The Art and Science of Love
16
Dark Shadows
I MET MONDAYS and Tuesdays with Donna for the next two weeks. I’d filled half a dozen sketchbooks as we talked. She told me stories of her family and childhood, her relationship with Clive—which had been ongoing since they were sophomores in high school—her children, and finally, her writing. I didn’t need to do much prompting in our conversations as Donna was a natural storyteller. I was surprised it took so long to get around to what was obviously her passion. Her whole demeanor changed when she started talking about writing.
“Clive told me when we were still just kids that he’d earn a living and support me so I could write. And he has,” she said. “Of course, writing isn’t the only thing I do. I make damn sure Clive thinks the deal was a bargain for him. If he wants a blowjob and I haven’t already offered, I’m on my knees before he finishes the thought. My house is always spotless and I make sure he has dinner when he gets home. If he’s late, I keep it warm. If he’s early, I fix a cocktail. If he’s horny, I fuck him.”
“It sounds like a good deal,” I said. “Has it been worth it to you?” I looked up at her again to reference my sketch and saw her blouse was gapping open a bit. I nearly said something when I realized she was unfastening another button. I kept my peace.
“It’s a great deal for me. Not only to I get plenty of time to write, I have a great sex life! And Clive knows he’s got a good deal. He does everything possible to keep me happy at home. And he is a constant part of the kids’ lives. You might think this is strange, but Clive doesn’t really have any hobbies. He doesn’t go out drinking with the boys. He doesn’t spend weekends playing golf. He isn’t part of a Lions Club or Kiwanis. The kids and I are his hobby. He spends his free time with us.” Her blouse was fully unbuttoned now and I could see one bra covered breast.
“What was the deal telling me I was the first thing you’d agreed on in two years?” I asked.
“Oh, a happy couple needs some kind of conflict to overcome. I play a silly game online at one of my publishers. It’s called ‘This or That’ which puts up two things to choose between. It could be ‘Hotdogs or hamburgers?’ ‘Vacation at the beach or vacation in the mountains?’ ‘Cat or dog?’ It’s just a silly preference thing, but we play the game together. We had a near perfect record of disagreeing until we narrowed down our choice of Realtor to you or Candace Higgins. We both chose you.”
“I’m flattered. I hope it doesn’t spell an end to your disagreements,” I laughed. Donna’s blouse was off and her bra was unfastened, hanging loosely over her breasts. I loved the slope into her cleavage and quickly did a sketch of just her breasts. I’d want to examine this more closely.
“Oh, we haven’t agreed on anything since we chose you. Well, except the portrait. It would be hard to disagree about that.” She reached to her right for the bottle of water on the end table and her bra slid off her arms and onto the floor. I kept drawing.
Donna wasn’t the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I mean, Rita. But she was good looking in the way of a woman who takes care of herself but doesn’t obsess over weight, hairstyle, or manicure. I shifted my stool so I could get a better angle for my sketch. Donna tried a couple of poses that I pulled together. Her breasts were soft and hung slightly, though they weren’t so big as to be weighed down by gravity. The nipples and areolae were dark, in contrast to her fair complexion. She’d become distracted by something on the other side of the room and I sketched her while she was focused over there. The intense look on her face was a stark contrast to the casual exposure of her breasts.
My alarm beeped and I looked up at the big clock. Three o’clock.
“I lost track of time,” she said. “This was such an interesting session. Sadly, I need to break it off now to be home for the kids.” She stood up and zipped up the side of her skirt. I hadn’t even noticed it was unfastened and obviously next scheduled for departure. She absently tugged her bra on, looking over my shoulder as I flipped through the day’s sketches. She was quite casual about dressing and in no hurry to cover herself. She pointed at one of the later sketches. I agreed, there was something about that one with her attention focused on the other side of the room. “I think we’re getting closer to that connection,” she whispered.
She finished pulling herself together, said goodbye, and left. I looked at the sketch again. Yes, closer.
On Saturday, the family followed me to a house in Sun Eden Estates. This wasn’t a gated community like Holly Park, but the properties were, indeed, estates. Each was on a minimum of two acres and had plenty of parking for guests. The houses were large and designed to entertain. The house we were viewing was slightly over 5,000 square feet.
It wasn’t for sale. Yet.
Some diligent footwork and follow-up with past clients had led me to the Jerry Dickinson family. Jerry had recently been laid off in a massive change of regime at a Fortune 100 manufacturing company. He’d been Executive Vice President but when the Board cleaned house in the wake of a drop in sales, Jerry was one of the dozen top level casualties. My source indicated that he’d been recruited by a company on the Coast and would probably want to move soon.
When I contacted him, I found that he’d already taken the job in San Jose and was commuting on a weekly basis. He’d already missed two of his regularly scheduled weekends home and wanted his family to join him as quickly as possible. His three children were opposed to the move, not wanting to leave friends and classmates. But he’d promised they could finish out the year at their present schools. I was invited to do a market evaluation of the home and it helped that I already had a prospective buyer.
