Convergence

They shared the same cradle, like two drops of water with the same reflections, each twin a perfected vision of the other. Little Yvette was born first, reaching for the hand of Monique, who was a part of herself, because both infants seemed to meld together as one.

Their relationship was a special one, beyond the bounds of what anyone could imagine. At two years old, Yvette and Monique would sit in their high chairs, playing with their food on their trays, arranging it into unique patterns and shapes that seemed to emanate from their subconscious, forming distorted images that did not mimic reality as it oozed and metamorphosed into a semblance of the imagination deeply entrenched in their minds. Their proud parents could see their talent, imagining that they were drawing houses and trees and maybe even horses. But they were completely wrong as the youngsters painted with profound emotion coming out of a deep well-spring of absolute naturalness.

At three years of age, the beauteous Yvette contracted spinal meningitis and died three days later in a hospital. Monique was absolutely devastated, feeling that she had lost the first and best version of herself. Even at her young age, she could sense the spirit of Yvette weeping into her body, becoming a part of her. As Monique grew, she became a passionate artist drawing seeping images of twisted deviations in time and space with phallic overtones. Always, her natural style incorporated sexual desire, death, decay, hope and love with images that seemed to drip off her canvasses, seemingly suspended in air. In the corner of every painting, she always embedded a tiny facsimile of her deceased twin sister, Yvette.

All day long, Monique painted her unconscious in wild sweeps of color. Everything seemed to be moving and flowing, osmosing into a life of its own. At night, she would put down her brush and fall exhausted into her bed. As she slept, the paintings continued their vitality, breathing and twisting as the paint left the canvas and flowed into the room, in mutations and warps. Even the little facsimile of Yvette, incorporated into the tiny corner of the paintings, danced around the room as one with the tinctures of tints and colors.

One night, Monique was restless and wandered into her studio, only to see, for the first time, the contortions and irregularities in the life of her paintings. There among the pigments, she saw that Yvette had escaped her entrapment. Yvette, overjoyed to once again see her twin, opened her mouth and inhaled Monique into her body, sponging her into her lifeblood.

“Now it’s my turn,” Yvette proclaimed, as she picked up the paintbrush and began painting in her inborn, fluid style, making sure to incorporate her beloved Monique into the corner of each painting. Once again, the twins became one drop of water composed of two souls.