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The Girl With No Name
- Thread starter Eulalia
- Start date
I sit in front of the desk and open my laptop. Dorothea has gone shopping. I’m left alone. Usually I go with her, but not on this first day in Spuhl. I’ve only been here an hour and I want off. When I come to aunt Annie and Dorothea’s, I’m transformed within a few hours from a city-child into a village child who’s at one with nature. This includes my needing a while alone.
When I first came to Spuhl, at seven years old, I hid behind the house in the bushes, and it was only after an hour I came out. Then I took off my city clothes, got dressed like my cousin Dorothea and began to wander outside with her. We played in the garden, walked into the wilderness, went hiking, and we went to the outdoor pool. Yes, Spuhl was so small it actually had an outdoor pool, a simple old thing from the time in before the Second World War.
I open the folder with my special pictures. It’s showing nothing, just meaningless names. Anyone who comes across my computer would only notice those. That’s intentional. The image belongs only to me. All the other photos and paintings are photos of churches and chapels, altars - camouflage. Painted pictures of cathedral construction sites and churches in medieval landscapes. I’m interested in architecture, particularly religious architecture. No-one would think anything about it seeing this photo collection.
Right in the middle, here’s my image. The title is ‘The girl with no name’. I click the picture and it’s screen size. It’s the black and white photograph of a naked girl on the cross. The image is ancient, it’s from the year 1913. An avant-garde artist from Bohemia made it, his name was Frantisek Drtikol and he did a great quantity of nudes. I’ve looked at all of them on the internet. For those times they were certainly very avant-garde. From today's perspective, they’re out of focus and kind of funny. Most of the women in the photos look like something out of an old silent movie. But my strange picture’s different. It’s again quite blurred, and at that time black and white plates did not have much contrast. Yes plates - glass - so you had to time the exposure. There were no films to insert into the camera, certainly no small digital cameras that can do everything. The image is blurred and in part much too dark. But it’s my picture. It‘s meaty. It says so much, especially for me.
It’s been my favourite picture since I first found it on the internet. For years I’ve kept faith with her. For years, I’ve opened the file again and again and looked at her - the girl with no name. The picture has no title. No matter where you find it on the internet, it always "untitled" or sometimes, "Crucified girl 1913" or "Crucifixion Study 1913". The artist is named, but his work has been given no name.
I look at her, this young woman who hangs so quietly on the bar. She was tied with cords to the crossbeam of a primitive cross, tightly secured, bound at the wrists. More you do not see, the photo shows only a part of the girl’s bare body, from above her navel to above the cross-bar. Her left hand is obscured and not completely visible, the right is missing, the photographer has ‘cut’ his model, as it was called.
The girl's arms are severely stretched. Her head has fallen on to her chest. She hangs naked on the cross, so quietly. She has no clothes. She has no name. She has no identity. She’s reduced to this crucifixion – stretched out on the beam. The strain on her arms must be enormous. Even if her feet are tied down outside of the frame, all her upper part is hanging from her bound wrists. They’re strongly pulled, especially as her arms are spread wide apart.
How long has the girl had to endure this, to produce this exposure? Was there only one picture? Or has the artist taken several photos, to select the best later? Taking a photograph around 1913 was a lengthy business. The cameras were huge wooden boxes on tripods. They had to be set up, the picture had to be selected, and then exposed for several seconds. That’s why the people in old photos seem so weird, staring into the camera as if they’re stuffed - they had to hold still for several seconds so that the plate could be exposed sufficiently. The girl with no name has kept quiet. She has exceptional courage. She’s tied up, tied with ropes, forcibly held still.
When I first came to Spuhl, at seven years old, I hid behind the house in the bushes, and it was only after an hour I came out. Then I took off my city clothes, got dressed like my cousin Dorothea and began to wander outside with her. We played in the garden, walked into the wilderness, went hiking, and we went to the outdoor pool. Yes, Spuhl was so small it actually had an outdoor pool, a simple old thing from the time in before the Second World War.
I open the folder with my special pictures. It’s showing nothing, just meaningless names. Anyone who comes across my computer would only notice those. That’s intentional. The image belongs only to me. All the other photos and paintings are photos of churches and chapels, altars - camouflage. Painted pictures of cathedral construction sites and churches in medieval landscapes. I’m interested in architecture, particularly religious architecture. No-one would think anything about it seeing this photo collection.