Clive and Donna entered through the massive entry arch over the front door and stopped just inside. To the left of the foyer was a sunken living room with a cozy fireplace and high ceilings. To the right was a curved staircase descending from an overhead balcony that bridged a passage to the gallery. Here, one could move into the kitchen and dining room or the study/library on the other side. Directly ahead was a massive stone fireplace that opened on both the gallery side and the great room beyond. It was a lot to take in and I let them simply stare for a few minutes without trying to point anything out to them.
They became more and more enthused as they toured the house. The great room was a big hit as a potential entertainment space that opened to the library on one side and the dining room on the other. They were quite enthused about the partially hidden staircase from the study up to the master bedroom suite. Across the bridge over the foyer, were three more bedrooms with en suite baths. They agreed their kids would love the layout. A large open space was equipped with games and a large screen TV.
They had several whispered conversations and paused for a long time in the impressive foyer before turning to me again.
“There,” Donna pointed toward the gallery and the massive stone fireplace. “That is where my portrait will hang.” In their minds, they’d already bought the house. “And here is where I’ll pose,” she continued, pointing to the staircase. I smiled. I could see her in a long dressing gown as she descended the stairs like a movie star. She broke the illusion by giggling.
“Is there a ‘that’ we can compare it to?” Clive asked.
“At the moment, I’ve found ‘this.’ The comparison is the home you are currently in.”
“This,” they both said.
Of course, there was some negotiating to do. The $2.7 million price was a shock, but I’d already done a market evaluation of their current home at $1.5 million. When you reach that level, moving up $1.2 million isn’t that big a step. I represented both sides of the deal and went over the market proposal and comparable properties with both couples. They agreed on a price of $2.5 million. The Dickinsons wanted to stay for two more months while their kids finished school—an easy concession for the Barretts. I could list their house immediately and start looking for a buyer. Since I did not need to do any further marketing of the Dickinson house, I reduced my commission to six percent, which I would still need to split with my broker, Dan. Dan and I wouldn’t make an easier $75,000 each any time soon.
The Dickinson family was spending the long Memorial Day weekend in San Jose as they finalized a purchase there. I’m afraid they wouldn’t get anywhere near as impressive a house in California for the price. But they agreed that I could work that weekend with Donna, preparing the pose and sketching her portrait in the foyer.
Rita bounced into my studio the first of May. There is no other word for the way she arrived. She brought energy and enthusiasm everyplace she went. Living with her was the highlight of my life. We often spent our evenings nude, and I’d completed a sketch on paper of the first pose I’d done of her when she came to my house for ‘lessons’ in the art of love. She’d twice brought home ‘experiments’ for me to sketch after a bout of serious lovemaking. They weren’t universally successful, but she documented the results as if she were doing a doctoral dissertation on my art and style.
On this day, Rita was particularly happy.
“Guess what,” she started, but didn’t let me reply. “I have a gallery interested in your showing.” That was a shock. I still had only nine pieces in my new and improved style. I would need at least a dozen for a good gallery show. Of course, there were more mundane pieces I could show and sketches that could be prepared for display, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to mix my previous style with the new works.
“I’m not ready for a showing.”
“I know. I didn’t say she wanted the show this month. She’s thinking about a fall or winter show. I showed her the digitals of your work and she wants to see them up close. We’re supposed to meet her on Monday.”
“Not this Monday,” I said. I was still in shock that a gallery was interested. “I have a portrait sitting Monday.”
“Really? I thought you weren’t doing Donna until Memorial Day weekend. Who?”
“Ardith Longfellow.”
“Do I know her?”
“Only from the society pages. She’s quite the philanthropist and is often at the fundraisers for the orchestra, theater, and ballet. The art museum, in fact, has commissioned a painting of her for their Benefactors Gallery. It will be a good way to get my name out in a museum.”
“Yes, but in the wrong way!”
“I’ll make it work somehow,” I said. I had no idea how that was going to play out. I’d met the woman only once when I toured the museum. Ardith Longfellow had a mind of her own and a will of iron. But Rita agreed to get the owner of the gallery to wait until the weekend. I could possibly try Ardith’s portrait in the new style. It would be good practice for painting Donna.
“I want every wrinkle, scar, and mole in this painting,” Ardith said to me in a somewhat querulous voice. The woman was over seventy years old and had ruled the arts scene for nearly fifty of them. I simply couldn’t believe what she was asking.
She stood before me without a stitch of clothing. I’d told her to make herself comfortable in the studio as I went to get tea. When I returned, she was standing with a helmet on her head, greaves on her legs, and a sword in her hand. She wore nothing else.
