Tobogganing with Caravaggio

Underneath my body, the pointless brushstrokes grind against the ice, staining it red and blue. As I careen down the slope, the canvas transforms into something more beautiful than the dead artist could have ever imagined. 

Not that it means much anymore. Especially in this country. All the great paintings have already been ridden.  

Picture by Rowan Williams

I’m strapped into a late-period Howard Arkley. Flakes of spray paint litter the snow behind me. It’s nothing compared with the sheen of Renaissance oils smeared across a freshly compacted chute, though. 

Here comes the first turn. I lean into it, pulling up on the gilded frame. Part of it snaps off and bounces down the ice. A little kid eating a pie flicks past behind the safety mesh. He’s barely watching the race. There’s not much of a crowd today. 

Thirty seconds. Here comes the next turn. I pull the straps to the left, trying to avoid Number 37. She’s wrapped with a Brett Whiteley around the trunk of a pine tree. Gotta be careful. The turns are getting tighter. I’m ahead.  

Forty-five seconds. The Arkley has started getting the shakes. I stuff my boot into the flap of canvas whipping against the broken frame. If only I can hold it down before the whole thing peels off like a magician pulling out a tablecloth. Focus. I can win this. I can go to the nationals. Europe awaits. 

I check my watch again. The tree branch comes out of nowhere. A sickening lurch, a cracking sound, then pain. 

‘—ou OK? Can you move?’ 

White. All I can see is white. My goggles have come off. I try and lift myself off the snow but my shoulder isn’t working. I slump back into the cold. The safety marshal buzzes around, asking questions. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to get up. 

My eyes adjust to the glare. Stunned contestants crawl away from the pile of smashed canvases. I’ve ruined it for everyone.  

More contestants slam into the pile. It’s chaos. Safety marshals try and pull them from the ice, but they are only adding more obstacles for people to get tangled in. If everyone just stayed still no-one else would crash – but it’s too late to stop the carnage.  

I lay my head against the ice. No point getting up. My dreams dashed. I’ll never be able to afford another shot at this. What am I going to do now?  

This would make a great painting. I squash the thought as soon as it bubbles up. A painting is only as good as its record-making potential, the guide at the State Sports Museum said all those years ago, standing in front of a banged-up Clara Southern – before the Arkley; before I set my sights on Europe.  

But maybe I could paint something, and one day someone could take it into competition, giving it a meaning, giving it a purpose. Maybe I could be someone else’s ticket to Europe. 

I dunno. Snow starts to fall. The loudspeakers cough monotonous warnings into the wind. The thin crowd ignores it and takes to the ice, hoping to score a souvenir. My shoulder is numb.