Suspension …

Abstract

Suspension . . .. . . the state in which the particles of a substance are mixed with a fluid but are undissolved; the state of being suspended1 Sue Joseph (bio) Swimming most days to tend to a physical ailment, I am spending significant amounts of time under water of late, finishing every lap session with long, languid submersions. I used to do this as a child . . . . . . I was twelve years old . . . . . . and now I am not, but seek suspension, cradling; held under by water, womb-like and calm; a loud, busy silence. A return. _______ There is something about the goldenness of Gustav Klimt's art, his love of the female form, his desire to disrupt and provoke and prod and yell at Viennese society with his work at the turn of the last century. The fact that he used to wear long robes and sandals while he painted, and no underwear. He endures as one of my favorites, his work so satisfying to gaze upon. To me, he functioned on another plane, suspended in between societal acceptability and pariah status, painting orgasms and socialites and prostitutes and lovers. Possibly his most popularized work, along with his sensual The Kiss (1907), is the Mother and Child image. But I always knew this Madonna-esque image was never his intention. Too cliché. And of course, mother and child are but two of the three subjects in the original; the third, a weeping old woman, the crone, is always edited out. And they are not three subjects, but one—old age, maturity, childhood: a beatific dark-haired babe in arms, sleeping, held by a peaceful, also slumbering, auburn-haired young woman, leant over, almost draped by a stooping, old-age-ravaged, weeping, naked female. She hides her face behind limp, dying gray hair, her head held in one hand, suffering in silence and knowing and despair. Her thin limbs are strewn with protruding veins, elongated as if pulled by gravity, back toward the earth. This, Klimt's homage to the Three Ages of Woman (1905). And I have it large—the complete artwork, with the Klimtian mosaic gold-and silver-leaf touch—this reproduction hanging in our living room, above our piano. A beautiful golden-colored frame surrounding a depiction of the progression of female life from the newness of birth to the disintegration and decay of old age. My partner found it for me online, sent over to Australia from Spain. I had been searching for the [End Page 149] perfect reproduction of the entire work, so difficult to find, and he commissioned one for me, screen painted on silk. It was a breathtaking gift to receive and now, part of the fabric of every day of our life, the first thing we see on waking and entering our living room; the last as we turn the light off each night. The wholeness of it is satisfying and beautiful and screams—this is the one truth. This is what it is. All of this. Breathing. Living. Growing. Aging.Dying. Death. _______ Somehow, sleep-apnea-induced dementia rather than Alzheimer's disease is an easier diagnosis to hear. Our mother was becoming a little forgetful—mild cognitive impairment—and forgetting birth dates, names of neighbors not often seen, names of her many grandchildren, what level she parked her car. Small things we laughed off at the time. "No, it's simply sleep-apnea-induced dementia. Just early stages." I can still hear myself, dripping in desperate denial, explaining ad nauseam to friends and family and acquaintances. "She does not have Alzheimer's." Then there is a catastrophic car accident, where she remarkably runs over herself, resulting in a shattered pelvis and three months in hospital. She is catapulted into full-blown dementia. Still, it is only called dementia. But not for long. She is officially diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, in 2016. And we learn that Alzheimer's disease is actually a common form of dementia: a chronic neurodegenerative disease, a period of suspension in between life and death; stealing her from us and her dignity from her. And the diagnosis makes no difference. The word makes no difference. She is still leaving us, slowly...