Right in the middle, here’s my image. The title is ‘The girl with no name’. I click the picture and it’s screen size. It’s the black and white photograph of a naked girl on the cross. The image is ancient, it’s from the year 1913. An avant-garde artist from Bohemia made it, his name was Frantisek Drtikol and he did a great quantity of nudes. I’ve looked at all of them on the internet. For those times they were certainly very avant-garde. From today's perspective, they’re out of focus and kind of funny. Most of the women in the photos look like something out of an old silent movie. But my strange picture’s different. It’s again quite blurred, and at that time black and white plates did not have much contrast. Yes plates - glass - so you had to time the exposure. There were no films to insert into the camera, certainly no small digital cameras that can do everything. The image is blurred and in part much too dark. But it’s my picture. It‘s meaty. It says so much, especially for me.
It’s been my favourite picture since I first found it on the internet. For years I’ve kept faith with her. For years, I’ve opened the file again and again and looked at her - the girl with no name. The picture has no title. No matter where you find it on the internet, it always "untitled" or sometimes, "Crucified girl 1913" or "Crucifixion Study 1913". The artist is named, but his work has been given no name.
I look at her, this young woman who hangs so quietly on the bar. She was tied with cords to the crossbeam of a primitive cross, tightly secured, bound at the wrists. More you do not see, the photo shows only a part of the girl’s bare body, from above her navel to above the cross-bar. Her left hand is obscured and not completely visible, the right is missing, the photographer has ‘cut’ his model, as it was called.
The girl's arms are severely stretched. Her head has fallen on to her chest. She hangs naked on the cross, so quietly. She has no clothes. She has no name. She has no identity. She’s reduced to this crucifixion – stretched out on the beam. The strain on her arms must be enormous. Even if her feet are tied down outside of the frame, all her upper part is hanging from her bound wrists. They’re strongly pulled, especially as her arms are spread wide apart.
How long has the girl had to endure this, to produce this exposure? Was there only one picture? Or has the artist taken several photos, to select the best later? Taking a photograph around 1913 was a lengthy business. The cameras were huge wooden boxes on tripods. They had to be set up, the picture had to be selected, and then exposed for several seconds. That’s why the people in old photos seem so weird, staring into the camera as if they’re stuffed - they had to hold still for several seconds so that the plate could be exposed sufficiently. The girl with no name has kept quiet. She has exceptional courage. She’s tied up, tied with ropes, forcibly held still.
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This is the image I had in my eye, then it went immediately. But then, when I got my first computer and went on the internet, for one whole day, I was busy surfing wildly. I fed Google search-engine with all possible words. The second day I was more precise. I could not believe, I almost didn’t, that "bondage" should be entered in the search-box. I was all the more surprised as a flood of pages was shown. All day long I drove around on sites to which I was redirected when I typed the key words into Google - such as shackles, bondage, suspension, crucifixion, and the like. I learned the term BDSM, and discovered more - shackles, being tied up.
I’d been intrigued by this for a long time.I was twelve or thirteen when it started, I’ve no idea why. I began to dream of being tied up, since that afternoon when we were in the pool at the back, where the old flagpole towers over the grasses of the meadow. The Hitler Jugend and the Bund Deutscher Mädel had organized marches there, even in the swimming pool there’d been paramilitary drill. The flagpole had survived the war and outlived the Nazis. I was leaning with my back against it when Jonas sneaked up from behind. He grabbed my wrists and tugged them behind the pole. There he crossed them and held me tight."She’s being tied up," he cried. Everyone looked on and laughed. "Tie them properly so she’s fixed there," cried Manuel. More laughter.
O sweet shock! I stood very still. How happy I would be, to really be tied up, in front of everyone, with my hands tied behind the flagpole, and my feet bound to the base, alone! The idea gave me wild palpitations. Being tied up, unable to get myself free, standing in my bikini at the flagpole, held by bondage… It drove me mad. “Do it! Please do it !” I screamed in my head, but I couldn’t utter a word, I just giggled like the others and pretended to resist, fought back. And I waited while Manuel conjured something from his swimming bag with which they could tie me. Then he came running: "Go on man! We’ll tie her up and then she must stay at the mast in silence for half an hour. If she’s good, we’ll let her go. If not ....” He pulled with relish at the length of cord, "then she’ll have to stay at the flagpole half an hour longer!”
Oh what a wonderful idea! “Please do it !” I pleaded in my mind, “Do it to me! I’m ready, more than ready, please do it!” They didn’t. Jonas let go of me, and we went swimming. I played around in the water and laughed, but inwardly I wept bitterly, I could have screamed in frustration.
