The Art and Science of Love
15
From the Past
I HAD SEVEN PAINTINGS I’d completed since my new artistic awakening. It was almost like being newly out of art school and thinking I could paint masterpieces. But I had precious few as evidence. In the meantime, I needed to earn a living and that meant selling real estate. It pretty much pre-empted everything else. Even my weekends with Rita seemed rushed as I started scheduling open houses for the early spring market.
I focused on high-end properties that often took a year or more to move. My sales record told a story of much faster than average turnaround. I focused on the personal touch when dealing with this clientele. When they reached the level of income needed to purchase one of these houses, they were typically in it for the long haul. They would be in that house for ten to twenty years or more. Everything needed to be perfect.
I started my campaign with Holly Park. Most of the homes in the exclusive neighborhood in which my team had sold the Morrison house, were million-dollar properties. I had excellent referrals from both the Morrisons and the Cartwrights, who had purchased the home. Now, I sent personal letters to the owners of each home in the community.
There is a ‘trick’ to sending these letters. One that my rookies needed to learn. The letters needed to be perfect. The method taught in real estate school is to put together a marketing letter and send it to everyone. This clientele could tell that approach a mile away. Those letters were likely to be tossed in recycling without ever entering the house. The letters were also rife with spelling and grammar errors. When I received mail with my name misspelled on the envelope, I didn’t bother to open it. And inside, the letter should represent the meticulous care I would take in marketing and selling the home.
A personal letter, but not informal. I didn’t hand address plain white envelopes. Nor would I use a window envelope. That just screamed mass mailing. I had linen stationery with raised type return address and inside address on the letterhead. It was just slightly off-white but not so much so that it stuck out like a sore thumb. Subtlety was the key.
In the era of personal computers and word processing, there was really no excuse for misspelled or poorly formatted letters. My letters were immaculate. I carefully watched for homonyms, making especially sure that I corrected were/where, then/than, your/you’re, their/there/they’re. And if there was any doubt at all regarding the spelling of a word or a company name, I looked it up.
My letters were signed with a fountain pen and left to dry thoroughly before they were folded. They were never more than one page. They always included a personal touch, with family names when possible. For example:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Stackhouse,
Spring is just around the corner and I note that your son, John Jr., will be ready for middle school in the fall. Congratulations on raising such a fine young man.
This might be the ideal time for you to consider a new home. You’ve been at 473 Lilac Lane since before John Jr.’s birth. At the time you purchased this home, your needs were much different than they are now. You might be thinking of moving to a home more suited to entertaining and more convenient to John’s middle school.
The market is also turning. This means it is a good time to get an offer in on a home before prices resume their upward trend, and a good time to prepare your current home for sale as soon as school is out. The summer market will be strong this year and I believe we can get top dollar for your present home.
I’d like to discuss the possibilities with you in person. I will plan to call you Monday evening the 18th at 7:00 p.m. If this is inconvenient for you, please feel free to call or text me at 555-555-5555 and I will arrange my schedule to suit yours.
Thank you for hearing me out on this. I look forward to talking to you in person.
Sincerely,
D.R. ‘Doc’ Peters, Realtor
Windward Real Estate Agency
And there you have it. Does everyone respond to this? Oh, heavens no! But the response is high enough that it makes the research worthwhile. By the end of February, I was following up with both phone calls and in-person visits. In March, I began showing available properties and contacting other upscale owners to suggest it was a good time to sell and that I had a potential buyer. My pipeline was filling.
It’s good to make money while you can. I had the assistance of my four rookies and Dan had determined not to hire any more until fall. I reviewed every piece of mail they sent, visited every open house they held, and brainstormed every marketing plan with them. And they were doing well. The checks they received at the end of the year had kept them working into spring and they were actually turning some property. They also assisted me with events and marketing my high-end products.
