The words over at Three Word Wednesday are abrupt, kernel and wield.
There’s no bench in front of the Pollock, so she sits on the thin, gray carpet covering the floor, legs sprawled out toward the canvas, her arms a double kick-stand behind her back. He notices that her wrists have gone white without a steady flow of blood.
Her expression isn’t one of awe, more scowl than appreciation, he thinks. Waves of emotion move across her face, a canvas of swirling emotion.
He stands slightly behind to her right, wanting to soak in Jackson Pollock’s sweeping work, a canvas measuring 8-foot, 9-inches by 17-feet, 3-inches in which Pollock wielded sticks, knives and a turkey baster to create an image that is continuously on the move.
She’s centered on the painting, her black, knee-length boots nearly touching the gray cord warning patrons they’ve gotten too close. When she stretches her toes, which she does often as the expressions vary across her face, the boots nearly strum the cord, as if to pluck a single guitar string.
Impatient, he taps a toe of his Converse All-Stars and pleads with his eyes toward the ever-watchful docent, dressed in her blue blazer and maroon scarf. She can only shrug her shoulders and smile, weakly.
There’s only one place to be when looking at Autumn Rhythm No. 30. He knows this. It’s from a standing position at it’s center, left foot slightly in front of the right with arms crossed at the chest. In that position, it allows his peripheral vision to swirl messages to the brain.
It is this kernel of truth now ruined by this vulgar woman stretched out on the floor.
Sniffing deeply, he moves back a step, centers himself on the Pollock, closes his eyes. Breathing deep, with a certain sense of purpose, he opens his eyes.
And looks down at the woman, who now has her head tilted back, looking at him, a strange smile on her face.
“Excuse me, but you’re kinda creeping me out back there,” she says. “I mean, you’re practically standing right on top of me.”
Cheeks flush, he’s at a loss for what to say. She smiles, tilts her head, sending her dirty-blond ponytail swishing across the black leather of her jacket.
Collecting himself, he flips his sport coat back, places his hands on his hips, defiant.
“Excuse me, but you’re flopped out in front of my favorite painting in the world like a dead fish,” he says. “Plopped on the floor like a bored third-grader. It’s annoying.”
Bending at the torso, she rubs her wrists quickly, brings her feet toward her ass and stands abruptly.
She’s much taller than he’s even considered, close to 6-feet, and looks him in the eyes with pursed, red lips.
She tilts an eyebrow.
Hands now on his shoulders, she moves around him close, her front to his back. He trembles slightly.
“Down,” she says, gently putting pressure on his shoulders.
He sits, centered on the painting, his legs sprawled to the canvas, his All-Stars nearly touching the rope. To steady himself, he puts his arms behind him.
Pollock’s swirl of acrylic paint dances across his eyes, flooding his brain with messages. Waves of emotion sail across his face. A tear falls.
Kneeling behind him, pale hands on shoulders, she leans in to his neck, a lover’s move, and whispers.
“Let’s just keep this all for ourselves, shall we?”