I'll continue with it as and when I have time, but don't be impatient. It's a full-length novel, I think the erotic writing is quite powerful, but it's quite hard work making it a good read in English.
I’d been intrigued by this for a long time.I was twelve or thirteen when it started, I’ve no idea why. I began to dream of being tied up, since that afternoon when we were in the pool at the back, where the old flagpole towers over the grasses of the meadow. The Hitler Jugend and the Bund Deutscher Mädel had organized marches there, even in the swimming pool there’d been paramilitary drill. The flagpole had survived the war and outlived the Nazis. I was leaning with my back against it when Jonas sneaked up from behind. He grabbed my wrists and tugged them behind the pole. There he crossed them and held me tight."She’s being tied up," he cried. Everyone looked on and laughed. "Tie them properly so she’s fixed there," cried Manuel. More laughter.
O sweet shock! I stood very still. How happy I would be, to really be tied up, in front of everyone, with my hands tied behind the flagpole, and my feet bound to the base, alone! The idea gave me wild palpitations. Being tied up, unable to get myself free, standing in my bikini at the flagpole, held by bondage… It drove me mad. “Do it! Please do it !” I screamed in my head, but I couldn’t utter a word, I just giggled like the others and pretended to resist, fought back. And I waited while Manuel conjured something from his swimming bag with which they could tie me. Then he came running: "Go on man! We’ll tie her up and then she must stay at the mast in silence for half an hour. If she’s good, we’ll let her go. If not ....” He pulled with relish at the length of cord, "then she’ll have to stay at the flagpole half an hour longer!”
Oh what a wonderful idea! “Please do it !” I pleaded in my mind, “Do it to me! I’m ready, more than ready, please do it!” They didn’t. Jonas let go of me, and we went swimming. I played around in the water and laughed, but inwardly I wept bitterly, I could have screamed in frustration.
I'll continue with it as and when I have time, but don't be impatient. It's a full-length novel, I think the erotic writing is quite powerful, but it's quite hard work making it a good read in English.
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Quiet Paul
Tribune
Eul, this will be worth waiting for. You have set the scene wonderfully, and you are such a brilliant and dramatic writer. I just can't wait.
Adobe
Magistrate
From here: http://esotericart.livejournal.com/56741.html
František Drtikol (3 March 1883, Příbram – 13 January 1961, Prague) was a Czechphotographer of international renown. He is especially known for his characteristically epic photographs, often nudes and portraits.
And doing a google image search of him yields some cool stuff.
František Drtikol (3 March 1883, Příbram – 13 January 1961, Prague) was a Czechphotographer of international renown. He is especially known for his characteristically epic photographs, often nudes and portraits.
And doing a google image search of him yields some cool stuff.
P
Pia
Guest
This is fascinating and poetic....your work - and the author's - is truly appreciated.... It creates a special home for an image that must be in so many of our hearts....
P
Pia
Guest
http://www.photogravure.com/collection/searchResults.php?page=1&artist=Drtikol, Frantisek
This may be an interesting link....
This may be an interesting link....
I looked for her, the girl with no name. After giving up on ‘cross’, ‘crucified’, I was on the term ‘crucificada’, Spanish, meaning 'crucified woman'. Google had spat out a plethora of images, and quite far down in the fourteenth or fifteenth page I opened, my picture had emerged. It had me immediately under its spell. It fascinated me, even if itwas blurred and you could not see much.
She hung so still, so oblivious. She almost seemed to smile. She had to endure. An exposure took time, more photos needed longer. How long have they had her hanging on the beam? Five minutes? No, longer, much longer. a quarter of an hour at least it must have lasted. Maybe even half an hour. Half an hour. Every time I thought of this period, half an hour, thirty minutes, a pleasant shiver ran through me. Thirty minutes stretched out, thirty minutes she must bear with her arms tied. You could see the tension in her arms. Initially it was surely easy to bear, but after just five minutes it was becoming difficult. It was not easy to bear.
At home when my mother was out, several times I’d hung from a railing in the basement, my arms spread wide. I reached up so far that my feet just touched the ground, and held on tight. Then I slowly began to count.I got to one hundred without any problems. Up to two hundred. Three hundred was damned difficult, partly because my hands had no real support. Longer than four or five hundred I couldn’t manage. My problem was that I was holding on. I could always release myself when it was too much for me. But I was captivated by the idea of being attached so that I couldn’t get down by myself. That was what appealed, I must be compelled to endure it! Nude and naked, I wanted to give myself up, helpless. I wanted to be forced to endure it, even when I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer - oh, how I wished for it!
