Keep your heart with all diligence, for out of it springs the issues of life. —Proverbs 4:23
Before everyone thinks that I’ve gone and turned all Sunday school teacher (though... I have known some pretty powerful, beautiful and thought-provoking Sunday school teachers in my time), let me just mention that as I type these words on my swanky (but slow) little onyx eeePC, that I am sprawled across a thick, silky white carpet in tight blue jeans and a white tank, my shoulders, chest, face and arms splattered with dried paint in blues, reds, purples, and greens. I’m in my favorite white crew socks and my hair – which is long and brown and feathered for work – is tied back in a white bandana that smells of another woman’s perfume and that I most certainly will be taking home with me. Because, right, did I mention it? This isn’t my carpet.
;)
This is that *other* thing I do. I have the ole day job, then – mostly all night – I design games, and, on the side, I paint portraits and abstracts on commission. I got this job when a friend of a friend of a friend heard I was in town and offered to buy me everything new to do a piece (6 x 6 feet) immediately! The theme I was given was “maturity” and the props... well, they weren’t apples and oranges, baby. I did employ the excellent skills of six dozen open roses – red and white, twenty yards of forest green satin, and one very accommodating host. This is still life the way art intended. And if you have never painted or sketched with a model before, I highly recommend that you run out and join a class right now. Because as your eye and hand fall in sync to trace lines so mesmerizing they might as well be the map to the soul, you’ll never believe in evolution again. There is nothing ape-like about the curve of a hip, the arch of a neck, or shoulder blades that most surely once held wings.
The studio is all lit up. The studio being the entire living room of a house so large it probably has several living rooms. Three walls are floor to ceiling glass and offer a spectacular view that I expertly ignore. Not really a chore.
The lights were the most expensive part. I warned my friend: Lights are outrageous. But there was no stopping her. Her big sister was turning a certain age and a portrait was the only thing that would do. She sent me a package of general family-event photos of her sister about two weeks ago. I sketched out some basic stick and line ideas and faxed them over. She kept saying, “Nope. Something more. Something more powerful.” In the end it was a cascade of green and a shower of roses, draped in layers and waves, a long bronze body leaning back, one knee up, one arm draped over that knee, the lights playing on skin and petals and fabric. In the end it was five hours of sketching, then photos. Then dinner far nicer than I’ve had in years. Then five more hours of painting. Now exhaustion.
The canvas looks good so far. I use someone’s (probably my friend’s) old StepMaster to position myself just so, to ensure perspective is correct from low and high. I’m running out of brown.
I miss my own brushes. In moments of frustration, not wanting to waste a moment, I crack one and then two more over my knee cap, shortening the maddeningly long handles. I like to get paint on my fingers. I have whip lash from darting between subject and canvas, not trusting the new brushes to do my bidding.
At the end of the day, I start to pack up, to seal and cover and chill and spritz. I fold the satin and pick up the roses, pouring arm fulls of buds and petals into the large green glass bowl from India. Somewhere in the house I know the shower is running but I can’t hear it. I am swinging my jacket over my bare shoulders when her husband walks in, the brother-in-law. Still dressed from the office, a whiskey in his hand. He strides purposefully over to the canvas. Appraises. Sips. His eyes, but not his head, move to look at me. “What is she paying you?” He means my friend. I tell him casually. “I’ll match it,” he says and walks out. There’s no time or space or reason to argue.
My loving friend, the striking host, and the driven husband... they all share one thing. They all know their hearts. And, to me it seems, they know each other’s hearts as well. There is rarely a feeling more complimentary, more inspirational, and more magical than having your picture painted. We feel immortal. We feel beautiful. We feel happy.
I am just a small cog in this machine. I will come here again tomorrow and turn on the tall lights but I will paint alone, finishing the work over the course of the day, maybe ten more hours. My host will be friendly, elegant, and attentive. She will probably talk about politics or the writers’ strikes or the news. At one point I’ll whip sweat from my face and smear blues across my cheek. I’ll notice her standing in the wide arch way that leads away into the house. She’ll stand there, tall glass of hot tea in hand, her hair perfectly coifed, her blouse ruffles of silk, her slacks crisp, her heels high. She’ll have her eyes on the canvas. On herself. On that moment of time captured forever. Happy birthday.
I am just a small cog in so many machines. In the wikiworld creation of Mardi Gras 3000, I am one small voice. In the lives of my friends, I am often just text on a screen. I am a moment, fleeting from the start, in someone else’s life. A small gate to walk by or through. But here, like this, covered in paint, waiting for a taxi... sitting in an Internet café writing to you... I am happy.
E.J.