I had a booth at the Home Show, the RV Show, and the Boat Show. These were the major shows that wealthy people seemed to attend. They were upgrading their homes, getting ready to retire and move on, or adding a significant status upgrade. I worked the busiest hours, but the rookies were getting referrals as well.
Unfortunately, the hottest real estate season meant my studio sat empty, even on my ‘weekend’ days of Monday and Tuesday. I was too tired to paint. Things have a tendency to balance out in the long run, though.
“Mr. Peters, you seem to be the first thing my wife and I have agreed on in two years. There is hope for the future,” Mr. Barrett said when we sat to discuss their purchase needs. He’d just been promoted to Vice President in a local high-tech company. Not ‘THE’ Vice President, he was quick to tell me. Just ‘A’ vice president.
“It hasn’t been quite that bad,” Mrs. Barrett said. “But it does keep life interesting.”
“I hope I can help you come to an agreement regarding your new home,” I said. Contrary to the comment, the couple seemed to get along incredibly well. She was very down-to-earth and I could see she grounded him. And they were well-matched in age. This was no trophy wife. She was the real deal and had been with him through thick and thin. He honored that.
We met for over an hour as I probed for what they really wanted. Sometimes it seems a real estate agent needs to be part psychologist. They also gave me a tour of their home and I took photos so I could work up a good estimate on its market value. I met their two children, both of whom seemed eager to move to a new and bigger house. They gave me some input regarding what they wanted, including a big yard so they could have a dog. The elder Barretts smiled indulgently.
“Oh, there is one other thing,” Mrs. Barrett said, nudging her husband. I was at the door and ready to leave. Mr. Barrett seemed a little embarrassed.
“Your name came up in another context during a dinner we had with Keith and Louise Brainerd. You are the artist who painted Louise’s portrait, aren’t you?” Mr. Barrett asked.
“Yes. That piece was done some ten years ago.”
“But you are still painting, aren’t you?” Mrs. Barrett asked.
“Certainly. This season makes it a little difficult to find the time as I’m trying to get the best real estate deals for my clients, but I do find some time to paint and do portraits,” I said.
“Well, as you look for a new home for us, keep in mind that we’ll want a place to display the portrait of Donna that we’d like you to paint,” Mr. Barrett said. “That is, if you are still doing commissions.”
“I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” I said. Mrs. Barrett gave me a shy smile.
Easter Sunday afternoon, Rita came into my studio as I was flipping through sketches, looking for more material. She brought one of my portfolios over and sat on my lap as we opened it and perused the sketches. It was an older portfolio and I hadn’t seen these pictures in a good ten years or more. Rita tried to guess which models I’d slept with based on my drawings, but I told her that wasn’t likely, simply because I seldom slept with a model before I had done the sketches, and usually not until after a painting was finished. Still, she was uncannily correct in most of her assessments.
It’s not that I sleep with all my models, or even a majority of them. I don’t. There has to be a special spark that connects us. It wasn’t until I painted Pain is Pleasure in my newer style that I’d been moved by a sexual experience before I painted. I’d never seen Kelly when I painted Out of Body, though we’d had sex. Cold Fusion was painted months after my experience with Sheila and I had pleasured her but didn’t go all the way. It wasn’t until the two most recent paintings of Lori that I’d approached the canvas with every intention of sleeping with the model. That was at Rita’s instigation.
And Rita was looking for signs of raw passion that I could interpret anew in a painting. I was certainly not going back ten years or more to track down a model with the intent of having sex so I could paint her. Our relationship had long since left the “teaching” of the art of love behind. She approached looking at the sketches with an eye toward formulating an experiment. We were laughing and I had reached the point of wanting to try another posed portrait with her when I heard her breath catch.
When I realized what sketch she was looking at, I held my breath, awaiting the explosion.
“Oh. My. God.” Rita got up from my lap, carrying the sketch with her. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think how I would explain this. The portfolio was over ten years old, right? That particular sketch was one of the earliest pieces I did in my studio, maybe fourteen years ago. Rita was what? Twelve?
