by Ellis, T. S.
At least that thought made me smile.
But it was silly calling him. How could I tell him I’d been fired? Such a respected, committed artist. He hadn’t got to where he was today by listening to people whine on about their everyday problems. And I had to respect that. I’d tell him I’d been fired once I’d found a new job.
My phone rang. It was Carl.
“Hi,” he said. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Yes.” I didn’t know what to say.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
Then I surprised myself with my own thoughts. I couldn’t tell him what had happened, but I wanted to be near him. Needed to be near him. Just to touch him, to smell him — to keep the fantasy alive, to drive away real life. But he was probably in work mode. There was only one thing for it.
“I want you to paint me,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Can you do it if I come round now?”
“Yes, I’m struggling with my current work, so it would be a welcome pleasure.”
I ended the call and wondered what the hell I’d done.
21. Being painted
IT WAS STRANGE approaching Carl’s house from the front. Unlike the other houses, whose owners had opted for neo-classical styling, as if they wanted to be seen as Roman emperors, Carl’s place looked like it had grown out of the surrounding vegetation. It’s wood, granite and dark glass with its modern simplicity made the houses around it look overly ostentatious.
I knocked on the door and Carl opened it. He was dressed in dark blue overalls that were spattered in paint. Just seeing him cheered me up.
“That’s a nice look. I can see it in next year’s collections.”
Carl looked puzzled for a second, then looked down at his clothes. I don’t think he was even aware of what he was wearing.
“Just something I threw on,” he said.
He stood back and let me in. We walked down the hallway, past the flotation room. I could feel my cheeks redden. I look ahead and again marvelled at the high-ceilinged, open plan living room.
This time, we took a right, through a set of doors into Carl’s studio. It was my first time inside it. It wasn’t like the other rooms. Those were very ordered, with furniture in just the right place, a perfect ode to feng shui.
But this room was chaos. Complete chaos.
Three of the walls were completely glazed, windows from floor to ceiling. The wall behind me was painted white, or used to be white. Now it was a paint-spattered mess. Much like the floor. Carl hadn’t put dust sheets down to protect the wooden floorboards. And now there were blotches of paint — reds, greens, blues — every shade of every colour. So many blotches that it was difficult to see the wood beneath.
Numerous canvases leaned against the wall, like drunken revellers the night after a party. One canvas lay on the floor but had been slashed right down the middle, disfiguring what looked like a landscape. I’d never seen Carl paint but I’d seen him switch over to his “other world”, his “artistic world”, on the morning he’d suggested I leave. And now I thought about it, I wasn’t sure that visiting him to have my portrait painted was such a good idea.
Carl looked at me. This was definitely his artistic persona. The eyebrows pointed in at each other, a frown the result of their conversation. He was looking at me in a different way, with a sense of detachment, as if I were an object, not a person.
“Have you ever posed before?” he asked
“Only for holiday snaps.”
“Right. I want to try something.”
I thought it would be just a case of taking my clothes off and sitting on a chair for hours on end. Was I trying too hard to sound glib? At least it was taking my mind off my sacking.
“I want you to take one item of clothing off every ten minutes. That will give me time to capture what I want. You see, I want to paint you as a nude. But I also want to paint the process of your becoming a nude. Your change. I don’t know if it’ll be work, or if I’m trying to capture too much. But I want to make the painting be about ‘transformation’. That’s my intention. It may change as we move along.”
I nodded.
“And when you take each item of clothing off, I want you to do it very slowly. Extremely slowly. You’re divesting yourself of a layer of your old self. I want you to think about that as you’re doing it.
“Sounds simple enough.”
“It’s not,” Carl said, with a note of severity in his voice and in his eyes.
He walked away from me and picked up an aerosol can. He walked further into the room and sprayed paint on the floor in a circle about four feet wide.
“I don’t want you to stray outside of this circle,” he said.
“I want you to feel every change as you lose each garment. The change in temperature, the change in your own feelings.
I walked slowly towards the painted circle.
“How long will I be in this circle? It’ll only take me an hour to take off all my clothes on your schedule.”
“But that’s only the beginning. I like to paint over a period of time. You’ll be in that circle for at least ten hours.”
“There will be comfort breaks won’t there?”
“No. The moment you leave the circle, the session is over and I commit to memory whatever I have seen, however short or long the session is. It’s about the continuity of the experience. It’s just something that works for me.”
This wasn’t what I’d expected. I didn’t think there would be all these self-imposed rules. I didn’t want to question him. There must be method in his madness.
“You want to go through with this?” he asked.
I nodded and walked towards the circle. It was only then that I felt shy. I glanced out of the windows. The room was surrounded on two sides by thick clusters of trees. On the third side was the river, but that was some way in the distance. No one would be able to see me.
Was this really the best way to deal with being fired? But I couldn’t face going back to the empty apartment.
Approaching the circle, I felt myself shiver. I suppose I could have pulled out, but I didn’t want to.