My favourite idea was a story in which I’m the model - I come across an ad for an artistic photographer who wants to photograph a beautiful crucifixion. I’ll make some pocket money! I get myself naked and I'm tied to a cross, the photographer takes one exposure after another. The artist asks now and then, 'Are you still okay, Lisette?' and I reply compliantly, 'Yes!'
It excites me, hanging naked on the cross, my arms spread out, feeling the tension in my arms and shoulders and chest, but I don’t say a word about it, I just act as if I’m a normal model, paid according to how long I can stand it.
I look at her, the girl, the girl without a name, as she hangs with arms outstretched on the beam, it was this tension that fascinated me. On the internet I sought names for the experience: I found ‘suspension’ was the word most used. It was a universal word, and I was not the only girl in the world who wished to be tied in such a way. It was somehow reassuring to find that there are many like me. There were forums in which everybody discussed openly, gay and straight. But I held back, I've always been very shy. I dared not reveal my innermost feelings in a public forum.
She hung so still, so oblivious. She almost seemed to smile. She had to endure. An exposure took time, more photos needed longer. How long have they had her hanging on the beam? Five minutes? No, longer, much longer. a quarter of an hour at least it must have lasted. Maybe even half an hour. Half an hour. Every time I thought of this period, half an hour, thirty minutes, a pleasant shiver ran through me. Thirty minutes stretched out, thirty minutes she must bear with her arms tied. You could see the tension in her arms. Initially it was surely easy to bear, but after just five minutes it was becoming difficult. It was not easy to bear.
At home when my mother was out, several times I’d hung from a railing in the basement, my arms spread wide. I reached up so far that my feet just touched the ground, and held on tight. Then I slowly began to count.I got to one hundred without any problems. Up to two hundred. Three hundred was damned difficult, partly because my hands had no real support. Longer than four or five hundred I couldn’t manage. My problem was that I was holding on. I could always release myself when it was too much for me. But I was captivated by the idea of being attached so that I couldn’t get down by myself. That was what appealed, I must be compelled to endure it! Nude and naked, I wanted to give myself up, helpless. I wanted to be forced to endure it, even when I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer - oh, how I wished for it!
My favourite idea was a story in which I’m the model - I come across an ad for an artistic photographer who wants to photograph a beautiful crucifixion. I’ll make some pocket money! I get myself naked and I'm tied to a cross, the photographer takes one exposure after another. The artist asks now and then, 'Are you still okay, Lisette?' and I reply compliantly, 'Yes!'
It excites me, hanging naked on the cross, my arms spread out, feeling the tension in my arms and shoulders and chest, but I don’t say a word about it, I just act as if I’m a normal model, paid according to how long I can stand it.
I look at her, the girl, the girl without a name, as she hangs with arms outstretched on the beam, it was this tension that fascinated me. On the internet I sought names for the experience: I found ‘suspension’ was the word most used. It was a universal word, and I was not the only girl in the world who wished to be tied in such a way. It was somehow reassuring to find that there are many like me. There were forums in which everybody discussed openly, gay and straight. But I held back, I've always been very shy. I dared not reveal my innermost feelings in a public forum.
Stretched, suspended, that's what I was compelled to be, it had me totally fascinated. I imagined how the photographer himself slowly feels his way forward to longer and longer times. He asks me if I can endure the bar longer, because he wants to capture the muscle tone in tension, and the visible exhaustion too of a body which has hung for a long time on the cross. "Yes, I can,", I reply, then I slow down in the movie in my head. So I stay half an hour longer, hanging on the cross, and only then does the artist photograph me. He wants the exhaustion to grip my weary body in the picture, worn out from the struggle against the ropes and the beam, the strain on my arms and my shoulders.
My fantasy changes. Now I’m the model of a painter or a sculptor. They have the advantage of needing a very long time to create their work. Daily I have to model, one hour or longer, or rather hang exposed. I’d delighted in anticipating the ordeal, a whole hour! That would be utterly excruciating, very hard to bear. I would start by trying to hold myself over the wooden beam, I would move to try to escape the terrible strain pulling on my my torso, I would try to support it with my feet and knees by pressing down, trying to stretch myself up a little higher. But then my calves would tire, and I’d have to return to hanging by my arms. Back and forth I would go, up and down. The ropes would burn and hurt, all my muscles would begin to ache.
