Whistle blower
your table shine is mine
In my mind’s eye I saw from below the coffee table again, its underside constructed for ultimate-fold and transportability. Atop this table, opposite from where I hid, stood a woman wrapped in a scarf and covered from breast to toe in a black jump suit. She whistled a tune that, by way of my open-plan apartment’s acoustics, rang true through the room. The women held her arms aloft balancing core-weight against one table leg that appeared shorter than the others – she swayed from one foot to the other on the balls of her feet, and the table followed suit in time with her song.
I was sat amongst my objects on the half of the open plan space that housed my studio endeavors – ever since I invited the women in I had begun to construct a hide out for myself amongst paintings: by now she was so coveted by her song her eyes were blind against her senses, and I could move unseen and unheard gradually gaining on her – closer and closer still and then upon her.
I needed the coffee table, I had inspected its underbelly and had planned a painting using its alterior surface as a ground for decided incisions, cuttings, and pastings – I had the oils mixed and ready, emulsified with turpentine and bees wax.
I would only get so close before interrupting her flow. I had to carefully plan my moves, one after the other, to increment this sound and build upon her display. She had to fall in the opposite direction towards the window for the table, pushed by her dexterous mishap, to carefully roll on to my side of the space. One foot wrong on my part and she would fall the wrong way.
I got as far as the staircase in the middle of the room and had to stop. She stared right in to my eyes as her whistle reached a higher tone, as if to pierce right through me…
