Blake
Standing in the doorway of the studio I see Katherine across the room staring at the painting, and she’s not smiling. I can’t quite read her expression, and I think surely, she’d have some sort of reaction by now. Silly me, I was actually expecting euphoria, or at least pleasant surprise.
Anything but this seemingly blank look.
“So…?” I nearly spit out the word as I amble over to where she’s standing, “What do you think?”
Katherine is silent. She’s doing a slow pace in front of the canvas. Her arms folded in front of her chest in an almost protective stance. She’s wearing a pout, and it’s a far cry from the sexy one she gave when she was posing. I don't know what to think.
"So…?” I repeat, this time with an edge to my voice, “Come on Katherine, even doctors don’t take this long to give an opinion.”
She doesn’t look away from the canvas and her voice is a monotone when she finally utters, “I’m thinking.”
There’s more silence, and after a few minutes she finally speaks.
“Honestly, I’m not quite sure what to say.”
“Seriously? You’re the writer, why not try by putting one word after the next? That might work.”
Katherine gives me a sharp look and it’s clear she doesn’t appreciate the sarcasm, and her response is just as biting.
“Yes, I know what I am, but nowhere in my CV does it state that I’m an art critic.”
“Phfft…critics. I’ve never given one solitary fuck about critics. They’re dilettantes, the lot of them. They have no skills of their own. They’re all cowards, just sitting on the sidelines watching and waiting to pounce on someone’s work. What's that old saying, 'Those who can, do, those who can't, teach, and those who can't do either become critics!”
“I couldn’t have said it better. And that’s precisely why I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to make hasty judgments.”
“Katherine, you’re not one of them. You never could be. I just want to know what you think. What you feel when you look at it.”
“Why?”
“Because, I’ve never painted anything like this.”
“Oh, please. You’ve probably painted dozens and dozens of women. I’m no different.”
“You think that? You can look at it and believe it’s like anything else I’ve ever done?”
She doesn’t nod yes or no. She doesn’t move, she simply stares at the canvas.
Rubbing my forehead with the palm of my hand, I turn away. At this moment, her opinion means everything. And everything I feel for her is on that canvas.
“Katherine, you understand it isn’t finished,” I say. “There’s more work to be done, but the bones, the emotion, the essence of it is there.”
I’m begging for a reaction, but she seems frozen, with no words or movement. And after what seems like an eternity, she nods her head. It’s almost imperceptible, but I’m noticing everything about her, including the dust motes against the sunlight that surround her frame.
“Hmm…” she muses, and begins to turn away.
I grab her wrist and pull her toward me. She doesn’t protest, but when she looks at me, her eyes are sad.
“Listen, this is the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“But…it’s…raw…it’s so personal.”
“Of course it is. This is personal,” I say pointing to her and me, and the painting. “You are personal”
I stop and take a breath, but I don’t loosen my grip on her wrist, and I don’t move away. I’m waiting for her to look me in the eye.
“This is personal,” I repeat it as a whisper, “and your opinion matters.”
“I feel as if you’re hounding me,” she says, her words laced with anger,
“I am not hounding. I just painted what I believe is my best work. You are the subject. You brought that out in me. You are my muse, for God’s sake! Is it too much to ask what you fucking think?”
I am yelling, and I feel her pull away emotionally. That’s something I can’t afford to happen. I need her because she is my source of inspiration. So, I make one last ditch effort.
“Katherine, I know…you feel something. Good, bad, or indifferent…just, please, tell me.”
“You cannot show this painting to anyone,” she finally says.
But there’s a catch in her voice, tears in her eyes.
“Are you crying? What’s happening?”
She shakes my hand off her wrist and wipes at the tears. “I don’t know how you did it. I knew you were talented, but that doesn’t describe what you’ve created here.”
She is speaking so slowly, I want to reach in and grab the words from her throat, but I know if I rush her, I’ll lose her. So I stand, fists clenched, in anticipation for her next words.
“Blake, you don’t need me to tell you that this is beautiful, because it is. But it is so much more than that. It’s alive. It’s real. It’s many, many things. But I’m embarrassed when I look at it. And before you say anything, it’s not because I’m naked. No, that’s not it. It’s because you’ve captured something inside me that no one else has ever seen, and you've managed to paint that. My vulnerability. My fears. My...innocence.”
Now I’m the one with tears in my eyes, because she’s put into words what I could not express.
“I can’t let you show this to anyone,” she says.
I almost don’t believe what I’m hearing. “What? Why? You’ve just told me in so many words this is my masterpiece. Why would I not want others to see it?”
“Blake, please, I’m begging you. I can’t be on display like this. It’s too personal and I do not want anyone but you to see me this way.”