Landscape of a Kindergarten

Life was everywhere. And I approached Life and asked it if I could write about it. I bowled right up to it on this occasion. Life had often looked at me, up and down, assessing me mentally, weighing its options, and in the end deciding it liked to embrace the new. It was yet to turn me down. Of course, only human beings ever said, ‘no!’ In one sense, they were the worst. So, half the staff had turned my portrait down already, whether they knew what it even meant or not, but I wrote about the kindergarten because words put down in an imaginative order were love, they were freedom, they were hope for the children and the future. They were pied pipers, telling children to think for themselves and not do and be what everyone else was, not to follow blindly, to calculate for themselves. So, nobody could stop me believing in nor sharing that lyrical freedom, that desire to write, to share, to be. They could not deny me that. The kindergarten was complex, emotional, a new world. The place was a hive of busy little bodies. The adults watched over, but the children stole the show.

Kindergarten was a paella of sorts, a little bit of everything chucked in, and it worked. So much flavour, almost too much to handle. In all its gorgeous chaos, this perennial play hub was home from home for my stunning little girl. Life was in some form.

The senses were flourishing. There was all this colour, lots of smells, both wonderful and typical as well as the not such great and naturally anticipated ones, and noise, that commander of pollution, always followed by silence, although mostly noise, before the curtain fell each day and it imminently started all over again. Parents came and went. Children bawled and brimmed with joy, they bled and blossomed there. They fell and got back up – and had no idea that life (Life) would look like that until the very end. They were oblivious, luckily, to the world beyond the bubble. At least, most kids, hopefully, were protected to the degree that the hardships and brutality of the wider world was kept from their doors until the latest possible moment. Ideally, until early adulthood.

Often, a Danish kid had stared at me speaking English to my daughter – a classmate to some of them, a playmate to others, or someone other little ones just noticed. They were mesmerised by our language and the interactions we shared. It was all Life; you could feel it spilling over and out the gates and mounting the fences to try to escape at times. Find what lay beyond their bubble, discover something else.

Inside, the place was vibrant, a hustle and bustle as if a micro-city were in motion. Kids could be heard shouting excitedly, playing, crying, asking questions, running, sometimes tripping, parents corralling their kids to get ready, to go in, to come out, to listen. Ah! To listen. That which children seemed to choose not to do. Regularly. It was total and utter, glorious chaos.

Their artworks hung from the ceilings, adorned the walls, were taken home, little shards of their time and development, their childish souls and early skills revealed, visible snippets of how they passed the hours, splashes of colour everywhere.

This was the exact location, the nucleus of my little girl’s transition from an English-speaking bubble to Danish life. She had encountered more other adults, kids, non-native language than ever before. She had her own little life now. Life Jr. I missed her more than I could imagine. The summer holidays came, and I rejoiced, even if it meant making my own days, temporarily, much harder. There could be no doubt about that whatsoever. Missing her. Or how complex it would be.

Often, when I picked her up, Kid O was muddied, covered from head to toe in soil, sand, even mud, the effects of the forest where the kids spend so much of their time all over her. They were out in all weather, embracing the days we were delivered and not pining for something other. As she had grown more confident at the kindergarten, she had become increasingly dirty, her playtime involving burying herself in the sand pit and the earth’s natural materials. It was a sign of her getting involved more actively in the group’s play activities, in diving into that world, a symbol of her development and the riches she was clearly finding there.

I had observed her increasingly active in the little ones’ playground at the back – or was it the front? – of the kindergarten. She was being pushed on the swings by some other kids after months of remaining in the shadows, timid, even afraid, lost in her entirely new space, and she had finally started to interact, to communicate, to embrace. Always her being pushed, oddly, and never the other way round. In fact, the transformation had been spectacular, sudden, and extremely satisfying. The swings were soon her favourite activity upon which I found her every time I went to pick her up. She would soon be standing on it – no longer needing another child to push her – chest proudly, defiantly pushed out, as she punished the air as she burst it going forwards and retreated over and over… it was spellbinding. The change, the scene. Unforgettable. The teachers who had facilitated the shift, the vessels of early learning, of nurturing, of linguistic, physical, emotional, mental development, were worthy of our acknowledgement and praise for their parts in all of this. After all, without them our children would be at home, running rings around us, sending us to all manner of chaotic days and back. Just ask the weekends of Life, for they knew only too well.   

Vaclav (August 2023)

Vaclav, affable Czech-born, Swiss-based LinkedIn expert, is a bright, inspirational, and knowing force. His wisdom transmits itself in his internet content, his smile, his distribution of words, his approachability unrivalled. He is someone connecting the dots of individuals out there in the cyber working sphere. He shares what he knows to aid others. His face aglow with the bustling energy of life, he exudes a charm and warmth his peers are likely lacking. His online content bristles with, is shaped by, and drips with a passion for people, places, and shared experiences. He is a fount of knowledge.

