And so it was that my room paid homage to a parade of women. Over the years hundreds of them came, and I would do my best to fill their veins with hope, injecting the prospect that after my medicine finds their cankerous internal sores, a cleansing would occur. My aim was to reconnect them with their beauty. Even though I was there to render a physical service, I knew my unconditional support of their life stories was the better therapeutic consequence of our alliance. For me to do my work, it was critical that the impenetrable passages of memory be dislodged, because I knew that interpretations of old events embed themselves under the flesh, and these old wounds carry forward and poison the present. It would show in the eyes. My extraordinary gift to them was to help them discover their poison and release it. Whatever time it took was of no concern to me, the layers needed to be shed, and the lens needed to be directed entirely on them. These women needed to be reunited with their bodies, and only I could provide that service. Not their husbands, not their girlfriends, nor their bosses, no-one, just me.
Upon them entering my room, the first thing I would notice would be that their eyes were battle fatigued by life. I would offer an herbal tea, one with calming qualities. For even though they knew of their purpose for being here, we would not bound forth into our work. I would not encourage it either, the impetus must come from them, in their time.
It would have been impossible to reach them had I presented the dullness of a clinical setting from where they had come, so I drew from my knowledge of persuasion and set up my room in a suggestive tone. The perfect seating arrangement in the form of a chaise longue covered in plush maroon velvet. A large print of Paul Desire Trouillebert’s 1880s A Nude Snake Charmer hung in gilded frame on the central wall opposite the chaise. I positioned my chair in front of the masterpiece, so my guests were forced into the painting’s hypnotic powers. My hope for them was that the vision of the beautiful naked maiden spellbinding the snake would trigger that place inside that held a woman’s gift, and they would feel the power it possessed and open to it.
No one woman was ever to meet another, else the usual womanly comparisons of beauty could occur. They needed total privacy with just me, otherwise they might withhold and we would never complete the work.
Eventually when trust was extended, together we would go to the camphor trunk positioned on the far side of the room and select the one rectangle of material that spoke of their essence. Its colours and patterns resonating with the part of them that had no language. The one piece that would capture their honour as they stood in their nakedness, finally free.
Initially they would sit upright on the chaise, divulging small details about themselves. In time they would lounge back, and melt into the softness of the succulent velvet, and it was at this point I knew we were close. I always respected their personal space, and touched them only when I sensed a need from them and only when I was certain it would be welcomed. Most of the time I just listened, and in doing so I unearthed many things about them. It was very clear that a woman’s life is not always her own. Sometimes just by their physical make-up choices are made for them; other times influences around them direct their course. Mostly I discovered a collective desire for an end to conflict, and this would be sought by whatever means. I haven’t time to tell you all their stories, but I will share the more recent ones.
Kate came 8.30 am Monday morning, sharp. The first week her arrival was heralded by a banging on the door so hard I thought the timber was going to crack. I rushed to open it, and there stood a woman of small statute and slender build, with blue, fearful, eyes. She talked incessantly, often regaling stories of persecution with bursts of anger. I allowed the display of emotion in my room, and would just politely say something like ‘sounds terrible’. Kate’s life, she stated, was stopped by motherhood and if she had her time again she would not subject herself to such torture. The first, a boy, was bearable, and she even enjoyed the opportunity to play happy families. She was blending with her cohort, keeping up with other women her age. Stepford wives; born to serve, keep house, cook meals, raise children, always with a smile. The smiling stopped when her daughter came along. ‘Worst fucking mistake of my life,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know of abortions then. Fixed up the next two, but not her, right from the get-go there she was clinging to me every single minute. Sucked my boobs dry until they were pancakes. Now she’s grown up she’s got the big boobs. How unfair was that? Once, I made her this divine little dress, gorgeous purple material, my favourite colour. I spent days making it, and she took one look at it, pointed at a red velvet bought dress, and said No, I want dat one. Only three, couldn’t even string a sentence together, and already being selfish. Ungrateful little bitch.’ Can’t say I liked Kate, but I had vowed to myself to always offer unconditional support to all of my women. I felt this was best for them, so I just smiled nicely and said ‘it must have been hard for you.’
Victoria, my greatest challenge, came Tuesdays. Medium height, dark hair. She was a nervy thing. I knew there was a story to be told here. In our first meeting her hello was barely audible, and eyes darted anywhere but on mine. Like Kate she was born in the era where there was no contraceptive pill, so legs needed to stay together otherwise motherhood would come knocking. She told me how she loved men. Couldn’t get enough of them. Then slowly it came out, the piece I know she needed to dislodge. Four children, one after the other, abandoned. ‘Jus seveneen love. No job, no partner, no choice. He was betta off with a famlee who could look afta ‘im. Three weeks old when I left ‘im in the toilets at da George Street movie theatre. He ad a bottla formula. I figured someone would take ‘im home. I know it seems crazy, but I just couldn’t do it, Too young. Then I was in ma mid 20s and it ‘appened agen. Fell pregnant. Little girl. Gave ‘er up when she was six weeks. Dropped ‘er at the Salvos. Left ‘er at the door. Figured they’d know wat ta do.’ By the time Victoria was in her early 30s, she had two more children to a sailor boyfriend. One day, while he was away, she left her rented home and never returned. The neighbours found the baby and a three year old crying and called the authorities. Victoria’s words expressed no guilt, but I could see it in her body. Shoulders sunken, back rounded. A child of foster homes herself, she had no family support, she felt no love. I couldn’t help but think how easily the patterns of the past were repeated in the present. ‘You did what you needed to do for you,’ I told her. It wasn’t exactly the words in my heart, and had I not had a leash on my tongue I would have told her I felt sad for the children. But, over the time I really got to know women, and I could see motherhood was not for all of them. It got in the way of them living life.
