Perfection in pain.

PERFECTION IN PAIN
BY ARNOLD CLARK


Whether it is her unerring empathy or her own fragile frame, Christine Strachan has tenderly sympathised and disclosed the ache of modernity

Pain is something that grips with clenched fists. It twists and churns throughout our fibre. It sweeps across our flow of being and captures heartbeats and breath in rhythms we struggle to catch. Many endure this temporally, though in a captured moment this may not be recognised by mind or body, but as the tides of life turn, so does their attention. Eased by familiar returning rhythms, scars are quickly forgotten and mobility is restored.

But for some, sensitivity to suffering offers the detection of the magnet forces which propel us through existence. Strachan is one such sympathiser.

She walked into the car park like she was walking onto a yacht. Her fringe strategically dipped below one eye, her scarf it was apricot. She had one hand on a wing mirror as she watched me go “what?” and sing “And all the girls dreamed that they’d date your father, they’d date your father. Your in pain.”

She looked at me puzzled and I apologised hurriedly. It says a lot for the character of this woman that not only did she accept my apology but offered a story of her own mouth getting the better of her. Back before the banning of hippie folk Strachan had apparently played the fool shouting nonsense at one Devendra Banhart. He story was delivered with grace and courtesy, something she joked she lacked that night. Banhart and Strachan still follow each other on Twitter, maybe she will follow me?

We leave the car park and look for a bakery. Strachan discloses that bakeries are where she goes for inspiration. “And I pie?” I offer. She looks blank I worry that I may have offended her again, I repeat what I said knowing that this will either ruin the interview — or not.

This time she reacts, her face muscles relax and she bellows with laughter. I laugh myself, more out of relief than the standard of the joke. I am glad I didn’t mess the interview up I say a few times in my head. Strachan is still laughing.

We arrive at the bakery and Strachan is just regaining control of her speech. Still she splutters giggles as she orders a seeded bloomer. I am glad she enjoyed the joke and think of trying my luck with a bloomer related joke, but before I can devise a punch line it is my turn to order. I extend my arm point in the direction of some bread, the fact is I am allergic to wheat but am too worried not to seem cool.

Christine, as she insists I call her takes me to one of the hip places to eat bread, the park. We see a young male taunting a duck saying that the duck is unable to buy bread because it is unemployable. Christine, who is so understanding, feels both sorry for the lout and the duck, what a woman.

She begins to talk of her muse John Terry, known often as JT. JT is cast in a number of Strachan’s pieces famously on purpose missing a crucial penalty in the Champions League Final for the work “JT Crying.” She refuses to confirm or deny whether her and JT had an affair but did at this point hide behind a slice of her bloomer. She continued saying that she hopes that JT and Tone can sort out there problems and described Toni Terry as “alright.” I think that this agony aunt’s wisdom maybe just what the relationship needs.

As for up coming plans, I tell her I am interviewing Iain B Simpson from his Icelandic Painting Palace and then have a couple weeks off. I tell her that I am just going to have a stay at home holiday because of the recession and she says “oh, I see.” There is such warmth in her words it is of no surprise to me to hear Strachan called the agony aunt of agony.