Vaclav says that Swiss precision is his reason for being online a minute early when I join our meeting. “That’s how it should be!” he adds. I agree. He needs to leave the room briefly and reappears ready for action. He is in his office at the honorary consulate of Czechia in Basel, Switzerland, launching straight into what he will later tell me is his verbal diarrhoea, according to his late father. Behind him are just a plant, a clock on the wall, a picture frame, and blinds that are slowly dancing to a gentle breeze.

He looked at his phone, after saying he should not have before our meeting, and the news that his German friend Adolf – someone he met in a restaurant in Prague in 1985, and who had recently suffered a fall – has died at 83 years of age has reached him, momentarily flickering flames of sadness visible on his face. But he passes through it, the unstoppable force that he is, and moves onto the next chapter of conversation. This leads to a mention that his own family lives to ripe old ages and his genes are clearly onto something, as we mention earlier deaths and how they seem to occur more frequently than ever before.

His responses always come thick and fast, a sharpness, a youthful eagerness to interact, and perhaps even please, infusing his every interaction.

A father to three daughters, I can only imagine what bright sparks they might be having been half-fashioned by this man. I also extend the sense of magic I feel compelled to think his wife, and their mother, must be to include her.

His pate is near naked, short grey hair on the sides and top of his head. His eyes are blue – bluey-grey – and he wears glasses with black frames on the upper part and un-framed lenses on the lower halves (they are multi-focal, complex, several times corrected). He could not care less about brands, unless it is his beloved homeland, Czechia. Flashes of joy and fire invite themselves to his features with alarming frequency, an invisible queue somewhere nearby to them.

He tells me he got swindled recently and he cannot believe it happened. He focusses on how to move on and be positive, filing with the cyber police unlikely to bring any success, but it naturally rankles with him.

Only 2% of people are advancing humanity, Vaclav says, according to a Czech astrophysicist. He states he might be an expert on LinkedIn, but he is still a human being with lots of faults. He then takes issue with a well-known online platform that is clearly a dictatorship and its connection with his homeland Czechia, as he calls it, as it is increasingly known, as he regularly champions, otherwise known as the Czech Republic. He is incredibly enthusiastic about the ancient name ‘Czechia’ – growing in its popularity and use – which is the English language translation of what the Czechs call their own land. Vaclav talks easily, speedily, and it’s hard to keep up with his train of thought.

He tells me he is a polite person, but regarding some of the websites we mention he is seething and unable to contain his annoyance. His language, therefore, is bluer than I had anticipated, his passion overspilling.

He is chewing a Tic-tac whilst sending out missile comments, calling himself a rebel, stating he goes in the ‘opposite direction’ to the masses. It’s clear from the offset. He then tells me I am a classical uncut diamond and that it isn’t that I cannot do it yet, just that I have not yet learned it.

He has a slim wedding ring on the finger on one hand and a silver bracelet on the opposite wrist, each wrist adorned with what looks like a watch. One is his Samsung smartwatch. His real watch is a Citizen Echo Drive. His favoured timepiece is an Omega Speedmaster – an iconic model, the moon landing watch (the first watch on the moon). He used to be extremely knowledgeable about watches when he was younger. He is wearing a Mammut shirt – a light summer shirt that is easily washed and dried.

We talk about The Beatles, Dylan, and other great music (he mentions punk, reggae, and Frank Zappa) – not commercial rubbish – and end up with more blue words when it morphs into a discussion about recent cinematic release, Barbie, for which neither of us has any time.

He is Roman Catholic with a Buddhist mindset, correcting himself as he goes, aware brushstroke words are capturing him as we talk. He is relaxed about the portrait, an open door, inviting the experience in. He considers aspects of Czechia (often there, less since his parents passed away), Austria (seldom there these days), and Switzerland provide him with the feeling of being at ‘home.’

We then talk about Sugar Man star Rodriguez who died last week, Bill Fay, drinking alcohol and taking a break from it (not for health reasons). He likes the state of mind of having a few beers and relaxing but is bowled over by how good non-alcoholic beers taste. So, he hasn’t missed alcohol at all.

In his earlier workdays (post-chemistry education), Vaclav was responsible for a team, and fostered a huge financial income and big business for his company, but he didn’t like it. It wasn’t him. That shade not suiting him at all.

A ten-mile radius in Basel keeps his whole family nearby. He tells me that his experience of parenthood is that ‘coming of age’ is difficult, but he remains extremely close with all three of his daughters.

He then says, ‘I don’t give a shit if I am this age (sixty, I believe)! I love wrinkles. I love them on my wife.’ He went mostly bald at thirty, and he just wants to stay healthy and exercise. So, we discuss the spectacular advantages of walking, and how it can extend a life. Upbeat, not easy to get down, and an ice hockey goaltender (who trains once a week and plays matches sometimes), Vaclav is someone full of surprises.

