Archive > Vol. X no. Z
Wilhelm Freddie found his mannequin that night a back-street beauty, the raking light of a strip bulb exposed her as layerless — just the color of nylons set abstractly. You could go anywhere with that. He sawed off five of her fingers set them in rucked paint on a board. They were caught pre-actless, suggestive. Where could they go but into anyone’s skeletons? They were frisson, butchery, celebration. Three adjectives up from plastic, made them art. When we found her that night, she was leaving herself behind in flakes, paint scratchings. (her, as in body part). All grime, rebellion. Made herself at home in soft entropy the joy of not giving a dime about her substrate. We’re restorers — paid to re-set that fixture you bought. We turned the infra-red on her, exposed her particles, saw her sticky traces a past life of beeswax in her crevices. Decided to impregnate. We’d re-bond her to the dream she hatched from. We leveled the ultrasonic mister, held her under until the stink and fog were over. She was slippery with sturgeon glue. We hadn’t done. For hours we pressed her flakes back with spatulas. By daylight she was bland. You pay a lot for that.