Chiaroscuro Ch 13
+ Help me pick a short story to publish.
Last week I had the chance to experience the Magritte retrospective at the Art Gallery of New South Wales (AGNSW). My visit was initially inspired by the acquisition of Ken Done’s Sunday - a work the Gallery is dedicating to my beautiful friend, Fiona McIntosh who passed away a few months ago.
Thanks to my lovely friend and ex-colleague, I went into the exhibition for free (VIP perks, right?) and was greeted by the rare luxury of a quiet gallery. That’s always the best way to see a show - immersed in the hush of the space. It brought me back to my days working at the AGNSW, wandering the Grand Courts in the stillness before opening hours. Those mornings were a special kind of magic.
Fiona, or Fifi as many of us called her, worked at the Members Desk for an incredible 29 years. She was one of the funniest, kindest, and most charismatic people I’ve ever met, always ready with a cheeky grin or a warm word. Some of my fondest memories of working at the Gallery are wrapped up in her laughter. The decision to acquire a work in her honour speaks volumes about the impact she had. It’s a gesture reserved for very few.
As for the Magritte exhibition, it really left an impression on me. I’ve seen Surrealist artworks in collections before, but never a complete retrospective or specific exhibition dedicated to a single Surrealist artist like this.
The Surrealists significantly influenced contemporary visual culture by expanding views on the subconscious, dreams, and reality, drawing from the theories of Sigmund Freud (psychoanalyst and neurologuist) and Carl Jung (psychologist). Freud and Jung explored repressed desires, dream analysis and imagery, the collective unconscious, automatism, and archetypes - creating an interplay between art and psychology - enriching the Surrealists work with universal symbols and mythological themes.
It was truly thought-provoking, on a deep, existential level. The last time I felt moved in a similar way by art was standing in front of Mark Rothko’s work, ‘No. 61 (Rust and Blue) [Brown Blue, Brown on Blue]’ at MOCA in LA - losing myself in his vast, meditative immersions of paint and space. Yes, I admit, it takes a bit to get me going when it comes to art.
But Magritte made me think about life and death, the wild wanderings of my subconscious, and how those thoughts fuel my writing. Just as his mind spilled onto his canvases, I’ve been pouring my own into stories over the years.
Speaking of which, I’ve been toying with the idea of sharing one of my short stories with you. They’ve been simmering on the back burner for a while, and it feels like the right time to release one into the wild.
Here’s where you come in: I’m running a poll on my Instagram, to decide which story to share. Your options are:
A Nick
Little Lion
Orange.
All three have a little spice (you’ve been warned), so there’s definitely a theme happening. Cast your vote on Instagram or reply to this email with your pick, and I’ll publish the winner next week. I can’t wait to hear what you think!
After next week, I’ll be taking a few weeks off over the holidays. Chiaroscuro only has a few more chapters left, and I anticipate its completion by February/ March 2025. For paying subscribers, Chiaroscuro Chapter 13 begins below.
Joey xx
Chiaroscuro Chapter 12 Recap
Emery, grappling with her decision about the Offer of Sale from Street and Co., tears the contract into pieces in a moment of defiance, rejecting Cliff Hersain’s influence despite Rupert's threats of professional ruin. Returning to her childhood home in Cronulla, she is welcomed by her aging father, but the familiar surroundings only amplify her feelings of failure as she sinks into isolation, avoiding calls from Quentin and losing touch with her creative drive. While exploring the attic, Emery discovers a self-portrait from her high school years, a bold and defiant depiction of her younger self that sparks memories of her former confidence. Her father’s gentle encouragement to paint for herself, not others, resonates deeply, planting the seeds of a renewed resolve. That night, Emery confronts her fears and whispers a vow not to let Cliff Hersain destroy her or her burgeoning career, and a flicker of creative determination begins to stir within her.
Chapter 13
The late afternoon sun streamed through the lace curtains of the room, casting shifting floral patterns across the hardwood floor.
Emery sat at the kitchen table, an unopened bottle of wine and two glasses set beside her. She had been picking at the label, her fingers jittery while she waited for her guest to arrive.
Her mother's belongings were scattered across the table: old photographs, a faded scarf, and the letter.
The doorbell rang, the chime echoing faintly through the house. Emery hurried to answer it.
‘Liv,’ she said, opening the door. A tide of relief washing over her. She could finally tell someone what she’d found amongst her mother’s possessions.
Dressed casually in a linen jumpsuit and sneakers, her dark hair in a low bun, Liv had the presence of someone who didn’t want to be recognised but couldn’t help standing out.
‘You alright?’ Liv asked, looking her over with a sharp gaze.
Emery gestured for her to follow. ‘Better now that you’re here. Come in.’
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