It was a good photoshoot. We hid the torn denim shorts that I thought were cool. Francesca, like so many women, preferred to keep her thighs under wraps. I believe that I nailed her vanity, her insecurity and her strength. This friendship was uniquely ours. Not to be repeated or understood. We came from very different backgrounds. Me, the wild Aussie girl. She, the American lost in France. We painted our world with ambition. Shared artistic passion was our glue. It didn’t make sense when Francesca wrote from her hospital bed. It didn’t make sense when she died. I only knew her full of life.
I don’t usually write at this time of the morning. What am I even doing up? Last night’s merriment turned into this mornings unruly ride home through the sleeping suburbs. Thankfully no bike stacks this time. Late night binges are not my usual. I’m more likely to be walking the mountain by starlight or hanging out with the housies talking environmental politics and jewellery selling initiatives. Then there’s the all nighters slapping paint onto canvas while random french chansons blast through my headphones. No, I haven’t been clubbing for quite a while. Thanks, Kate, celebrating your return from the wilds where spitting is a national past-time was well worth the hangover. Have a good flight back and good luck starting your blog.
Disclaimer One: Sleeping with the cat has nothing to do with this little story. Disclaimer Two: I didn’t sleep with the cat.
‘Sleeping with the cat’, oil on canvas. 60cm x 60cm
copyright Jeni McMillan