Mariannes Makeup

All to often people see only the finished product. A pair of Prada shoes; exquisite. For those with a more modest budget, like myself, undoubtedly there have been weeks if not months of agonising self debate before the purchase is finally made. Do I need new shoes or do I just want them? Should I have the washing machine fixed before I get buy them? Then, as if by magic, its January and that pair of Prada shoes are sitting sadly on the sail rack at the back of the shop. Fate. I can't afford the washing machine now anyway, not after the christmas spend. Days, weeks, months and sometimes even years of perfect harmony pass. It isn't until they begin to fade that their ownwer takes a closer look at what is holding them together. She picks away at the peeling sole that has been her friend for so long...

I have been reading a lot of finished products recently and it has started to occur to me more and more that what I really want to know about them is where they came from. What started them? Who? Why and where? I'm going to make a wild assumption and guess that it is almost never only from the authors imagination. Every idea needs a spark. A good writer sees this spark and steals it, moulding it into a new entity. Giving birth to a new story.

However, admitting where one stole this spark from offers a transparency into the piece. An honesty, maybe? I am going to give you an honest view into a piece of micro-fiction that I wrote a few years ago Mariannes Makeup. I was looking around an exhibition at the V&A a few years ago and found a spark in this painting...I moulded it and created Marianne. Given her story I thought she would be an appropriate place to start given we are discussing transparency and honesty. She still inspires me.



Marianne has just applied her makeup. I've just watched. I don't understand how she does it. Every morning she puts on her crow black wig. Lines her eyebrows. Shaves her face. Foundation. Rolls on her lipstick. Spreads her eye shadow. Powder blush. Eyeliner. Every morning, she just stares into that mirror, mouth ajar. And every morning I gaze in fascination past the back of her head at her square beaten face, through the gold framed mirror. She used to be like me. It’s why we fell in love. So much in love. She wanted me, wanted what I wanted. A house, a home, a garage for the car, a cat named Biggles, a dog named Rex, and perhaps, someday a marriage. Like every couple. It would be fine, normal. It’s a modern world, no one would bat an eyelid. That's why I can't understand. She used to have long straggly hair, knotted. Ginger. Baggy jeans, over her ass, revealing a touch of her grey Calvin Klein boxers, alluring all of the eligible bachelors. Her trainers were too big, their laces untied, and a bands name was splashed across her t-shirt. I still love her. I still want her. She's just not the man I fell in love with. After she's done staring into her wonderland of plastic beauty. She spins on her plush pink swivel stool and says
“Ready for breakfast Richard? Tea or coffee?” She gets up, slips on her brown kitten heeled boots and walks into the kitchen. “ Richard? You never said. Tea or Coffee?”