The idea grabbed me - and how! Why do I so much love the idea of having to endure suffering, I’ve never understood. But, yes, there are other things I love that others don’t – I love spinach, others hate it, so what? I simply like spinach. Likewise, I like the idea of being held by bonds, especially when my arms are spread far apart and I’m straining with all my might against what my arms and shoulders have to bear.
In my imagination I increased the torments of my suspension. I am creating a work of art, and it must show exhaustion of the crucified, the suffering written in her face, in her cruelly overstretched upper body. The artist wants to depict her suffering from life and for him the model has to suffer indeed, genuinely, he doesn’t want acting, it has to be real suffering.
The painter asks me gently if I’ll try it again, if I could try to spend two hours on the cross, and I could strive to hang longer. 'Of course!' I say, like a brave model. I put it down as a sporting challenge, I’ll always try to stay on the bar longer - and I could well do with the additional fee too! I’m paid by the quarter hour, at just the standard rate for models
Little by little the painter increases the times that I have to cope with on the beam, until I have to endure four hours. It comes to the point where he handcuffs me and then leaves me alone while he goes off to do some other work. He only comes back after three hours, then paints for an hour, while I’m panting and moaning on the cross, squirming, until finally I sink exhausted and silent hanging from the ropes - just like the girl with no name, a gorgeous fantasy!
My fantasy changes. Now I’m the model of a painter or a sculptor. They have the advantage of needing a very long time to create their work. Daily I have to model, one hour or longer, or rather hang exposed. I’d delighted in anticipating the ordeal, a whole hour! That would be utterly excruciating, very hard to bear. I would start by trying to hold myself over the wooden beam, I would move to try to escape the terrible strain pulling on my my torso, I would try to support it with my feet and knees by pressing down, trying to stretch myself up a little higher. But then my calves would tire, and I’d have to return to hanging by my arms. Back and forth I would go, up and down. The ropes would burn and hurt, all my muscles would begin to ache.
The idea grabbed me - and how! Why do I so much love the idea of having to endure suffering, I’ve never understood. But, yes, there are other things I love that others don’t – I love spinach, others hate it, so what? I simply like spinach. Likewise, I like the idea of being held by bonds, especially when my arms are spread far apart and I’m straining with all my might against what my arms and shoulders have to bear.
In my imagination I increased the torments of my suspension. I am creating a work of art, and it must show exhaustion of the crucified, the suffering written in her face, in her cruelly overstretched upper body. The artist wants to depict her suffering from life and for him the model has to suffer indeed, genuinely, he doesn’t want acting, it has to be real suffering.
The painter asks me gently if I’ll try it again, if I could try to spend two hours on the cross, and I could strive to hang longer. 'Of course!' I say, like a brave model. I put it down as a sporting challenge, I’ll always try to stay on the bar longer - and I could well do with the additional fee too! I’m paid by the quarter hour, at just the standard rate for models
Little by little the painter increases the times that I have to cope with on the beam, until I have to endure four hours. It comes to the point where he handcuffs me and then leaves me alone while he goes off to do some other work. He only comes back after three hours, then paints for an hour, while I’m panting and moaning on the cross, squirming, until finally I sink exhausted and silent hanging from the ropes - just like the girl with no name, a gorgeous fantasy!
This story has the feel of truth about it, genuine inner feelings and experiences revealed through fiction. The joy, the frustration, of experimenting with self crux. The desire for more . . . .
Self crux and fantasy, where else will the story take us?
Thanks to all who have brought this story to us, Madiosi and Eulalia, and of course the original author.
And Drtikol, the inspiration. I have always loved his few crux photos, so striking, so real, so far ahead of his time. If only he were working today
I tune my laptop to view the picture better. The print was produced using equipment that didn’t cost much, it looks cheap, a cheap glass plate, cheaper developers. I put it in front of me. But the photographer’s done a fantastic job. The picture contains a lot of hidden details that can’t be perceived at first glance, yet nevertheless lead one to like the picture immediately. He’s applied the golden ratio - the image is divided by lines into areas of one third and two thirds, forming triangles. All the lines originate both within the image and outside - the girl's arms, the two bars of the cross. The girl's outstretched arms form a triangle above, and to her right and left below. Her inclined head is exactly in line with her right arm, her mouth’s on a line with the left arm. Nothing onthis photo is random. The photographer has masterfully arranged everything.
Has he guided the model, or simply waited for the perfect moment? I’ll never know. For myself, I can only enjoy the beauty of the shot. I look at you, girl without a name. Let me be your sister. Let me be with you, crucified by your side. Or even better, let me be you. Let me take your place, experience and endure the agony in your place, the sweet agony, the pain that dances with me on the cross until it exhausts me, and I sink down on my bonds.