Over the course of the next five hours, I did many sketches as she posed. I finally managed to get her to add the traditional shield to her outfit, allowing her breasts and crotch to be partially, though not fully covered. I explained it was often better to leave a bit to the imagination. She laughed at me. During the time we worked, she told me story after story about her life and how she had earned her wrinkles. She told me of her loves, her children, her projects.
I wasn’t sure the art museum would accept a full-length nude of her for the Benefactors Gallery. I’d toured it to prepare for this painting and the portraits were standard head and shoulders, some down to mid-torso. I suggested that we do two portraits, one with the full regalia and one more traditional.
“I’m sick and tired of everything considered beautiful and womanly having to be twenty years old. I want a proud portrait of this aging body put on display where everyone can see it. Like that one.” She pointed to the painting of Rose. “Just not so bright and lively. I want a brooding darkness in my visage. And my eyes. When people look into my eyes, they should see every man and woman I slept with to rise to the top of the arts world. Money alone will not suffice to become influential. I’ve fought and scrapped for every advancement in the arts community I’ve brought about. I offered five million dollars for a new children’s wing in the art museum, only to find out half of it would go in the pockets of the executive director and architect. I commissioned my own architects, bought property, and had a new children’s museum built from the ground up. It cost three times what I’d offered for the new wing, but not a penny went into the greedy hands of those who live off the blood of true artists.”
“Perhaps I could paint you with the Gorgon’s head clasped in one hand,” I joked.
“Do you think you could make it so it would turn viewers to stone?” she asked. I thought for a minute she was serious. “I’ve heard you are the best local portrait artist. I wasn’t certain when I saw your portfolio. Your portraits are all fine, high quality paintings. But none of them have the snap and verve of what I see on your studio walls. What happened?”
“I discovered a different level of my art when I made an emotional connection with my model,” I said simply. “It is difficult to produce on demand, but I’m discovering new ways to make the connection. I believe I can paint you in that style if it is what you want.” Ardith laid down her sword and shield and took off the helmet. She looked over my shoulder at the most recent sketch and I moved aside to let her flip through the pages.
“You are learning to make the connection even without benefit of sex. I would definitely fuck you if it was necessary to get this level of artistry. I’m afraid, however, that the connection you made would be one of disgust and pain.” She pulled my hand to her floppy breast. “I’ve given suck to three children and countless little boys disguised as powerful men.” She dragged my hand down and placed it between her legs. “I hold a sword, but my weapon of choice has always been my sheath. I can be pierced there and still be victorious.” She brought my hand to her face. “But here—these dry lips and wrinkled lines—here is where power must show through.”
We turned back to the sketches and she finally chose two. One was an early sketch from our session with her standing armed and ready for battle. In the other, she knelt with the helmet on the ground in front of her, shield covering much of her body, sword pointed at the ground. It was a pose of rest, not defeat nor surrender. It was an image of the woman preparing herself for the next battle.
“This one for the gallery,” she said. “The other, paint freely and with joy. For me. I will find the right place to display it. Do good work, Doc. I’m tired now and need to go home.”
Frankly, there is little harder to paint than perfectly smooth, flawless skin. As marvelous as it is to look at and delightful to caress, on canvas it inevitably looks flat and lifeless. But give me a figure with a little character—some lines around her eyes, a sagging breast, gray in her pussy hair, and a bit of a wattle—and we are in heaven. What’s more, as I sketched and she talked, I began to see her in a new light. I saw her as the accomplished matron warrior she wanted to play. She had, indeed, faced life’s battles and won.
“Did you fuck her?”
“No.” Though I had been thinking to myself as I was completing the final sketch that I wouldn’t turn this woman down if she suggested anything.
“These sketches are amazing. I love this one!” The sketch in question showed Ardith Longfellow kneeling with helmet and shield in front of her and sword held point down. Her hair was a frazzled mass of gray curls, somewhat matted by the time beneath her helm. As I’d positioned the shield, Dear Ms. Longfellow had made sure her sagging breast made contact with the back of my hand. I was amazed to feel the softness of her skin.
“In June,” Rita said, putting the sketches aside. At first, I thought she meant I should fuck Ardith in June but Rita finally continued. “The gallery. We have something special in mind for you.”
“I thought the owner wanted to see my paintings.”
“There’s time for that after we’ve met. I thought you should see the gallery first… in a manner of speaking.”
“In a manner of speaking?”
“Yes.” Rita grinned at me. “It’s a little experiment she agreed to let me conduct. It will give you the full experience of her gallery to see if you think it’s a fit.”
Rita’s little experiments tended to be too sexual for most gallery owners to participate in, so I was a little skeptical. She continued to press, stating it was an experiment with sculptures. She gave me a catalog of the current exhibition, called “Modern Renaissance,” and I could see the bronze and marble statues were closely patterned after the classic works of the sixteenth century. I finally agreed to a date in June, not knowing how seeing a bunch of sculpture would help me with either my painting or the proposed exhibition.
In the meantime, I had paintings to finish.
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