He’s a straight-talker and likes sharing – online information, existential knowledge, you name it. He is transparent, not pretending to be that which he is not. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly, offers advice willingly, as it naturally spills forth from him, but the best of all – he puts stock in being yourself. The best version of oneself will suffice. Being unique is what matters, he says.

Vaclav is an inspiration, there is no doubt about it. His words, ‘you can do it, you just haven’t learned it yet’ echo in my mind long after the video call has ended.

Portrait of Téa

She was one of the most ferocious women I’d ever seen. That her ferocity was inspired by injustice, people’s hatred of others, racism, sexism, and (let us not beat around the bush) criminal politicians just went to say how current and overgrown issues needed a cyber ambassador. They required someone to fight the corner and spread the news as the press seldom did in a non-diluted or unbiased way. She was extraordinary. This woman did not lean to favour anyone for her own gain, she saw social injustice and addressed it, albeit in her rather unique and scathing, cynical, venomous tone.

She was scathing, taking her axe like tongue to every political wrong and its perpetrators (possessors of immobile ideas and beliefs, crippling the people) with remarkable vitriol. If it was violence, it was to improve, to protect. It was self-defence for and of life. She couldn’t remain silent if paid to do so and her videos demonstrated that. Her moral compass was intact, whether people subsequently called her a whore or not.

She was also rather fetching and had swarms of cyber lunatics (maybe ones made of flesh and bones, you know, real, tangible stalkers, too) as well as, I do not doubt, legitimate and more gentlemanly admirers getting in line to take a closer look. She was an online female political Morrissey – she caused a reaction, and a wide range of them at that. Her following was large, a voice folk could relate to, one of the masses, one not fashioned by wealth and self-aggrandisement. At times, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was one of a kind. Who could really say that?

The fact that she was, through my artist’s eyes, and in my relative way of seeing things, better looking than many girlfriends, spouses and partners meant she received a great deal of threats and verbal carnage online from creatures and savages who were intimidated by her strength, beauty, and intelligence. It was a problem from the off. That she had a mind of her own, and spoke it, frightened people to their cores. That she communicated her sentiments so vehemently, in what can only truly be described as a confrontational manner, meant they were literally quaking in their boots, attacking back as their only form of defence, of self-protection. She wasn’t even after many of them, just things they believed in perhaps. If, as they say, you cannot take the heat, get out of the kitchen – here, the realm of the internet. They were panicked by her fortitude, her guile, her directness. She was a modern woman. Not one to be feared but admired for her singular approach. I could see how it might be intimidating, but here was a woman that warranted some positive energy, some love, some kindness, even if she was not your jam.

Her blonde hair flowed down in waves, enticing, elegant, in contrast to her X-rated vocabulary. She was real, even in her 3D Twitter dimension. She came out of the device upon which I watched her, larger than life, daring, dangerous, delectable. The internet was all bite or be bitten, but I was trying to look past the confrontation at the heart of her message and its cause. It wasn’t to fill boredom; it was that the government had let them – millions of beings – down. Underline that, motherfuckers!

She was steely, sometimes in the face of brutal online assaults (even needing to vanish occasionally to recover from the attack she was under), and her blatant use of the F-word, one of her weapons, as well as its even rougher sibling the C-word (sometimes), made it hard to digest some of her content, for she made videos and tweeted throughout the day. Maybe her language rubbed people up the wrong way, instigating more extreme reactions. But she was also onto something. She was getting her message across as she knew how. She was a pied piper with over a hundred thousand followers. People listened because she, unlike the politicians that led us toward the abyss, cared.

You could not conform to people’s – nay, society’s – expected standards, unless you were weak (are you brainwashed?). She was incapable of backing down. You had to admire it. She was driven by justice and expressing her disdain for and highlighting the endless stream of poor decisions by the current UK government. It meant something to not let it pass on by. Her videos were a tough watch, yet somehow essential, inescapable, works of lethal love. She was diminutive but utterly explosive.

How did she walk down the street, what mood was she in when she woke up in the morning, what sounds did she make as she ate? I had more questions than answers, which meant my work was never done.

Her green marble whirlpool eyes glistened as if tears were never far despite her steeliness, her resolute determination in the face of modern virtual madness, her axe-like language, and even physical gestures. Her middle finger never far from being extended. She was cartoon-esque, thrilling, inspirational. She was a glorious handful on a quest for justice, and little else mattered.

I was fascinated, wondered what the atmosphere would be like if she were sat down in front of me, we had a beer – or other alcoholic beverage – to bring us together, and a dialogue that I knew for sure I could far from predict. She was a live wire, crackling with electricity, a dazzling dragon, and anything, anything at all could happen.

