by Vivien Vale
When I start a new piece, I'm compelled to finish it, and like a fish on a hook, I have no choice but to be pulled in and see it through.
Art is as much a part of me as breathing, or eating. It's my life.
I place the long, wooden handle of the paintbrush between my teeth and sit back.
Something is missing…
It's flat.
I decide to bring in white paint, mixing it with my current palette and hoping to add light to the piece. Maybe give it some depth and dimension.
I use a palette knife to scrape on rolls of paint for texture. I use a thin brush for details, and work with the concentration of a greyhound eyeing a rabbit—my focus is singular.
I drag the brush against the canvas again, adding color here and there, then finally finishing the last of the model's curves—her legs and the curve of her inner thighs. I just need to get those right. There's something about legs that can be so expressive.
"It's perfect," she coos, looking up at the canvas.
The truth is, it's far from perfect. Sure, it's good, but it looks like every other piece I've painted.
I want something new. I want something more.
No, it's more than a want; it's a need—to elevate my art.
The media will tell you that what all men only care about are a woman's physical attributes—her scent, what she's wearing, whether or not her push-up bra is bringing her tits front and center. Don't get me wrong—I'm more than happy to sleep with a hot woman with any of those attributes, but what the media doesn't tell you is that guys also like a woman who is confident and independent.
And this model here in front of me? She isn't showing me any of that.
I walk away from the canvas, and the model stops me.
"Should I stay?" she says, with one hand on my arm.
"For what?"
I can tell that my answer disappoints her.
"I could stay and pose some more," she says, "so you can finish the painting."
"It's done. I don't want to look at it any more."
"In that case," she says, "we can have a little fun now."
Her mouth curves into a suggestive smile.
She walks over to me, swaying her hips, and presses her lips to my neck, giving it a playful nibble.
Then she brings her mouth to my ear and whispers, "Tell me, baby…what's your biggest fantasy? Do you like it rough or romantic? Did you dream about me last night?"
Those words send a thrill down my body but I resist the urge to react, and when I don't respond, she continues.
"Where should I put my mouth next?" Her eyes wait for an answer, but when I don't give one, she returns to my body, both of her hands on my chest.
"Here? Or maybe here?" she asks, moving her mouth down my bare chest in slow circles.
I still don't respond.
"No? Well, how about here?" she says, moving her warm lips down until they are resting at the top of my waistband. My cock is now standing stiffer than any of the tools in this studio, and she smiles.
"I think I'm getting warmer," she purrs. She starts to unbutton my pants. "Now let me kiss that big, hard—"
But I stop her. I need a woman that inspires me in this studio. Not another nameless model eager to get into my pants.
Been there, done that…and more than just a few times.
"Maybe some other time," I say.
Her surprise turns to shock, and I watch as she gathers her things, still in disbelief. As soon as she leaves and I hear the door to the studio shut behind her, I walk back over to the painting.
It's not a bad portrait, but it's not great either.
There's simply no emotion. It doesn't evoke anything in me.
The longer I stare at the painting, the angrier I become. I can feel a new sense of irritation wash over me.
I can't hold back. I ball my hand into a fist and punch it through the canvas. The material rips open, and where the model should be, there's now a gaping hole.
There. Now no one will be able to look at this.
Then I grab a can of black paint, along with a wide brush. I dip it into the paint and in big angry strokes I destroy the remaining canvas, painting obscene Xs over my work.
I'm destroying the canvas so hard and fast that I feel a bead of sweat zigzag down my face.
I look down at the destroyed art and kick it away in disgust.
What the fuck am I doing with my life?
I need to be creating great art, not mastering mediocrity.
I need a new muse.
Katherine
Writer’s block.
I’ve heard about it. But for all the years I struggled to become a published writer and even after my first book sold, I was never at a loss for words. Until now. They say this happens after you’ve had a bestseller.
Well, I’m not only blocked, I’m paralyzed, motionless, incapable of putting one word next to another.
My agent called today. Just like every other day for the last two weeks. I’m behind with the first draft. I’ve sent every call to voice mail. I just can’t face her.
“Katherine, I know you’re listening to these. At least send me a text. Let me know you’re alive.” The messages are beginning to sound frantic. But I still can’t respond.
What would I tell her? That I feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining? That I don’t have a first chapter, let alone a first draft.
No, it’s better for everyone concerned that I let it go to voice mail.
Maybe she’ll get the hint, and tell the publishers I’m dead, or at the very least I’m in a coma.
That’s the bad news.
The good news is, Dale is coming home tonight and I’m planning on holding on to all six feet, two inches of his deliciousness. His light-green eyes pull me in every time. And tonight will be no exception.
Besides, I have writer’s block. And I personally know of no better way to unstick the flows than to, well… sometimes a girl just needs a good release…or two…or three.
My best friend Robin thinks I should leave him.
Robin and I have been BFFs since forever. Well, actually since we were both kicked out of Mr. Stubbin's ninth grade science class for giggling uncontrollably while he explained the reproductive system of a frog. We just couldn’t image kissing a frog no matter what they say in fairy tales.