“You slept with her, didn’t you?” she asked without looking back at me. I chose not to confirm or deny, but stayed silent. She carried the sketch to my modeling stage and began arranging furniture on it. She quickly found the wicker chair that was in the picture, though I’d refinished it and it was no longer white. She went to the blanket box where I kept various drapes and brought out a knitted afghan. She looked at the pattern, comparing it to the sketch before bringing it to her nose to inhale deeply.
That was a waste of effort. Once a drape has been used, I always had it laundered or cleaned. I couldn’t remember having used that particular one since the sketch she held. It had been at the bottom of the box a long time.
She arranged the chair and afghan along with a wooden stool and a bowl for fruit on the platform. I left the studio while she worked, knowing what she would want next. I returned with a selection of apples, oranges, a pear, and bananas. She took them from me and smiled. The smile did nothing to set me at ease. If anything, it was predatory. She arranged the fruit in the bowl like it had been in the sketch, then stepped back off the platform to look at the setting from the perspective of the sketch. Since her initial question, neither of us had spoken a word. She went to my supply cabinet and found a sketchbook the same size and texture as the paper in her hands, and gave it to me. I understood what was about to happen—or what I thought was about to happen—I glanced at the sketch again and went to get a selection of graphite, erasers, and a tortillon. When I returned to my position and faced the platform, Rita was nude, sitting in the chair with the throw across her lap and one foot on the stool. Her hand was poised over the fruit bowl, head lowered seductively and facing me. I knew my role. I sketched.
“All these years, I never knew,” she said as I worked. Her shape was incredible, and seeing her in that position brought a flood of memories. I was so young and full of myself. I thought my first paintings would sell for a fortune and I’d paint only for pleasure. That sketch was only for pleasure, completed after we’d been lovers for several weeks. But even when I did it, I knew we wouldn’t last.
“Did you love her as much as it looks in the sketch?”
“Yes.” The shadows dipped beneath her breast and blended into the dark edge of the afghan. With a few flicks of the tortillon, the pattern emerged from the knitting. The fruit was round and lush. The detail in the wicker was sharp—perhaps sharper than what I actually saw.
“Why? Why did you break up?”
“The age difference. The stages of our lives. The fears and inabilities. Our own doubts. The inequality of what we each brought to the relationship. My inexperience.” They were all reasons. No one thing had come between us, but everything had conspired against us. I looked at the sketch in my hands, not knowing if I could go on. The patterns, fruit, props—all were complete. But the figure—Rita—was still missing.
“Were you thinking of her when you made love to me?” It was only a whisper but I heard and could not answer. Rita’s voice rose slightly to be sure I could hear her, but was still below her normal conversational tone. “Did you think of her breasts when you caressed my skin? Did you smell her scent when you went down on me? Did you feel her lips when I sucked you? Hear her sighs when I came?”
It was too much. I dropped the sketchbook with its incomplete figure on the floor and my pencils scattered around me. I stood, ready to flee, but Rita stood before me, pressing her lips to mine, pulling my arms around her. When I pulled back to look into her eyes, the pain I felt was mirrored there.
“No,” I said simply. “Until this night, I never thought of her when I was with you. Until you found that sketch, I thought I had left her behind.”
“Then now—tonight—you can remember her the way she was.” Rita picked up my sketch and laid it gently on the stool. “Make love to me, here in the studio. Let me be her in your arms tonight. Then finish the sketch. Do the painting. Put her in it, the way you remember her. Let her come to life in your hands. Do it for me, Doc. Do it for us.”
We moved to the daybed. Rita dragged the afghan to cushion us and we made love. It was nothing fancy. We simply kissed with her draped partially on top of me until she shifted over me and we slid together. She rode on top of me, fully pressed against me as we kissed. I felt her climax, the muscles in her pussy tightening around my cock, even as she kept up her steady rhythm. I felt the sudden gasp as the sensations became too much for her and I marveled again at the intensity she brought to our lovemaking. Then, for a few moments, she lifted her head from mine and simply looked into my eyes, coaxing me to come inside her.