Who were you, nameless girl? Were you a poor girl submitting to be photographed naked because you desperately needed money? Were you a professional model who wasn’t at all ashamed at being naked? Were you a student who earned a little bit by doing that? Or a wild young revolutionary, an advocate of female emancipation, of the complete freedom of the individual? Did you go to the cross in protest against bourgeois smugness and bigotry? Was it just a job for you or you, or did you enjoy exposing yourself stark naked? Were you like me, did it appeal to you, being tied up? Being naked and defenseless? Being helpless? To feel the helplessness and the shame, to be naked and tied, yet at the same time to actually enjoy this shame? Did you find the shame unbearably exciting, nameless girl? My right hand slips between my thighs, I part my legs a little. Let me be you, nameless girl, please! I want it too, I want to find out, I would so like to know how it feels.
"She's beautiful."
I jump, startled, and let out a scream. Dorothea’s standing behind me. My cousin’s back from shopping, and I didn’t hear her step softly behind me.
"My God, Doro! Do you want me to give me a fatal heart attack?! "
Dorothea puts her hands on my shoulders. She looks at the photo on the screen of my laptop.
"She is beautiful," she repeats, her voice has something dreamy about it, "and you look so peaceful. "
Has he guided the model, or simply waited for the perfect moment? I’ll never know. For myself, I can only enjoy the beauty of the shot. I look at you, girl without a name. Let me be your sister. Let me be with you, crucified by your side. Or even better, let me be you. Let me take your place, experience and endure the agony in your place, the sweet agony, the pain that dances with me on the cross until it exhausts me, and I sink down on my bonds.
Who were you, nameless girl? Were you a poor girl submitting to be photographed naked because you desperately needed money? Were you a professional model who wasn’t at all ashamed at being naked? Were you a student who earned a little bit by doing that? Or a wild young revolutionary, an advocate of female emancipation, of the complete freedom of the individual? Did you go to the cross in protest against bourgeois smugness and bigotry? Was it just a job for you or you, or did you enjoy exposing yourself stark naked? Were you like me, did it appeal to you, being tied up? Being naked and defenseless? Being helpless? To feel the helplessness and the shame, to be naked and tied, yet at the same time to actually enjoy this shame? Did you find the shame unbearably exciting, nameless girl? My right hand slips between my thighs, I part my legs a little. Let me be you, nameless girl, please! I want it too, I want to find out, I would so like to know how it feels.
"She's beautiful."
I jump, startled, and let out a scream. Dorothea’s standing behind me. My cousin’s back from shopping, and I didn’t hear her step softly behind me.
"My God, Doro! Do you want me to give me a fatal heart attack?! "
Dorothea puts her hands on my shoulders. She looks at the photo on the screen of my laptop.
"She is beautiful," she repeats, her voice has something dreamy about it, "and you look so peaceful. "
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P
Pia
Guest
And you've written this so beautifully too.... wonderful thoughts....Isn't it truly lovely to imagine ourselves back in the time of that girl, making the photograph. I adore it that we will never know who she was, what her name was, how she lived her life, what became of her.... There is a story here that you have begun to create for us.... My right hand is also between my thighs.... Thank you....
Chapter 2
First Time on the Cross
I was glad it was a little dark in Dorothea's room at this time of day, because I was bright red, my heart was pounding violently. I could no longer delete the image, I was left with only one choice: feast your eyes and go!
"That's what I found when I searched for artistic nude photography from the beginning of the last century. Google really delivers everything. We’ve had a project on this at school. The photo was by a famous avant-garde artist from Bohemia, Frantisek Drtikol, he actually took it in 1913."
"That was before the First World War," Dorothea said. "She didn’t know that a year later half the world would be in flames."
"Yes," I took the hint,"maybe she’s acting, that would explain it.”
"She looks peaceful," said Dorothea. She sounded thoughtful, "You might even choose to follow suit."
I thought I had misheard. Wordlessly, I turned around to face my cousin, my heart beating still more strongly.
"The picture," she gestured with her hand, "re-set it."
"You want to close it?" My voice took on a shrill undertone.
"Don’t close it," said Dorothea, "re-set it, the way it was when you were looking at it. You have great desire for it, Lisette, I know you. You don’t talk much about your most intimate feelings."
Doro looked at me: "We could do that, if you want to."
I had to swallow. This was my dreamed of, longed for, opportunity. My cousin was offering me the chance to do the same, to be the girl without a name! I couldn’t speak. Dorothea looked at the photo, then at me: "Do you, Lisette?"