Anyway, from that day in detention until now, we’ve been besties, and pretty much agreed on everything.
Except when it comes to Dale.
She called the other day and when I told her he was out of town, she made some cryptic comment about him staying away longer. I didn’t respond so she took it as a sign to launch into one of her infamous diatribes.
“Look, girl. I’ve held my tongue for two years. But you’ve gone past my threshold of watching what is surely going to be a future train wreck. He’s not the one. He’s a player. He thinks the world is in love with him. And he’s never going to ask you to marry him.”
Robin was never one to mince words. But I couldn’t agree on this.
“Dale is the guy I want to spend my life with,” I said, sounding just a tad too whiney. “I want to be married to him. I want children, the seven-thousand-square-foot loft in SoHo. I want the whole thing.”
Robin just sighed. Loudly.
Yes, I know Dale could be arrogant. But his attributes outweighed his arrogance. As the owner of the hottest gallery in New York, a little haughtiness is sometimes necessary. It's gotten us on everyone’s opening night guest list and the best tables at all the must-be-seen-in restaurants.
Okay, so the sex isn’t completely mind-blowing. But after two years, you’re likely to hit a bit of a dry spell. Like my writing.
But tonight’s going to be different. It’s a surprise. Dinner and a show.
Oh, and I’m the show.
His plane lands at seven and he’ll be home by eight. Just enough time for me to get to his apartment, cook his favorite steak dinner, open a bottle of red, get the candles going and
slip into that barely-there slip I got at La Perla. A little red-laced thingy that will reignite the spark. And hopefully spur my creative juices. A girl can hope, can’t she?
Checking to make sure I have everything, including those three-inch red numbers I couldn't say no to at Manolo Blahnik’s last month–yet another ding in my book advance money–I hail a taxi and within 20 minutes I'm at Dale's on Christopher Street. I'm humming in all the right places as I waltz into the loft.
Except for the bedroom, the place has no other doors. The floor-to-ceiling windows along the north wall offer a spectacular view of the Hudson. Putting the groceries on the kitchen island, I make my way to the windows to take in the last rays of a most remarkable sunset.
I've always thought the one disadvantage to this ridiculously beautiful space is the constant drone of city traffic below. Only tonight, I’m not hearing traffic. I’m hearing…wait, could that be…
“Well shit.” I say loud enough to be heard over the moaning.
Stomping over, I fling open the bedroom door.
What’s behind it? Dale’s naked butt.
It’s not as if I haven’t seen his bare ass before. It’s just that I’ve never seen it from this angle, banging back and forth like a hammer on a stubborn nail.
“What the fuck!” I yell.
Dale looks over his shoulder and I can see he’s searching for something to say.
I can’t believe it. His first reaction isn’t to immediately stop what he’s doing with a woman whose every body part has been enhanced.
From the dyed platinum hair (top and bottom), to the implanted ginormous breasts. And I will bet large sums of money that flat stomach is the result of a surgeon’s scalpel.
“We are sooo done!” I say, in my most outraged voice. In fact, I can’t get out of there fast enough. I’m stunned.
Stunned because he’s with another woman. Stunned because Robin was right, he had no plans to marry me. Stunned because he hurt me.
Really hurt me.
“Hey, baby. Don’t go,” Dale calls out.
I’m moving as fast as I can, gathering up my stuff as I go. There is no way I’m leaving behind a fifty-dollar bottle of wine and a hundred dollars’ worth of steaks for this asshole.
As I pack up, Dale is hopping up and down on one foot, trying to get his other leg into his trousers, while attempting to explain that this little romp means nothing.
“We met on the plane, baby,” hop, hop, hop. “ It's just sex.”
I, of course, ignore all his pleas and force myself to hold back the tears. With my arms full, I head for the front door.
“Come on, baby, you’re my world.”
“Well then, from now on your world will be empty!”
Throwing his keys at him, I walk out.
Blake
“Of course, ladies, I’d be happy to show you my private collection,” I say with a smile I’ve plastered on for the occasion.
“If it’s half as good as what’s hanging on these walls, you’ve got a buyer.” The brunette responds in what has to be the breathiest voice I’ve ever heard. I think she said her name is Monica.
Her friend, the redhead, hasn’t let go of my hand since I gave her my card when she walked through the gallery doors.
“Blake, what a sexy name.” Monica is practically purring as she looks me up and down. “It goes with the whole package.”
I’m feigning interest, because a sale, after all, is a sale. It’s clear these women don’t have a clue what it takes to be an artist. What do they think? I just throw paint on a canvas? Even Pollock had a plan.
I hate being here, up close and personal with prospective buyers. Apart from an opening night, I’m not one to hang around galleries. I’m getting restless and would rather be out on the street with the crowds.
My agent, Beth, brushes by and whispers in my ear, “Keep smiling.”
“I’m working on it,” I say through a clenched toothed grin.
But I’d rather be outside. The Fall air is crisp, the sky crystalline, and the streets full of people. It’s the one week every year when hundreds of New Yorkers go elbow-to-elbow with tourists as they tromp, wide-eyed, up and down the cobblestone streets of the West Village, in search of their next art acquisition.