She was getting better with age. She possessed a radiance, a humanity that earlier photos of her in life had shown to be lacking (then she was tunnelling; now she was revealed, in the great outdoors, alert, aware of the hunt). She was worldly, knowing more, even too much, about how the world worked, its pros and cons, the place she wanted to take in it, and she fit it more than she ever had. The past, shaping us, evolving us, giving us riches and ruin. It was all there in her, a possessor of truth and treasure. She wanted to be proud of her homeland, but they had made it too difficult, and I was unable to do anything but agree on this. I lived abroad and Brexit had done nothing to make me feel closer at hand. Britain, ever the island, was pushed ever further out to sea, lost, isolated, cutting its nose off. It was meandering, drifting, aimless in its course. She knew all of this, knew how it could be corrected, but women and men in high places do not see such issues of the ants, the mere pests (they claim to serve) they abandon on topic after topic as they, on their thrones atop their sky-scraping ivory towers watch us mere mortals far down below. We knew, though. We had the key. We knew what they were up to. They were watching us nowadays, in an Orwellian nightmare becoming ever more our dystopian reality. There was no waking from this. And they were watching us. Téa and I knew. Millions of others knew. Others were waking up to it, too. Only, now, we were watching back. Téa’s voice was ringing loud and clear, an ambassador for the oblivious. If they were coming for us, we were coming for them, too.   

Connected to this literary portrait is the artwork with number DJS00004 above.

Both works by Dominic J Stevenson (for more details contact me on dominicjstevenson@yahoo.co.uk)

The Stripped-Down Portrait (Autumn 2022)

We discuss where to commence and in the end it just happens. I aid in undressing the model, but it never veers off and into the sexual. It is so uncertain, and it doesn’t seem possible to enjoy the moment. Soon, she stands before me completely naked and more comfortable than I had imagined she might be. Now, as I sit and look at her and wonder where to place my eyes – exactly – not that I haven’t seen female nudity many times before, she starts to ponder the experience, voicing some of her sensations.

She is facing me. Her hair is tied back, her ponytail falling in front of her shoulder, her nipples are large, consuming the lower area of her ample breasts. They hang like succulent fleshy droplets, fruit ripe and waiting to be plucked from their tree, raindrops desperate to plummet towards earth and shatter upon the ground.

She has been standing, allowing me to simply admire her in this new state. Now, she moves over to and takes a seat upon her sofa.

She is presently half sitting, half lying, her upright upper body neither too stiff nor overly relaxed. She appears comfortable, talkative, nothing at all forced. It’s almost identical to a standard portrait, the absent clothes not spoiling anything. I proffer that she might be a willing participant for modelling nude for an artist class, but it smacks of something a little too open to any kind of unwanted attention and spotlight to her. She prefers the intimacy of the one-on-one treatment, and you can’t blame her for that.

We discuss skinny dipping and her naked experience at a German spa, where it felt natural given everybody else being in the same state. Her figure is well toned, a fit, healthy, and vibrant woman in her mid-forties.

Her face is glowing with an almost youthful exuberance, the shared experience bringing out her colour, perhaps a mix of excitement, nervousness, and embarrassment a cocktail of emotions as she is surprised, stated again, at how easy it is to be naked with an artist – myself fully clothed – and being written about in such a state of undress.

The lights are quite low, some curtains are drawn, it is still day outside, and the mood of the room is a relaxed one, somewhere in between a Danish showroom at a lighting company and romantic/sensual. She has shifted position, my unnamed model, legs now facing sideways, sticking out of her body to my left. Her hand is placed on her thigh, concealing her vagina, though it briefly appears as she shifts to have a drink of her tea, or the hair of it at least, and then it is gone again.

One of her arms is now up behind her head in a pose the great impressionists of yore would have loved. It wove its way down like a sublime sculpture. As smooth as the sea when it has nary a ripple, glass-like, as if it were blown by a master glassblower.

Her tummy is toned, muscly but also soft, far from betraying being the body of a mother of two. She is comfortably seated, observing me, looking around, wearing the room, the scenario, the moment, if not bedecked in a stitch. It must be liberating.

She grows silent, also looking at me, listening to the room, how her new outfit speaks to her, what it comments upon her nakedness, to how it admires her willingness. She asks me if she is hairy down there – what do I know? – but it is not the easiest question to answer as the feeling exists that there is a required answer to such queries. And… is not everything relative?

She walks out of the room (unrelated to the previous question and my less than forthcoming answer – I did say it was not overly hairy), with a clear tan line on her bottom, which is peach-like, a succulent posterior as it powers gently through the room. Her body is compact, beautiful, as warm as the perfectly dimmed Scandinavian lighting.

She re-enters the room, asks if she should sit down, and as she is willing (maybe she was pushing me to ask her to stand) she remains on her feet and slowly moves her weight from one foot to the other repeatedly as though a silent song does it to her.