"I ...." I began to stutter. ".... I would .... I… really don’t know" I was wriggling like a worm - "it would certainly be… interesting… to try it."
“Don’t say anything false now, Lisette, don’t break it! This is your only chance! You won’t get another - say yes, you silly goose! Are you so afraid your blood’s stopped flowing?”
I couldn’t answer, my throat was tight, I was about to burst into tears.
"As soon as it starts to hurt, we’ll immediately stop. It's just to try it out…"she gave me a gentle nudge, "Tell me!"
"Yes ...." I forced it out, all I managed to say, my heart was beating like it would burst...
"Switch the computer off," commanded Dorothea, "come with me. I have something to show you."
I shut down the computer, then I got up and followed my cousin. She took a key from the drawer of her desk and went outside with me. We ran down the long garden and through the gate at the end. We faced a dense hedge.
"Do you know that?" asked Dorothea.
"Your Grandpa’s workshop," I replied.
"Exactly!" confirmed Doro, "come!" She pulled me by the hand along the hedge to a large iron gate. She took a key on a chain and unlocked it. "Grandpa was not to be disturbed if he was working, he couldn't stand distractions." Dorothea sounded sad, "How I would have loved to watch him at work when I was a small child, but I was only once allowed in his workshop. After he had died, mother sold some of the apparatus that Grandpa had owned, but most of the stuff is still there. No-one knew that I’d kept the spare key on me. It was a sort of revenge. Finally I could go in and out as I wanted. But it’s actually dead boring in there, now –“ she grinned mischievously at me: "Unless you want to recreate some photos…”
We went through the gate and saw a long building before us. I’d only got to see the workshop once. At the time, I was ten, and Grandpa had left to go and get something. He’d forgotten to lock the gate. Doro and I didn’t let the opportunity pass, and we were initiated into the realm behind the thick hedge. Unfortunately the workshop was locked. We could only see in from outside by looking through window. Inside there were large work-benches and work-tables. All sorts of tools hung on the wall. From the ceiling hung four different pulleys with chains.
On a workbench was a half-naked man lying on his back, with outstretched arms. I was shocked: "There’s someone there!" But it was just a plaster figure of Jesus, Hans was working on it. He was in fact a restorer. From everywhere people brought him broken saints, statues of the Virgin Mary needing a new dress, or crucifixes which had to be renovated. He cared for wood carvings, fought the dreaded woodworm, and made ancient figures look like new again.
It hadn’t been all that exciting, and Dorothea and I had soon left. Now we stood at the door, and my cousin inserted the key,
"Welcome to a very special world, Lisette." She unlocked and we entered. I noticed how clean it was. Doro told me she regularly cleaned and dusted it. On one of the exceedingly large tables were paints and brushes.
"It's my painting studio," said Dorothea. She shrugged. "Even though I hardly spend much time here, it's my kingdom. Every two or three weeks it comes over me, and I use the colours and brushes. So I keep the workshop clean too."
She took me by the shoulders and led me to the other side of the space.
"There it, is Lisette!"
I stopped and gasped for air like a fish out of water. Against the wall there leaned a large wooden cross!
"One of the last of Grandpa's orders," said Dorothea. "This was the crucifix from St. Mary's in the Castle. Grandpa had restored the body, but then left the cross, because the colour wasn’t any good. They took back the body of Jesus from the crucifix, but not the old cross - they got a new one made, that was higher and better matched their altar. So the old cross stayed here."
I saw in a corner an old plaster image. Part of the face was broken and half of the eye was missing. It looked as if the saint was winking at me cheekily!
First Time on the Cross
I was glad it was a little dark in Dorothea's room at this time of day, because I was bright red, my heart was pounding violently. I could no longer delete the image, I was left with only one choice: feast your eyes and go!
"That's what I found when I searched for artistic nude photography from the beginning of the last century. Google really delivers everything. We’ve had a project on this at school. The photo was by a famous avant-garde artist from Bohemia, Frantisek Drtikol, he actually took it in 1913."
"That was before the First World War," Dorothea said. "She didn’t know that a year later half the world would be in flames."
"Yes," I took the hint,"maybe she’s acting, that would explain it.”
"She looks peaceful," said Dorothea. She sounded thoughtful, "You might even choose to follow suit."
I thought I had misheard. Wordlessly, I turned around to face my cousin, my heart beating still more strongly.
"The picture," she gestured with her hand, "re-set it."