Wednesday was Joan’s time. She wanted to be an actress, but never got out of the factory. Loved Liz Taylor, and appeared to be competing with her for trips down the aisle. Liz had clocked up seven husbands in eight marriages (Burton twice), while Joan had had five. She didn’t endear herself to the first husband, at least not now, ‘That bastard,’ she said. ‘Told him to drop dead one day, and the week later he did. That showed him. Didn’t know I was so powerful did ya?’ she said with a laugh. The last hubby was the love of her life but he too was now dead, complications from a surgery. With husbands, and in between husbands, Joan was a prolific lover of men, but now she found herself uninterested. It was also the case that the men just didn’t look at her like they did when she was in her 20s and 30s. That was the case for most women. They would get to a certain age and suddenly they were invisible on the street. The loss of the lusty glare can wedge detachment between them and self-identification of the sexual kind. Slowly the glow dies like an outdoor campsite, until all that remains are the charred ashes.
Thursday belonged to Carmea. When she lived in Thailand with her husband, she would accompany him to sex bars. ‘I was never quite sure whether to go with him or not. I hated it. Watching young girls writhing up against poles, and then disappearing into back rooms with ageing men. If I didn’t go, he’d go anyway. At least he wasn’t one of those men who disappeared into the back rooms.’ Apparently though Carmea’s husband was slipping away somewhere. It was fortunate for her that he had found her physically unattractive years before he caught the ravages of HIV. ‘Even though I know it wasn’t the girls fault - I mean some of them looked downright miserable - I couldn’t help but feel jealous towards them.’ She now looks after him, and even though Thailand was a decade gone by, she still looks at her naked body with an internal dialogue of disgust. ‘I had no idea’, she told me, ‘how your man’s gazing at other women could eat away at self-esteem.’ I tell her he was a fool, and how beautiful she looks, and I mean it.
Annie always came on Fridays. She liked Fridays the end of the week. Allowed her to get all of her appointments and other chores out of the way before her time with me. She was an assistant to a very powerful man. On call to someone else 16 hours a day. As I listened I heard trepidation about her abilities as a woman. She shied away from relationships, and even though she would have loved to have had children she wondered how good a Mum she would be. It wasn’t difficult to hear where this originated. Her tales of childhood abandonment started with her very entry into the world. Born small she was whisked away into a humidity crib and positioned in a room far up the end of the hallway away from her birth mother. Six years later when her father died she was left behind while her entire family, including her eight year old brother, attended his funeral. ‘I don’t know why they didn’t take me,’ she said. Not long after her mother in lust with an American soldier dropped her and her brother at a government respite home. It was only for two weeks, but long enough for the little Annie to feel the pains of longing. She left home at just 17, and not long after saw her mother walking in town. Mum, Mum, she said, only to be ignored. Dropping her brother and his young family at the home some years later she was greeted with an ‘Hello, thanks for bringing them, and don’t bother to come inside.’ I just wanted to be part of a loving family, she told me. I told her how amazing she was and how I could not understand how anyone could reject her. These little comments make them feel better, feel closer to me.
It’s Saturday. No one here today. My day to be alone in my room. The day I reminisce about the women to whom I have provided my services. I sit on the chaise, and I feel their tears, I hear their laughter, I sense those moments when I appropriately touched them, hugged them, held them. The physical contact that told them their bodies really were perfect, just as they are. I gaze at the painting, and know its hypnotic charm helped chase away their inner demons, and allowed these women to open to self-acceptance, for some of them I suspect for the very first time.
I place my camera on the table and pick up the album. I open it and turn the pages. My copies of their self-portraits. Kate 63, Joan 48, Victoria 70, Carmea 35, Annie 27, and the others. Women of all ages from all backgrounds. I remember when each of them surrendered to the camera. Firstly they would allow me to take photographs of them fully-clothed, and then eventually they would shed all of the protective layers. To see them reunited with their bodies was an amazing moment. Beautiful women photographed in their nakedness, draped only in the colourful scarves they wear with pride upon their heads. My eyes see where the disease took one or both of their breasts, leaving scars symbolic of a battle fought and, at least for now, a battle won. But the part of them that I love the most is their eyes. Together we rediscovered that glimmer. I congratulate myself on being able to bring them back to themselves; back to the place where, no matter the disease, what they did, where they ran, how many sacrifices they made, it is a place they deserve to be.