“Do my shoes count as one garment?”
“Two. Take the first one off in your own time.”
I bent over and reached down.
“Slower,” Carl demanded. Then, more quietly: “Much slower.”
He didn’t take his eyes off me as he walked behind his easel, on which was a virgin canvas.
I slowed down as much as I could without falling over and took off my first shoe. I expected him to be painting while he watched me do this. But he didn’t lift a brush. He just watched.
I tossed the shoe to one side and then stood there, a little unbalanced, one shoe on, one shoe off.
Carl didn’t say a word. He just stood there looking at me. I hadn’t asked him whether I was allowed to speak, whether that spoilt his concentration. So I didn’t. We stood there for about ten minutes.
Then he said, “And now the other one.”
I took off the other shoe and threw it somewhere close to the other one. This time, he started painting.
“You’re different today,” he said.
“In what way?”
“Just different.”
He moved his brush quickly around the canvas. I wondered how he thought I was different, but I didn’t follow up.
It was time to remove the next garment.
“What would you like next?”
“Your blouse would be fine.”
I undid it, button by button, as slowly as I could. I slid the sleeves from my arms, then tossed the blouse towards the discarded shoes. I stood there in my bra.
I expected to feel vulnerable. I expected to feel shy. But I didn’t. I felt how Carl suggested I should feel — like I was shedding a layer of my old self. I didn’t know what was replacing it. I didn’t suddenly feel liberated. But I felt different, not completely like me anymore.
Carl f
licked the end of the brush without the bristles across his lips, contemplating my form. A couple more strokes on the canvas then he walked over to the wall and turned a dial.
“I’m going to make the room hotter. Much hotter. I don’t want you to get cold. If you’re too cold, tell me,” he said.
What was he doing?
Another ten minutes went by. “Skirt or bra?” I asked. He didn’t say anything, leaving it up to me. I removed the skirt, slowly of course. I stood there in my bra, knickers and socks.
“Look around you,” he said.
I’d kept my back to the longest window. But now I turned round and faced the trees. Birds flitted from branch to branch. A slight breeze caused the branches to wave at me.
“How do you feel?” Carl asked.
“Okay. No, I feel good. Better than I expected. I mean, I’ve been naked in front of you before, but this is different.”
He seemed pleased at this response. “Yes, it is. It’s very different.”
Carl pushed another button on the wall. Music began to be piped into the room. It was loud but the acoustics were magnificent. It was a classical piece that I vaguely recognised.
“What’s that music?”
“It’s Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutte.” Then he snapped his brush in half and threw it against the wall. The splintered wood fell to the floor. He wiped his mouth. His face looked pained.
“What’s wrong?” I enquired.
He recovered. “Nothing,” He smiled, but it was forced. “Nothing. It’s fine. It’s time for the next piece of clothing.”
I unhooked my bra strap and freed my breasts. It was so different from taking off my clothes before making love. I felt naked inside as well as out, as if Carl could see right into me.
Over the next half an hour, I divested myself of all my clothes. Meanwhile, Carl kept painting. At one point, he put the canvas down and picked another one up.
“Are you starting again?”
“This is going to be more than one painting.”
Then I noticed something curious. There was a tear coursing down his cheek. A solitary tear. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
But he wasn’t about to admit that he had shed a tear. Instead, he sniffed and painted more furiously. But he had changed. He hadn’t lost any of his masculinity. The face still had an angular strength, the well-developed chest hadn’t caved in. But his face had acquired a certain softness with the tears.
“What’s wrong?” I asked again, this time my voice more insistent. I took a step forward.
“Stay in your circle,” he shouted. “That’s why I drew it. You mustn’t leave it. Just stay in the circle.” His words ran out of energy and he lowered his voice. “Please stay in the circle.”
His breathing became heavier. Then he started undoing the front of his overalls, undoing them at a frantic pace, as if he was overheating. He ripped the t-shirt underneath the overalls from his body and flung it to the floor. His pecs were wringing in sweat. Yes, the room was warm, but not that warm. He walked towards the back wall and leant against it, his arms stretched high, looking like he was about to be frisked.
I looked down at the painted circle around my feet. I left it and walked up to him, laying my hand on his drenched back. He spun round and grasped me in his strong arms. The kiss was firm. But at the end of it he pushed me away.
“You are the first person,” he said, “who has ever been allowed in this studio.” His voice quavered but there were undertones of strength in it. “I bought this house five years ago, after my girlfriend killed herself. The day after. I vowed that never again would I let anybody enter my workspace. That I would never paint a woman I was involved with. Both the women I painted before are dead. Do you understand? I’m not saying you’ll die. Of course not. I’m saying that a line has been crossed. A line I didn’t want crossed… I’m sorry.”
He took a deep breath.
“I don’t do relationships, Fay. I don’t do them anymore. I’m sorry if I misled you.”
But then he took my face and cupped it in his hands.