"You want to close it?" My voice took on a shrill undertone.
"Don’t close it," said Dorothea, "re-set it, the way it was when you were looking at it. You have great desire for it, Lisette, I know you. You don’t talk much about your most intimate feelings."
Doro looked at me: "We could do that, if you want to."
I had to swallow. This was my dreamed of, longed for, opportunity. My cousin was offering me the chance to do the same, to be the girl without a name! I couldn’t speak. Dorothea looked at the photo, then at me: "Do you, Lisette?"
"I ...." I began to stutter. ".... I would .... I… really don’t know" I was wriggling like a worm - "it would certainly be… interesting… to try it."
“Don’t say anything false now, Lisette, don’t break it! This is your only chance! You won’t get another - say yes, you silly goose! Are you so afraid your blood’s stopped flowing?”
I couldn’t answer, my throat was tight, I was about to burst into tears.
"As soon as it starts to hurt, we’ll immediately stop. It's just to try it out…"she gave me a gentle nudge, "Tell me!"
"Yes ...." I forced it out, all I managed to say, my heart was beating like it would burst...
"Switch the computer off," commanded Dorothea, "come with me. I have something to show you."
I shut down the computer, then I got up and followed my cousin. She took a key from the drawer of her desk and went outside with me. We ran down the long garden and through the gate at the end. We faced a dense hedge.
"Do you know that?" asked Dorothea.
"Your Grandpa’s workshop," I replied.
"Exactly!" confirmed Doro, "come!" She pulled me by the hand along the hedge to a large iron gate. She took a key on a chain and unlocked it. "Grandpa was not to be disturbed if he was working, he couldn't stand distractions." Dorothea sounded sad, "How I would have loved to watch him at work when I was a small child, but I was only once allowed in his workshop. After he had died, mother sold some of the apparatus that Grandpa had owned, but most of the stuff is still there. No-one knew that I’d kept the spare key on me. It was a sort of revenge. Finally I could go in and out as I wanted. But it’s actually dead boring in there, now –“ she grinned mischievously at me: "Unless you want to recreate some photos…”
We went through the gate and saw a long building before us. I’d only got to see the workshop once. At the time, I was ten, and Grandpa had left to go and get something. He’d forgotten to lock the gate. Doro and I didn’t let the opportunity pass, and we were initiated into the realm behind the thick hedge. Unfortunately the workshop was locked. We could only see in from outside by looking through window. Inside there were large work-benches and work-tables. All sorts of tools hung on the wall. From the ceiling hung four different pulleys with chains.
On a workbench was a half-naked man lying on his back, with outstretched arms. I was shocked: "There’s someone there!" But it was just a plaster figure of Jesus, Hans was working on it. He was in fact a restorer. From everywhere people brought him broken saints, statues of the Virgin Mary needing a new dress, or crucifixes which had to be renovated. He cared for wood carvings, fought the dreaded woodworm, and made ancient figures look like new again.
It hadn’t been all that exciting, and Dorothea and I had soon left. Now we stood at the door, and my cousin inserted the key,
"Welcome to a very special world, Lisette." She unlocked and we entered. I noticed how clean it was. Doro told me she regularly cleaned and dusted it. On one of the exceedingly large tables were paints and brushes.
"It's my painting studio," said Dorothea. She shrugged. "Even though I hardly spend much time here, it's my kingdom. Every two or three weeks it comes over me, and I use the colours and brushes. So I keep the workshop clean too."
She took me by the shoulders and led me to the other side of the space.
"There it, is Lisette!"
I stopped and gasped for air like a fish out of water. Against the wall there leaned a large wooden cross!
"One of the last of Grandpa's orders," said Dorothea. "This was the crucifix from St. Mary's in the Castle. Grandpa had restored the body, but then left the cross, because the colour wasn’t any good. They took back the body of Jesus from the crucifix, but not the old cross - they got a new one made, that was higher and better matched their altar. So the old cross stayed here."
I saw in a corner an old plaster image. Part of the face was broken and half of the eye was missing. It looked as if the saint was winking at me cheekily!
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Pia
Guest
This is wonderful! And I just love long gardens with all their secrets and gates at the end and dark trees with hidden things behind them... you are touching so many special spots with this Eul! Mmmmm....
P
Pia
Guest
Aaaagh - and I've just eaten an enormous chocolate bar reading it too! Now I will have to train super hard tomorrow!
Yes, me, the story once again has also impressed.
So much so that I have created my first e-bok for my Kindle. No TXT files more.
