Gwen awoke to the rustle of leaf mulch and feral scent of her unwashed body, her clothes damp with early autumn dew. Morning sun, sage, lime green, with perhaps a glint of pastel yellow, filtered through the branches above her. Sudden urgency, more frequent now she was older, caused her to rise, lift her skirts, and relieve herself discretely upon the thick roots of an oak. Years of life modelling, times of abandoned passion, and an early habit of plunging naked into the sea, had not robbed her body of its propriety. Straightening, she paused for a moment to look round, the forest a miracle of shape and colour, then began to retrace the tracks of her steps from the day before, towards paths that would lead to Meudon, her cats, and the shed-like structure she increasingly thought of as home. Distant bells explained she had missed early mass, but the nuns could only scold, nothing more. Even so, she felt in her clothes for her rosary, rotating the ebony beads between thumb and forefinger, praying aloud as she walked, her voice declamatory, her French imperfect. If one sets one’s mind on becoming a saint, surely one must only practice? Practice, after all, had allowed her to realise one aspect of her nature. Why not another? But even as she prayed, old thoughts intruded. Of Rodin, of Dorelia, of Véra. Of the elderly monsignor who now wanted her to burn his letters. One cannot prescribe who one will love, or shape love’s unseemly patterns. She had tried to do both. Solitude, always beckoning, was a better match for these later years, when she painted and drew more than ever, as time pressed against her.

Her mind, though, would not permit real solitude, nor would her heart. Others would always live there. Passion must steer its own course towards ecstasy, or despair. Her nature, she had long understood, was not given to neutrality.

Her feet hurt. Her bones ached. Her coat hung heavily on her shoulders. But bodily pain was an old companion. It could not disrupt her will. She had boasted of her suppleness to Rodin – there had been every incentive – though she was so much younger then. She urged herself forward with the purpose of a seasoned walker, while her limbs did their best to obey.

She loved the forest. It contained her spirit. In the unshielded open, vividness was everywhere, and crowded in. Long dedication to the art of noticing impelled her to perceive, to question, to interpret. More and more, simply by looking, she saw too much. But here the trees were a shield. One’s eye could only go so far. There was respite, and simple beauty.

She thought of the canvas she had left half finished, a Meudon street slanting under moonlight, with the shape of a man, indistinct, making his way home. She could see it before her as she walked. Latterly, her style had grown less evidently concerned with form, her subjects freer of the confinement of shape. No longer were they imprisoned in a single moment, immune to the flow of life. Increasingly, she painted at night, where the ephemeral was more evident. Ultimately everything, her life had taught her, will prove ephemeral.

As she neared the forest’s dwindling north edge she thought of her brother.

Augustus, ageing, mournful and belatedly dignified, had taken to writing solicitous letters. The latest, addressed in his sloping, erratic script, lay unopened at home. She must bring herself to read it at some point. Despite his fame and years of wantonness they were not as different as people thought. But he was a man, need it be said, and subject to different laws.

A tone of respect, even deference, had crept into the brotherly nature of his musings. He was despondent, of course, believing he had squandered his early talent. At his most melancholy he would wearily tell others that, if he was remembered at all, it would be as the brother of Gwen John. Always clear in purpose, he surely realised word would get back to her.

She gained the rutted path that would rise and widen into the familiarity of Rue Terre Neuve. Glancing up, the quiet September sky gained her attention. How would Augustus have painted it, at his zenith? How would she, now? She became engrossed in the transient patterns above her. Augustus had written: There is a sense in which, as an artist, one inevitably becomes one’s subject. Wherever we look we are confronted by our own image. Gwen could attest to this. The world had no objective reality. It could never be more than a reflection.

The effort of walking began to fade away, and with it the weight of more than six decades. Falling deep into reverie, she would later be unable to explain what came next.

A sound like a swarm of bees filled her ears. She felt herself subsumed by another atmosphere. Surely the sky could not have come down to rest upon her? She knelt, allowing herself to blend with the spacious air and clouds, now all around. A voice, which she recognised as a version of her own, began to sing quietly.

‘Sanctus, sanctus sanctus…’

Suddenly bilious with clarity, she knew that nothing could be deferred. She must travel to Dieppe. She must involve herself in small acts of completion. Something new was approaching, but it was familiar, and as old as life itself.

Mike Fox is married and lives in Richmond, Surrey. His stories have been nominated for Best of Net and the Pushcart Prize, listed in Best British and Irish Flash Fiction (BIFFY50), and included in Best British Stories 2018 (Salt),. His collection, Things Grown Distant, featuring photographic illustrations by Nicholas Royle, is available from Confingo Publishing. His new collection, Blurred Edges, and his novella, A Space for Opportunity, will be published by Ballerini Book Press in spring and autumn 2026 respectively.