Behind the dense dark blond hair of her vagina are thick, full, rich lips protruding, requesting passion, attention, endless desire, puckering up for touch and feel.

Her hips draw out to where the outer edges of her lower bikini tan line live – for now – and as she gently shuffles sideways (a pendulum style rocking) she appears more petite than when she is fully clothed. There is the vulnerability not of our characters, but that which our nudity represents.

Her belly button goes inside, as if to take anyone peering at it to the interior behind the walls of skin, where her womb once held a body and then another. There are some tiny scars nearby as well as a few small moles. Her whole body is one of a younger woman, mostly smooth, soft to the eye, easy to look at, to devour complete.

When the topic of ‘cellulite’ is brought up – by her, of course, what do you think I am, crazy? – she states that she hopes she doesn’t have any. Cue a brief joke from the artist that leads to the model wishing she had not brought it up. It’s a little banter that might not ordinarily be possible, not with most other people. But… Is it not to deny her age, her life on earth, what her body has lived until now to wish cellulite away?

I become aware – as I write, looking at the page – I am looking down and not admiring the wonderful naked female body in front of me. This is one of the disadvantages of a naked portrait with words. Her bottom is in front of me, legs stretching, tiptoeing feet, as she tries to make herself look taller or just stretches out her limbs, so they don’t get stiff. She stares into the distance, a deliberate, slight rotation, like a pig on a spit, only slower, only vertically, full of life, far from overheated, and much prettier, of course.

I now see the side of her shapely breasts. They hang a couple of inches below where they emerge from her lower chest as she reaches down to touch something, the breasts stealing the limelight. The position is pure modelling – not sexual, not enticing, just a simple display, a demonstration of the body that had been (and normally was) beneath her clothes. This was a perfect example of our lives – our sleeping or hidden sides. How often were they even allowed to surface? Did it always have to be just so, the way society dictated? Our bodies were often craving escape, release from the prison of conformity. Did we let them? Mostly, I would say not. On this occasion, the model had allowed it to happen. We ought to be brave and take a chance a little more often. As this wondrously shapely Danish pixie before me was showing, right now – in all her naked glory – life was very much for the living.

Connected to this literary portrait is the artwork with number DJS00003 above.

Both works by Dominic J Stevenson (for more details contact me on dominicjstevenson@yahoo.co.uk)

Portrait of Audrey (April 2023)

Over a decade after Audrey and I met one another, crossing paths in a Milanese hostel, she is facing me via the computer video screen, sitting in my picture frame, all I can see. She is – from the outskirts of the Danish city where I live to her area in the suburbs of Sydney – approximately 16,197 km away from me.

We often talk, sometimes deep, never shallow, sometimes fall out, and over time, as it stretches out in front of us, we share a great deal of conversational ground. She often appears a close ally despite the phenomenal distance between our continents. Audrey is a luminous, independent, occasionally fierce force, she knows her own mind and has a genuine warmth and kindness, patience, too.

She is surrounded by light, a white space, a mirror behind her, a peaceful aura to the bubble she is at the centre of. She is cleaned up now after having played tennis earlier today. She says she isn’t good at the sport, failing to execute her game plan, knowing what needs doing but that being beyond reach for her. A more regular session would fix it, bringing improvements only continuity can. Her honesty is refreshing. She will later add that she only started in her twenties. She leaves it be by saying she is ‘working on it,’ the desire clearly not lacking.

Audrey feels better today – after getting a temporary crown yesterday to fix a cracked molar, owing to grinding and clenching her teeth. Her dentist had massaged her jaw muscles from outside and she had found it relaxing, wishing he would do a full-scale face massage. He might not like the idea, as one time she accidentally bit him as he had digits inside her mouth. We then discuss healthcare and having it covered, as she does with her job.

Audrey is drinking a cup of dandelion tea in a William and Kate 2011 Royal Wedding mug. She states she has quite a few royal mugs. She adds that she sees the royal family as redundant, and that one family being ordained by God to rule over the people is nonsense. Her connection to the royal family is purely ‘kitsch.’

Audrey’s voice is a thick, sped-up Australian drawl, loquacious indeed. She talks freely, naturally, only later, after the call, telling me the nervousness of the interchange ramped up her speed of delivery. I’ve heard her speak far quicker in the past. It’s languid, it’s hyperactive, the whole shebang is a melange of sensations.

She is in her house, hanging out. ‘Yeah,’ she is comfortable, she replies when I ask if she feels good in this new scenario. She has an ‘ugly’ office chair which provides brilliant support for her back – something necessary given she labels herself ‘old’ and physical comfort is therefore also key.

