A Response to “The Swing“ by Jean-Honoré Fragonard

by Michelle Acquah.

Amerie loved the rush she got from being that high up. She loved the thrill she felt. She was petrified each and every time she felt the pressure on the rope, and her doting husband’s laboured breathing at each mighty pull (goodness gracious, she wasn’t that heavy), but she loved it. She especially enjoyed the fact that the question of how far she could swing had a different answer each time. It was unpredictable and that’s what made it exciting; her husband could do with some spontaneity in his personality.

She didn’t know if she would flip over and crack her skull open on a rock in the brush below, or if she would fly from her seat into a tree and find her neck gripped tightly by a meaty vine till she turned purple and her feet stopped thrashing in the leaves. Either way, she knew the shock and trauma would be too much for her husband. His poor heart wouldn’t be able to take it and he’d die instantly from a broken heart. She was absolutely sure of that.

She loved being loved unconditionally. Sometimes, she even loved her husband in return. Every so often she’d become overwhelmed with fondness for this sweet little man, but then it would disappear in the next moment, and he would go back to being nothing but her loyal and smitten attention-giver. She had always been selfish with her love. It sounded horrible, but it was all part of the thrill of her life.

A result of her brazen pursuit of fun was clearly demonstrated in this moment. There were currently two people in her presence that she had to continuously worry about. Her husband, and her carriage driver who was currently hidden beneath the statue of Cupid. Carriage boy had his ugly pinched face staring up into her billowing layered skirt as she flew through the air. Naturally, this was unbeknownst to her husband.

The possibility of getting caught fuelled her excitement. Only a little though, because there were no real consequences if they got caught. Carriage boy would be out of a job and her husband would try harder than he already was to make her love him always, instead of sometimes. Irritating. It was pathetic watching him bend over backwards. A minor inconvenience for the price of fun, nonetheless. Cupid giggled at how silly it all was. She bet he thought it was all his grand idea. How stupid of him. Obviously, she was the master orchestrator. Everything that happened to her was of her own hand.

She suddenly felt a sharp pang of annoyance at both of her pawns. They were interrupting her precious time with her true lover – her garden. She had named her garden Jeanne. Jeanne was painfully gorgeous. She had thick curly green vines for hair and luscious green trees and bushes for skin. She also had a splatter of barks and branches for freckles all over her countenance, and was adorned in large bright peonies, tulips and roses. She was nature’s embodiment of Amerie. They both shrouded their harsh natures in striking beauty. That’s what made Jeanne the peak of thrill - deceit and danger.

Jeanne’s pretty flowers had thorns well hidden in her hedges, and Amerie’s rather condescending tone was accompanied by a heart-melting smile. Jeanne’s sharp, skull-splitting rocks were covered in the softest of mosses, and Amerie’s manipulation was shrouded in a light kiss on the cheek. They were made for each other. Sometimes Jeanne would slip up and show her true colours. Her breath would be too humid. The same would happen to Amerie. Occasionally, her words would bite too hard and too deep, and her husband would give her a pitiful look of hurt. Amerie and Jeanne were one and the same. Maybe Cupid did get something right after all.

Each time Amerie was at the highest point the swing could take her, she felt complete bliss. The sun shone on her like a spotlight. She closed her eyes and took in Jeanne’s essence. How perfect. Then, she’d come swinging back down, hard and fast towards her minions. The feeling of coming down from that high and swinging back up again felt like drinking a delicious bowl of soup, then biting into a bone. The possibility of another bone would always be at the back of your mind with each spoon you drank. The soup would still be lovely, but the mindless bliss of slurping it down would be gone forever. She didn’t like that.

She swung up, one last time, then screamed into the bright, peeking gap in the canopy of trees, “Stop!”

Her carriage boy scurried stealthily away, and her back bumped into her husband’s loving embrace.

It was over.

She felt sick.

Her day was ruined.