“You’ve chosen one of my favorites,” I hear Beth say.
By the intonation of her voice, I know we’ve made a sale, and I turn and smile in earnest. After all, money is money.
I feel I deserve a reward, and decide on a triple espresso.
“I’m out for a coffee,” I call over to the Beth and her assistant. “Want anything?”
They both decline, so I’m free to take my time.
The cobblestone streets and old brick buildings take me back to when I walked this neighborhood, going door to door with my rolled-up canvases, trying to get any gallery owner to show some interest. In some ways, those were the best of times, when ideas flowed freely and I was more fun. Not now.
I shake off the melancholy.
Pulling up the collar of my blazer, I tuck my hands inside the front pocket of my jeans. There’s a slight breeze, but I can think of nothing better than sitting outdoors with my coffee, watching women go by. Maybe I’ll find my muse.
I grab a small table outside Maxwell’s Coffee Bar when the inside of my jacket begins to vibrate. A text.
“Damn.” I thought I could have a moment.
Looking at the screen, I see there are several messages and I begin thumbing through.
Hey baby so much fun in that elevator, wanna try my escalator.
“Nope,” I mutter under my breath and swipe left.
Blakey where have you been xxoo I’m hot and ready.
“Blakey has left the building,” I say and swipe left.
Now this is interesting. Somehow the woman who just bought my painting is inviting me to her place.
“Oh, hell no.” Hard swipe left.
What are you doing, Blake? In frustration, I put my phone away. This is my time. My coffee. The world is going to have to be put on hold. I’m recharging.
Two triple espressos later, I’m slightly wired and ready to walk off the caffeine. That’s when I see her.
“Damn.” This time I say it out loud. I know this because the woman with the two-year-old next to me gives me a raised eyebrow. She thinks I’m crass, or crazy. Either way, I don’t care.
The dark-haired woman with the blue eyes, alabaster skin, and sexiest pixie cut I’ve ever seen is getting away, and I need to find out who she is.
I throw ten dollars on the table.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” I say as I squeeze my way around the baby stroller and diaper bag. When I’m finally out on the street, my legs begin moving faster than they do when I’m on the treadmill at the gym. This woman has definitely caught my attention.
I come up short as I round the avenue, because she and a friend have stopped at a gallery window and they’re chatting. Now’s my chance.
“Interesting color palette,” I say as a conversation starter, but all I get are quizzical looks from both of them. “I mean, the choice isn’t what you’d expect. It’s a bit angry, don’t you think?”
Miss Pixie isn’t talking, it’s her friend who speaks up. “Yeah, there’s a definite disconnect in the color structure,” she says.
If I’m not mistaken, she’s batting her eyelashes at me. Could that be right? In my most nonchalant, non-committal tone I look at her and say, “You think?”
I don’t really care what she thinks, I just want to keep the conversation going in the hopes that ‘pixie dust girl’ will say something, and I can get her number. Instead, her friend whose- eyes are now busy taking a grand tour of my body keeps talking. But I -want her to shut up. I re-pose my question to pixie girl, “And what do you think?”
She looks at the painting, reflective as she purses her valentine-shaped, deep red, lips. Kissable lips.
“Hmmm…I’m not sure,” she says, “this one doesn’t speak to me
at all.”
I’m instantly enamored. She’s right. This is a pile of shit masquerading as a painting. I look her in the eyes and try to engage her.
“I suppose art is personal,” I say.
She gives me that quizzical look again.
It’s clear I haven’t got her completely into my orbit, so I continue, “I mean, what we see, and what the artist intended for us to see, can be two different things.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Pixie says.
“For example, you,” I say smiling by best I-have-to-have-you smile. “You are someone who should be painted.”
She blushes, and then she steps back. It’s clear she’s offended, and that’s a first for me. I always have women eating out of my hand, and other parts too. This one's not buying it, and for the first time, I’m on 'virgin' territory.
When she turns to walk into the photo gallery next door, all I can do is follow.
Katherine
I've never taken a photography class in my life, and I'm not well-versed in the art of it all—if you don't count taking pictures with my cell phone—but I do know what I like. And this photo exhibit is…interesting.
It's a photographer's portrait collection called Red Hot.
The theme that binds each and every one of these pictures is that the models in these photos are all redheads.
"I've always thought gingers were sexy," Robin says, secretly giving me a wink as we walk through the gallery. "If this doesn't inspire you with your writing, I don't know what will."
In one photo, a man is flexing, and seemingly deep in thought with his gaze somewhere in the distance. The background is blue, matching his eyes.
In another portrait, a man stares down the lens of the camera, his red beard and chiseled chest acting as focal points.
"Like what you see?" The guy following us asks, walking up behind me and nudging me playfully. “The name’s Blake, by the way.”
"Katherine,” I say as I try to think of a reply. “You could say that," I smile.
Two can play this game.
"Just so you know," he says, pointing and looking straight at my neck, "that freckle is more beautiful than anything I'm seeing on these gingers."