She lives in an elevated ground floor flat. She likes looking out of the window at the trees, the street, and is currently eyeing the ‘purple sunset’ delivered to her suburban Sydney home. She has a ‘bee cemetery’ at her window – in between the fly screen and the windowpane. A spider had previously set up a web, the bees attracted to the light in the office, Audrey playing the bee god, letting them get caught in the web, tricking them with her artificial sun. The four deceased bees ‘break my heart’ she says forlornly of the visible proof her actions have had. She likes to have her windows open all year round. She has now closed her window to let no more in, not wishing to be responsible for the further demise of bees. There is a worldwide shortage she will proffer, and we desperately need them for our own survival.

We then take a break, discuss Denmark and its population and size, that people here all own homes and have trailers to transport garden rubbish and more. Benji, her dog, an American Staffordshire terrier, enters the room and exits when he finds our conversation less than thrilling. He will briefly appear again later. Audrey talks about Benji’s recent UTI. Her dog is undoubtedly one of her favourite subjects.

Audrey recently dyed her hair blonde and has a ‘lob’ – a ‘long bob,’ I need informing. She has a supposedly unfashionable ‘side part’ as opposed to the popular ‘middle part.’ The masses are seldom worth following though. Ears hidden behind her hair as it neatly and casually, sublimely, falls around her face.

Her blue green (grey when she cries) eyes sit behind sophisticated tortoise shell glasses, known as the ‘Wayfarer’ style. She has worn glasses since she was ten, discovered as long-sighted early on. The glasses, she says, are a protective mask or barrier that she wears, even when she goes into an uncomfortable social situation. She considers her face ‘oval,’ and every style of sunglasses is said to fit her face-type, something she says is definitely not true.

She is bedecked in a black ‘Red Hot Chili Peppers’ t-shirt with the band’s name in a circular pattern on the breast (small) and – I ask her to stand up to show me the back of the t-shirt – the back (large). Her earphones match the t-shirt – black buds with red wires (the colour of the lettering on the tee). When she stands, I briefly clock her red skirt with white brush marks on it. I was mistaken in saying they were polka dots.

Audrey then discusses her home and how to make it cosier and reflect her personality. She considers it too white and in drastic need of a makeover. I crack open a cold coffee and she tells me she has had two coffees today – one this morning while walking Benji, the second with a friend this afternoon before her game of tennis. We talk about team sports and handling winning and losing, and the madness of bad losers – we name one or two (a little whispered secret between us).

She talks repeatedly about her age and what is expected of being an adult – fashion, behaviour, stage of life. She states we all try to justify the way we are – it’s apt, thought-provoking. I tell her she makes a good point. She responds that she does so occasionally, and then spouts rubbish about bee cemeteries and such topics. Why are we even trying to meet all those rigid expectations though?

As she gestures, a couple of her various tattoos become fleetingly visible, ones on her arm and wrist. She is a lover of having them in not such brash places and they seem mostly small ones.

Her nose – upon which rest her glasses – is a strong feature, not too large, straight, smooth. She turns to give me a look at her profile and the nose takes on a new life as our features sometimes tend to from other angles. It’s cute, not a button, fitting her face well, as she has already said.

Her teeth are very straight – more than should be, after using something to correct them – and they are ‘short’ because she grinds them. Her dentist thinks she should have veneers like film stars and celebrities have, but while she acknowledges hers are not perfect, she is contented with them.

We discuss being eight hours apart – after the recent time changes – as opposed to ten hours. Time bringing us closer together just as it will separate us further in the autumn (for me, spring for you).

Audrey’s eyes are shining, telling stories that sometimes corroborate what her mouth delivers and at others secretly whisper of other tales – in contrast, untold treasures living there. When she shifts on her seat, I see myself on the screen reflected in the mirror. She is in her spare room that she uses as an office.

She lives opposite a trainline, and her road can be busy. Two flights a day pass overhead. Luckily, it is only that small number, but the local transportation links and infrastructure depict the nearness to big city life, everything there, just around the corner.

Audrey has been delightful, effortlessly providing conversation, making the portrait full of the hustle and bustle of her character, of life, and of the centre of Sydney near to her suburban home bubble she had just shared with me. Her thick Australian notes are ringing in my ears long after the call ends. It feels like I have been swimming in Antipodean waters.

Connected to this literary portrait is the artwork with number DJS00001 above.

Both works by Dominic J Stevenson (for more details contact me on dominicjstevenson@yahoo.co.uk)

Portrait of Trine Dyrholm (February 2023)

With piercing eyes that glisten with secrets untold, roles played, wisdom accrued, and a spectacular charm, at times youthful, Trine Dyrholm, a jewel in the crown of Danish cinema, is a woman growing old gracefully. Under the spotlight she has grown up – a past teenage starlet – flourished, evolved into an unstoppable force of nature. She radiated greatness.

