The Shroud of Turin

Oil on canvas

50 by 60 cms

 I had the chance, years ago, after visiting Our Lady in Rome, of seeing Christ’s burial shroud. Instead, I drank coffee at Turin station, recoiling in horror every time I caught sight of my reflection.

In my dream, I’m trying to paint His portrait, while Dr Adler psychoanalyzes me, aided and abetted by my mother. I’m trying so hard, but all I’m doing is making a mess. Blobs of brown, of green. I keep trying to adjust, to fix, but in the end I scrape so much off, that barely any of it is left. All that remains: a blank space. The shroud.

Then I travel way back into the past, to that period when my mother and I were almost inseparably close. I love you, I tell her. I can’t do anything without you.

I enjoy helping her shop in the supermarket, until I lose the brown folder with my work in it. I lose my temper. Our entente, obviously more fragile than it seems, is smashed.

When I wake up, it’s Sunday, the day of our risen Lord. There is light everywhere, flashing and flitting around the kitchen, sliding across the table.