Transported

Close your eyes, breathe deep and be transported.  

The scent of oil paint and turpentine permeate the scene.  Dusty canvass covers are thrown back from the easel to reveal a half finished painting, perfect in its imperfection.  The clinking of brushes in glass jars of turpentine, and the moist flowing sound of their paint-laden tips being caressed across a canvass.  The throaty laugh of a model who is stretched languidly across the threadbare pillows and blankets of the artist.  Leisurely she smokes a cigarette and looks out at the world from under expressive eyebrows and heavy lashes. 

 They stay that way for a while, involved together in a moment of truth; one the counterbalance to the other they are equal in measure.  But when they have finished for the day, and must return again to the mundane, she rises.  Standing strong, nude, and unabashed before him, her gaze is steady.  His eyes, on the other hand, dart about desperately looking for a safe spot to land, as color slowly creeps up his neck and turns his cheeks a deep rose pink.  This woman he tries to paint is wild and free and gloriously comfortable; there is something in her eyes and the set of her chin which he can't quite capture.  Their time for the day is done, and the exhibition is drawing near, he is exhausted and decides to head home to rest before another long day tomorrow.  

Sometime during the night, inspiration hits him like a locomotive.  He lights a lamp and begins painting like a man possessed.  He has painted her so many times and from so many different angles that the curves of her body all but live inside his paintbrush.  If he were honest with himself he would admit that he loved her.  Unwilling to render her on canvass unless able to fully capture the fierce magic dancing in her eyes, he takes a 180 degree turn away from his original idea and paints instead something never done before.  He works all night, stopping neither to eat nor drink; painting until his hand begins to cramp around the brush.  The sun more than breaks the horizon by the time he is satisfied.  He places one last loving stroke, and then, like a satiated lover, flops onto his bed and is asleep in mere moments.  

***

It isn't until the opening that he sees her again, and even there it is from a distance.  She drifts into the room wearing furs and jewels and is surrounded by the rich and powerful.  His eyes lock with her powerful gaze from across the room  and for one brief moment, the share a secret knowing.  The moment is broken when a portly banker comes over to him to congratulate him on the showing, and on all of his fine work.  The only thing which the elderly man questioned him about was why the work at the very end, which he figured appeared in a place to be showcased, was covered.  The artist explained that it was his favourite piece and would be revealed to all once everyone had looked around at the rest.  

Though it was only an hour, the time dragged agonisingly on for him.  The more the clock ticked, the more nervous he became.  Though many people came to congratulate him, or discuss the world of art at large, he was only half listening.  He followed her movements around the room, as she strode with purposeful grace from one piece to the next; stopping to talk with whoever she encountered.  

Finally, it was time for the reveal.  The artist wiped his clammy hands on his trousers and, once the crowd had quieted down sufficiently, gave a short speech whose words he could not have recalled the moment they left his mouth.  Then, with trembling hands, he reached for the satin cloth that covered his masterpiece.  Time stood still.  There were gasps and ahhh's of pleasure, applause from the crowd as they lauded him the next "big thing".  None of it mattered.  The only reaction he witnessed flowed from the painting's subject, his heart's own love.  She turned up her face to gaze out from underneath her heavily painted lashes and froze completely; one hand lifted as though to bring the cigarette it bore towards her mouth.  She remained like that, frozen in time, the look on her face revealing her mind off in some far location. 

 People began to leave, and the staff began to clean.  He stood beside her, not too near, and took in his painting; attempting to slow the beating of his heart.  She said nothing at all to him before she left, not a single word.  She simply turned towards him, as though trying to return from a deep trance, and looked up into his face.  He was afraid.  Afraid that if he didn't find what he sought in her face then it would all be for nought; afraid that he would see what he didn't dare dream, afraid he couldn't handle it.  When she finally reached out a gloved hand and delicately touched his elbow, he gazed down at her.  The look of wonder in her eyes told of unimaginable depth and beauty.  Her lips were parted and turned up into the gentlest of smiles.  But the thing that really struck him, what carried him through many hard times that were to come, was the single tear rolling unapologetically down her perfect cheek.  He felt he should say something to solidify the moment, but as he opened his mouth to speak she reached out her hand, laid one leather-clad finger against his lips, and shook her head.  Quickly she winked at him, and then turned smartly and strode out of the room on her little click-clack heels, leaving him standing there; alone with his masterpiece.