While long hair suits her (I imagine it is for her roles), it is only when it is shorn, cropped to end at the nape of her neck that she appears the sublime, most perfect, killer version of herself. She is one of those women whose short blond hair suits and astounds, leaves men and women in her wake as her seemingly tall and slender frame eases through the rooms she is delivered to, the spaces she profoundly alters with her presence. Her elegance augmented, a la Judi Dench, there is a power seldom seen, as if her hands could emit inventive spells. She is the picture of elegance, a modern style icon with a sublime blend of charms. On the screen, she is intoxicating, one of those actors you cannot take your eyes off.

She is feminine, tough, yet absorbing, adorable and fragile, a shapeshifting siren blessing the screen with her depictions of lives and loves encountered. Every gesture, tic, movement is spellbinding, an amalgamation of all the best qualities of the finest of her field – steely, mesmerising, unmissable actors at work.

The years have penetrated her face and skin and the life lived adorns her in exquisite fashion. This is a beauty that trying to fight time – and its many effects – knows not. Her every move exudes a confidence, a grace, an assured quality that most silver screen beings lack. Her charms do not diminish with age, if anything, they ever unfurl into something more than before. She is stylish and slick.

When you were serious, Trine, grave issues tattooed across your face, I would lean in to listen; when you smiled, I lit up and the world seemed safe and full of joy. When you were dark, the clouds would appear sublime, essential. When you could scarcely contain your bliss, the magnitude of that would be contagious.

Your bright blue bulbous eyes pierce. They were more loaded with excitement and passion than people could dream up. Those eyes were an entrancing mix of dangerous beauty and humanity. Trine’s smile grew from her eyes and mouth, setting fire to her entire face, consequently illuminating her surroundings. Whoever she was playing her lips drew you to her words, would render you unable to do anything but believe her, left you thinking one kiss would exchange truths of the world previously undiscovered. Whether in her native Danish or foreign English tongue words seemed precious as they worked their way out of her mouth and into the shell ears of anyone available. She was a gift of seismic proportions.

I was no actor, but I had previously written myself into your arms to feel what it would be like to be there. I had dreamed about and of you, a dream with more life to it than many tangible moments.

I imagine Trine sitting in front of me, a relaxed picture of contemplation, exchanging a gentle dialogue with her author, both revealing and concealing, pushing my buttons, inspiring further intrigue, weaving a web of curiosity for me to get trapped inside. She would be wearing an elegant black trouser suit, her frame making her appear spider-like, and she would stare at me with those juggernaut eyes, discovering as much about me as I would about her, and yet retaining a sweetness that wouldn’t allow me discomfort.

She tested and challenged herself, probing at her own boundaries. She was a temptress of gritty roles, inhabiting each violently, possessing them in a way most actors could not – uncovering a depth to each individual – that brought them to life, sat them beside you on the sofa in all their petrifying and life-affirming glory. She moved like the master chess piece, the Queen, in all directions, sweeping others aside as she went, altering her surroundings, imprinting herself on the memory, burning her presence there for eternity.

I had long thought of her a masterwork, someone who I would like to see more of both on and off the screen, to feast off her charisma, write sentences about her as she filtered into my consciousness as we shared a room, dined, drank a cup of English tea together.

I could never see her from enough angles; her past, present and future selves all calling, jostling for adoration, focus, limelight. She always left the viewer wanting more, questioning the real Trine. What was she like? Which character she had played was closest to her true self, if any? Or did she only step into the bodies of those who she shared nothing in common with, thereby making the ultimate escape from her own reflection, and an unfathomably convincing entrance into someone else’s essence? I had more questions after thinking about her, gazing upon her, contemplating the beauty of her I had witnessed on the screen as well as various photos. I hadn’t answered anything of her in my words, that which was precisely how I knew, ultimately, she was the worthiest of subjects.

I had once had a dream about Trine Dyrholm…

There was quite the throng of bodies, a party swirling around them, the bodies mingling, glorifying in their own presences rather than that of others, as the rich and the modern did and do. They appeared the elite of society, famous people, the wealthy, the supposedly classy, but everyone was a dog, just a dog pretending or imagining themselves to be something, anything else.

One was there, slipping into the brickwork, the voice of reason, as ever she was, aware my electric attraction to the sparkling Danish actress had started my engine of pining, of desiring, of picturing and then embellishing some more. A life in the imagination.

We were at stages seated in ornate and old-fashioned rooms, the moving between these spaces as if a non-stop movie were being played out, bodies floating, gliding effortlessly into the next room, ones decorated with silver platters on elegant wooden tables and with high ceilings halfway to the heavens above the players of the scene, with chairs and food fit for queens and kings. With regal portraits on walls of self-important prigs, of people with enough wealth to ensure they never escaped from their warped perspectives in their mortal existences. She swanned in on her wave of noble authority, uplifting the room in a way nobody could replicate. The author moved the other pawns into their positions, but Trine was moving to her own rhythm.

And the dream was over, she was stolen from me, slipping out of the majestic door and into the next room, the following role, somebody else’s dream.

