Wednesday, 5 July, 2000

Dream that Harmony Korine Beats Up Chloe Sevigny

CHLOE SEVIGNY

She stood in the doorway and her head drooped forward slightly, not as perky as it normally was, like a vase of flowers when the waterline's dropped and their stems can't reach a drink any more. Tiny hairs sparked off her head and quivered in the sunlit air around it. I must have put my arm up accross the door, or sighed slightly when I saw her, because she asked if it was alright her coming round like this? and I said of course it's alright, and we walked through the house into the yard.

I grabbed the yellow throw that Emer had given me and a couple of cushions and put them down where we were going to sit. Chloe perched on the furry cushion and stuck her legs out in front of her and turned her face away. She leaned back with her arms stuck out behind her. Her shoulderblades made tiny sharp wings against the back of her blouse. She moved her head and her hair fell to the other side and for the first time that day I could see her face and a tiny bleached down of hairs continuing down from her ear to the angled place on her jawbone. Some celebrities have every single hair on their faces removed so they don't catch the light. Chloe didn't: Chloe held the light, caught it in her face and carried it around with her.

A patch of sun splashed onto the throw and the cat came over and stretched, first humping her back up and then leaning back and pushing her front legs forwards like sticks. Then she lay down alongside Chloe's legs. 'She never normally likes me!' Chloe said. 'She must know i'm feeling sad.' Her voice sounded muffled and rusty, like an old bell. I looked at the crumbling brick wall and the shadowy places where I'd brushed cobwebs away and stuck nightlights in, and then I looked at the daisies and at the ones which had already flowered and died. Their stems were dried up and brown. Chloe's voice sounded ancient, not like an aged person but like she was reading the lines of a play written a long time before she was born, or reading a poem with sprung rhythm, pausing where the poet intended her to pause, breathing in the same way as the poet had breathed a long time ago.

She told me what Harmony had been doing, all the while tugging at the hem of her denim skirt, pulling it over her knees, where it would rest for a moment before some slight movement of her pelvis would send it creeping up again. A fly settled on the throw; two white butterflies circled past, whirling round each other in their own tornado, then off over the fence. An instant passed. A drop of saltwater slid off Chloe's face and landed on the throw beside her and she carefully placed the flat of her hand over it, not too fast, just casual enough to say 'don't mention this tear to anyone.' The wind blew and the mirrorball that had been on top of the Christmas tree and now was tied to the end of the washing line started spinning round, rubbing slightly against the wooden fence post.

Tiny splashes of light whirled round off the brick walls, over the rickety fence, over Chloe's skirt and the cat's black fur and the top of my arm. I cleared my throat and said I sort of knew he'd been doing it, because I'd read that interview with her and Harmony in The Face. It was obvious, somehow, in the way he 'encouraged' her to use her talents, in the way she claimed he was her university, in the way he said she was his love and muse. Chloe just nodded, listless, and kept her hand on top of the tear on the blanket.

 

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