Was I the only one who saw this ridiculously expensive abstract painting that way?
I almost blushed as I stood gazing at it. A beautiful, long flower, open on the canvas. Oil paints in pinks and reds, whites and blues you only understood if you stood close.
Yes, it just had to be.
I was staring into, getting lost in, the abyss of a woman’s pussy.
I leant forward to study the brush strokes, envious of the artist’s skill. If only I was brave enough to paint with such freedom of expression, such exacting care for the placement of paint.
‘Beautiful, isn’t she.’
It wasn’t a question.
I turned to see a tall, slim woman, the gallery owner. She looked at the painting alongside me.
Did I imagine she’d been gazing at me before she spoke?
She was the type of woman men desired and women misunderstood or desired for themselves. Tall, model tall, slim but not skinny, breasts held neatly in a bustier beneath a dinner jacket. Neon pink skinny jeans and flat black pumps finished the look. She looked down at me, held out her hand, and waited for me to place mine in hers.
We held rather than shook hands.
‘Macey… and you are?’
‘Scarlett, I’m an art student.’
Why I felt the need to share that piece of information, I do not know, but the woman had me flustered.
‘Hello Scarlett, do you love this work?’
‘Oh yes, I’m so envious of the brushwork. I’m trying to work out the subject matter, though.’
‘I can help you there. This is my husband’s gallery, or should I say, ex-husband. I was his muse. He painted me into all his works. He saw me in different ways.’
‘Wow, so this really is a… your… em… a… wow!’
I laughed as she smiled down at me.
Her eyes showed kindness, nothing more.
‘Yes, indeed, it is. My em… not sure it deserves a wow. Other than for my genius ex’s brushwork.’
‘Can I ask, if he’s your ex, why are you here? Aren’t you embarrassed? Isn’t it awkward?’
‘Not at all. He’s a genius. It honoured me to be his subject. He has treated me well. He doesn’t value money, has more than he could ever spend, and he’s ensured I’m secure for life. I’ll always love him, but we are no longer inspirational to each other.’
At that moment a woman swept towards us, a vision of huge blonde curls and 1970s hippy vibes. She put her arm around Macey, kissed her passionately on the lips, then asked to be introduced to me.
‘This is Scarlett, a student of art.’
The intimate formality raged to flush my cheeks.
‘Hello Scarlett, don’t you just love my lover’s lips?’
I wasn’t sure if she meant the ones she’d just kissed or those on the six-foot high canvas on the wall in front of us. Stayed mouth-open as I blushed deeper.
Macey apologised on her lover’s behalf. Explained her lover was also her ex-husband’s agent. I guess the art world is still full of rich bohemians.
‘Macey darling, bring her with you. We need to see him. He’s called me. He needs inspiration.’
I stopped in my tracks.
Did she just suggest I could meet him, the artist, the genius I’d been studying all year?
I didn’t have time to think about it. Macey grabbed my hand, trotted after her lover and entered the back office of the gallery.
We walked straight through to a private lift and squeezed in. The buttons showed it only went to three floors. G, Studio, Roof. I gazed at the red button that shouted ‘Studio’ at me and waited to wake up.
I had scrimped and saved for months to afford a ticket for the opening, and now I was in a lift possibly going to meet the millionaire reclusive artist himself.
What the hell would I say? What would I do?
Macey squeezed my hand as if she had read my mind. She held my fingers tangled in hers as the lift pinged and I felt her pull me out onto a white corridor.
Just one door halfway along. She pushed it open and a blaze of colour assaulted my eyes.
I’d never seen videos of this artist’s studio, but if I had, and I could have described what I thought it would be, well, this was it.
It had vast walls hung with canvases, paint cans stood in random spots around the floor and walls. A large easel held a work in progress, a pencil drawing of a foot. I stopped in my tracks.
Saw him. The man. The icon.
He held a brush in his hand, his hair speckled with dots of paint. His feet bare as he stepped forward to meet us.
Macey kissed him on both cheeks. Her lover walked to a desk and started sorting out some paperwork. He didn’t even look at me.
He walked back to the easel, mid-creation. A model lay on a sofa, fully clothed other than her barefoot that hung over the sofa edge. I recognised it as the one he had drawn on the canvas.
‘Darling, you need to find me inspiration. This isn’t working.’
He took the most beautiful drawing of a foot I’ve seen since Da Vinci or Michelangelo and ripped it into heart-rending pieces. He threw them in a large black bin, already overflowing with artist’s debris.
I could have cried. It was such a carefully studied piece, and he had just ripped it to shreds.
Macey told the model to leave.
She carelessly, quietly, pulled on huge work boots, then left.
I stood there, not quite knowing what to do. I felt completely out of place. Beauty stood all around. The most talented artist in the world stood just feet from me. I felt like a schoolgirl with frumpy clothes and a lack of artistic vision.
‘I know what you need, you need another me! Another muse. I know who that is!’
Macey yelped.
‘Please, don’t torment me. I wish you were still my muse, but once it’s gone, it’s gone.’
‘I know, darling, but we had our time.’
Macey walked to me, pulled me forward, and introduced me to him. He didn’t look my way, just threw out a vague greeting, then pondered the paper he was pinning to the easel.
‘Look at her!’