Connected to this literary portrait is the artwork with number DJS00002 below...

Both works by Dominic J Stevenson (for more details contact me on dominicjstevenson@yahoo.co.uk)

 

Portrait of Vivi (October 2022)

Vivi was a whirlwind of energy, of dynamic bustle, of passion for life. Yes, her life looked idyllic, her zest remarkable, but as she honestly stated, she only shared a part of it, so the view was spectacular, controlled, a window into the fun stuff. The side that drew you toward her, that made you want to know her better, see if her aura could spread, even repair your own lesser charmed existence.

She went beyond age, her spirit ever youthful, her physicality reflecting a woman in her late forties still flourishing as she fed her whims, what her soul desired, and yes, she was beautiful. She was quintessentially Spanish, the flamenco, the sultry tones of Andalucía, the elegance and richness of rapid modern life under the lens spilling out of all she did. She had embraced it, made it part of her daily routine. Of course, her cup was overflowing with the wisdom and vibrancy of experience. She knew what many people did not, that it fed the deepest parts of us, quenched a thirst that some sadly didn’t even know could exist. That was why she travelled, shared it all, evolved through the uncovering of other lives and their cultures.

She danced, she frolicked on the beach, she had daughters and many friends, and lit up people’s lives, whether via social media or the rooms she shared with the folks who crossed her path. Who lit her life that way? A man or a woman? Or was it travel and the places and the freedom and the rush that came with that that did it to her? Her wings taking her any place she chose, her merely listening to the calling and then taking flight.

Sometimes you looked your age, sometimes you looked much younger. You were locked into such a lifestyle it could only keep you younger than your years. The freedom did you good. You might be single, alone in many of the photos, but your partner was life itself, every photo you had sent me showing you to be in an eternal embrace with the richness of the days, gracefully, elegantly, sexily waltzing towards the precipice, reaching it, turning back, spinning like you had been born to do so, living on the edge of some grandiose fairy tale. Nobody, and nothing, was missing from the photos. You had not defined yourself by having someone beside you and whom exactly that might be. I wondered if your two daughters had half the lust for life that you did (or if they would grow into that space as you clearly had). If so, they would be lucky to take that into the future with them.

Your smile was easy, your shape spectacular. The dancing, the Spanish and foreign cuisine, the time spent outdoors – illuminating in its richness – and the fashioning of a contemporary social animal had all built a woman that would turn heads. As your dyed dark blonde hair flowed, a waterfall that flew from your head as you danced and span, catching everyone’s eye in a loving tornado.

The selection of photos of you that you had fed me were like a visual paella, the array of flavours, the senses piqued, the imagination running wild, craving more of you, to see, to taste, to feel.

Your style was modern, classy, elegant, a rich palette of fashion and knowledge of what looked good, both in general and on your own luscious frame.

The TikTok videos showed your sense of fun and connection with modern technological life. I was younger than you but did not partake of such cyber activities. They were not for everyone. You liked to display that side of your life, the vitality, pouring it all over the viewers, spectators even, and giving them something to put a smile on their faces, or even get them excited in other ways. Okay, so I did not like the music you sang along to on your videos or having an entire life shared on social media, but at least yours was colourful, a reminder of what was out there beyond our doors, in other climes.

I didn’t know how tall you were from the photos, nor what eye colour you possessed. Your eyes were different colours, reflecting your surroundings, your mood, your aura in that moment, like the sea often echoing the sky and environment perfectly. When I ask you via a chat app, you reply that your eye colour is miel verdoso azulado, an interesting label to say the least. A golden honey ring in the interior that mixes with green and as it reaches the edges it appears blue. Her eyes echo the life in her soul, the vibrant nature of her exploration of the planet and her place moving through it, always returning to her homeland of Spain.

You were never more sumptuous than when you wore heels – which you clearly loved wearing and moving in – and a flowing dress that would frequently explode into life as you, a human spinning top, pierced the rooms you lit up, a firecracker demanding attention, to be seen, to be heard, to be adored.

The lines on your face honestly commencing a dialogue about your age were no shame to you, but a badge of honour less commonly recognised these days. You were proud of your age, your figure, your existence. It was a grand acceptance of the beauty and honour, the extreme privilege, in being allowed to age. As should be, it could be felt in your every move, drawing eyes wherever you stepped, something you knew well. This aspect of you was highly attractive.

One TikTok video had caught my eye. She was fully decked out in black, heels to die for, that men would let her walk all over their bodies with, and a dress that hugged her figure and exploded downwards from her waist, completing the bombshell visage. Nothing was tame, everything here was devastating, a perplexing combination of elegance and sensuality. She was flooring the room, wiping everyone out, reducing men to rubble, leaving them on their knees, even performing that tablecloth trick with the floor itself, everyone left falling. She was a relentless force, like the wind or the waves, and would only stop moving when she decided to, not when anything got in her way.