And come, I did. I never moved a muscle but let her milk me with her pussy, drawing out everything I could give her. I held her to me as tightly as I could and saw my tears in her eyes as we both wept. Sometime—minutes or hours later—Rita rose, letting me slide out of her silky chamber. She kissed me softly once again as she gathered up her clothing.
“Paint her, Doc. Paint my mom the way we remember her.”
When I moved into this house, I held a party and invited all my neighbors to meet the young kid who’d just joined the community. The first guests to arrive were Rose and her two daughters, Rita and Tina. The girls were nine and eleven years old. Rose was a single mom about ten years older than me. She had the struggles all young single parents have but they were somewhat alleviated by living with her mother next door. We were good neighbors but within six months we were more than that. We were so afraid that someone would find out we were meeting and were sexually involved that she would leave the girls with her mom and drive to the local shopping center. I’d pick her up there and we’d drive to my house, pulling into the garage and closing the door before she got out. Then we would drink wine and laugh for hours, sometimes making love in front of the fireplace, in the bed, in the studio—sometimes just cuddling on the sofa until it was time to take her back to her car so she could arrive home without anyone knowing she’d been next door.
I suspected her mom, Miriam, knew. But in the three months we were together, we never appeared in public with each other. The strain got to be too much. She couldn’t face going public with a relationship with a man ten years younger. I was only fifteen years older than her daughter.
I’d sketched her in the studio, but our lovemaking always interfered with my ability to paint her, so a canvas was never completed.
Nearly five years later, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Despite her treatments, having her beautiful breasts removed, going bald with chemotherapy and radiation, she succumbed in just four months. The entire neighborhood was in shock. The girls, then fourteen and sixteen, were devastated. I grieved in silence for what we almost had. That was twelve years ago now. I never thought of Rose in my time with Rita. Now I could think of nothing else.
There were colors I’d never used in my palette before that splashed across the painting of Rose. The afghan, dulled by age, was suddenly bright and vibrant. Her skin glowed with health and energy. Her breasts were round and full and her expression one of contemplated mischief. And through the entire time I painted on Monday and Tuesday, there were tears in my eyes. I didn’t see the painting clearly until Friday when Rita joined me.
We stood together in front of the painting and held each other as if we were at a wedding altar. There were tears, but it was a joyful occasion. Standing with Rita felt like we were receiving a blessing from the long-dead mother in the painting.
“It’s somehow comforting to think that she knows how I feel and is happy for us,” Rita said. “Can we spend the weekend in bed?”
“Until Monday morning. I have a portrait sitting.”
“Who?”
“Donna Barrett. I’m trying to find a new home for her and her husband. Two children under twelve. Strange couple. They saw the article in Home Spectacular and happen to be friends with the Brainerds. They decided they want a painting of Mrs. Barrett to hang in their new home when they have it.”
“Sex on the outlook?” Rita asked brightly.
“Oh, no. Not with this one,” I said. “They have a strange relationship. He said choosing me to find their new home was the first thing they’d agreed on in two years. But there was no sign at all of their relationship deteriorating. They were quite loving.”
“Always keep an open mind,” Rita giggled. “Now let’s eat. I brought Thai food. Then you can take me to bed and see how long you can keep me there.”
It was a great weekend. Not that we spent all our time fucking, but we did spend the majority of it in bed. We read, talked, played games, made love. And by the end of the weekend, Rita had agreed to fully move in. She’d been spending four or five nights a week with me but was still nominally living next door. This week, she planned a full move.
Monday morning, I was ready in my studio for Donna Barrett. I greeted her at ten and served tea and cookies while we talked about what kind of portrait she wanted. She was distracted by my paintings and wandered around the studio looking at them. I’d hung all eight of them in the studio, which took about all my wall space since some of them were so large. I’d hung Adoration and Blessing next to each other—Tina with little baby Rachel and Rose. Donna was fixated on them.