“There’s something about me that… I’m not saying I killed those women but… there’s something about me that can’t do relationships. I’ve sacrificed so much for my art. I don’t want sympathy. It obviously works. But this is the sacrifice. I want you, I want you so badly. But I can’t have you. You deserve better. I’ve been taking you away from your man, even though I know I’m not up to the job. That’s selfish. I shouldn’t do it.”
He pulled away from me.
“Go. Go back to your man. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.”
“I ended it. I broke up with Russell for good. But not because of you. I don’t think I do relationships, either. Not at the moment. Not now.”
“But…”
“I mean it.”
His face relaxed. He shook his head disbelievingly. Then he smiled. It was an infectious smile but not entirely convincing. But I smiled back. It was the only thing I was wearing.
He put his arms around me and hugged me more tightly than I’d ever been hugged before. He showered me in kisses — small, delicate kisses up and down my neck.
I didn’t want him to stop, but I was so happy I couldn’t help being mischievous. But happy at what? I couldn’t pin it down. But I was living for this moment in time. Not worrying about the past, not worrying about the future.
“What about the painting?” I asked.
“Fuck the painting.”
We both laughed and slid down the wall to the floor. Wet paint stuck to my body, but I didn’t care. Carl divested himself of his overalls and we made our own contribution to modern art. I already have a title. It’s called Just Like Rabbits.
22. Love's ghost?
I WALKED HOME along the river. Carl had offered to get me a taxi but I’d refused. I wanted to feel the spring’s fresh morning air on my cheeks. It was going to be a mild day. My mother always said that if we had a mild spring we were sure to have a rotten summer. But when I asked her what she based this on, she’d reply with “that’s what they say”.
I’d stayed the night then started to dress early in the morning. Carl had asked me to stay the whole day, make myself comfortable. It was great to see this change of attitude. But I didn’t want to move things on too quickly. So I insisted on leaving, wishing him a very productive day. Nevertheless, I wore a huge smile as I walked along the river bank.
I didn’t want to change him. His work was important to him, and important to a great number of others. But it was nice that he was thinking about my feelings too.
I watched a narrowboat drift along the water. It was a deep purple with hanging baskets of flowers along the side. The gentle ripples caused by its wake spread out across the river.
“I suppose I have to surrender. If ‘surrender’ is the appropriate word.”
The voice came from slightly behind me and to the side. It was Russell. Not the real one. The one in my head. I thought he’d gone for good. But here he was, talking to me.
“Can we make this our last conversation?” I begged.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I don’t see the point of talking to you anymore. We’ve split up. It’s over.”
I upped my pace a little. But there was no point. I couldn’t escape him.
“Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”
“No.”
“His wife and a girlfriend both killed themselves. What are the chances of that?”
“It happened to the poet Ted Hughes.”
“And by some accounts he was a bit of a bastard when it came to matters of the heart. His first wife, Sylvia Plath, committed suicide. She might have committed suicide anyway, but Ted didn’t help. Ted and Sylvia went on holiday to Ireland one time. And yet, after only four days, Ted disappeared. Completely vanished without a word to Sylvia. What he hadn’t told Sylvia was that he had another ticket in his pocket to take him
back to London. And once he returned to London, he and his mistress took off together and went to Spain for ten days. When he returned to London to meet the understandably irate Sylvia, he refused to give up his mistress.”
Having read a little of Sylvia Plath at school, I remember not being all that surprised that she had killed herself. “Sylvia was a very troubled personality.”
“Perhaps,” Russell said. “But two women? Two? Even Hughes himself admitted that the death of the second woman, the woman he left Sylvia for, was avoidable.”
“So, what are you saying? That because Carl is artistic, he’s just like Ted Hughes? And that I’ll end up dead? That’s ridiculous.”
“No, I’m not saying that at all. Don’t be silly. I just want you to be happy. I really do.”
Even though I knew it wasn’t really Russell talking, I had immersed myself in this “conversation” so much that I couldn’t help feeling a little nostalgic. I was happy to have met Carl, but however it turned out, it wouldn’t match the romantic purity of those early days with Russell. Naturally, a lot of that was to do with the fact that Russell was the first real love of my life. The memory of that first love usually has a head start on any subsequent relationships.
I sat down on a bench, largely because I couldn’t outpace Russell.
Why was I torturing myself like this? After getting over the shock of losing my job, I’d had a lovely afternoon with Carl, followed by an erotic evening. There was no need to spoil it with one of these imaginary conversations. No need at all.
I sat there for a while watching a couple of swans glide by. They twisted their long necks towards me, no doubt to check whether I had any bread for them. I wished I had.
I stood up and continued my walk. It was odd not to have a job to go to. I still hadn’t told Carl that I’d lost my job. When he’d asked me to stay there all day, I’d lied, told him that I couldn’t spare the time off work.
“You wouldn’t have lied to me,” said Russell. He was back.
“No, probably not.”
“You can’t dismiss little details like that. They’re important in life.”
