. You are transfixed by a painting of a feral-looking baby, prowling towards a misshapen mother-figure on the other end of a curved guardrail. “My God,” you say, “the things mothers do to their children.” In that moment, we are finished. I cannot move from this hateful orange-and-red picture, this will be my last memory of us. My body pulses with heat, I want to rip this canvas off the wall, stomp on it, scream a war cry. But you’ve found Alfie, you have him in your arms, so instead, I say to you, “I think we’d better go.”

Sumitra Singam is a Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She traveled through many spaces, both beautiful and traumatic, to get there and writes to make sense of her experiences. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). She works in mental health. You can find her and her other publication credits on Twitter: @pleomorphic2.