“These paintings are completely different than Louise’s portrait,” Donna said. “I’d almost think they were done by a different artist.”
“I discovered this style and technique just a year ago. I still paint portraits, however.”
“Can you paint my portrait in this style? Louise would be so jealous,” Donna laughed. “Not that I want her to be jealous, but this is so much more vibrant. I can’t picture myself in a plain portrait now.”
“Um… Well… these painting come from an intense emotional connection. The one I tried to paint that was missing that just didn’t have the life these do.”
“Oh. And I see they are all nudes. Did you make love to all of them?” she asked. If this was what Mr. Barrett faced at dinner every night, no wonder he said they hadn’t agreed on anything in two years. Still, not only was she a portrait client, I thought I might have a lead on the perfect house for them. I didn’t want to screw this up.
“Not all of them.” Certainly not Tina and baby Rachel. And I’d done the steam room painting from imagination.
“Hmm. Would you mind if I asked my husband to stop by while we talk and perhaps begin sketching? I’ve an idea and I think he will want input.”
“Of course. Why don’t we start with a few simple sketches in a standard portrait mode? You can tell me about your idea while I get used to your features in a sketch,” I said. Whatever the idea, I was sure it didn’t involve sex and couldn’t imagine it involving nudity, so I wasn’t concerned about her husband visiting.
Clive Barrett showed up in time for lunch and was kind enough to bring sushi from Ryuko Sushi Bar. I’d made a quick call to Rita and she agreed to come home for lunch as well. I brewed a pot of green tea to have with the delicacies and we sat at the dining room table. When Clive had arrived, I took care of setting the table and Donna took her husband to the studio to show him my paintings and the sketches we’d accomplished that morning.
“I can certainly see why Donna wants her portrait done in this new style of yours,” Clive said. “The difference between this and the older portraits we saw is amazing. We’d like to discover what kind of connection it takes to get that far. We’re not swingers, but we are a bit more liberal in our practices than you might think.”
“Please understand that Doc doesn’t do these paintings in order to have sex with the model,” Rita said. I’d introduced her as my lovely assistant and she took on the role of my business manager. “When we first discovered this breakthrough, I began arranging experiments to see what triggered the connection you are referring to. Initially, I thought it was just the sexual experience, but further study showed that was not the only trigger. For example, the painting Adoration of the mother and baby was inspired simply from being with my family at Thanksgiving. That’s my sister and her baby. The portrait next to it, painted just last week, is of my mother. She’s been gone for ten years now. I posed for it.”
“So, there is a possibility of developing the connection without explicitly having sex,” Donna probed. “What have you discovered is the key?”
“I think the best illustration is Out of the Fog,” Rita continued. “It is based on a story I told Doc. Of course, I set the stage if you will, by taking him to the shower and steaming things up as I told him about an encounter I had at the gym. But we never actually touched during the telling of the story. He painted the image from memory and imagination.”
“A story? Donna, that rings a bell,” Clive said.
“Indeed. You see, Doc, I’m not only a stay-at-home mom. I’m a writer. I think I might have a story that would inspire you,” Donna said.
“And let me say that we agreed to a price of $5,000 for the portrait. If you can interpret Donna in the style you are showing in your studio, I’ll double that amount.”
“There would be one other consideration,” Rita said. I don’t think I’d said anything since we sat down to eat. “Doc is preparing for an exhibition within the next year. Any paintings done in this style must be made available for the show. Not for sale, of course. Just to help fill out the exhibition. Can we agree to that?”
“I don’t see a problem,” Clive said. “Donna will work with you as often as necessary. She may pose with or without clothes. If anything develops beyond that, I will not know. You need have no crises of conscience. Is that agreeable?”
“Understanding that we don’t yet know if I can create the connection and paint in this style, I’m in agreement,” I said at last. This was going to make it very hard to work in real estate for the next month.
Comments
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