She laughed, and one of her ruffled sleeves fell over her shoulder. She reached to pull it up, while she placed her other elbow on the arm of the settee.
“Don’t move,” he quickly instructed her. She was still in profile as she had been the last time he had sketched her, but now her chest was precariously revealed. She could feel the tension between her body pushing forth from the dress and the contrast of her tight skirt and her cloudlike sleeves.
“Charles will want it to be inspired... ,” she whispered, afraid to let go of the pose.
“Charles will be delighted,” he insisted. She could hear the rapid application of paint. The swirl of his brush. The energy that erupted between his imagination and his mind.
The heat inside her was unbearable. “I feel like I’m coming out of my dress. The only thing keeping me in place is my bodice and the corset beneath.”
“Such tension is a good thing... ,” he said, a brush gripped between his teeth. “There cannot be pleasure, without knowing the sensation of pain.”
She knew this all too well in her own life. A woman of the demimonde, the half-world. Caught between beauty and darkness. In some ways trapped, but in other ways completely free.
22.
Marthe
Paris 1898
He painted the first brushstrokes using a neutral shade of gray. He began with the top of her head, painting the outline of her profile, the sharp line of her nose, the edge of her lips, and the soft curve of her chin.
His brush was no longer just an extension of his hand, but also his mind and his imagination. He had fallen into the dreamlike state of painting—his own private séance with the canvas and the paint.
He drew the length of her neck, the expanse of her broad shoulders. He painted in a few feather-like strokes to suggest where he would later create her voluminous sleeves. In long, quick gestures he articulated the elegant, slim length of her arm that rested on the side of the love seat, her tapered fingers opening like a fan.
He applied these first brushstrokes with a robust energy, solely to capture the curve of her body. Even though he had yet to apply the colors that would come later—the pink of her dress, the flush ofher skin, the opalescent pearls glimmering around her neck—the rough outline of Marthe’s portrait captured her essence. She appeared swanlike, with one bared shoulder and a plunging neckline that revealed her full breasts. The pose was not so much a statement as it was an invitation to touch her, caress her. To feel the heat that Boldini would create when he began to actually paint her skin.
23.
Solange
November 1939
What I learned from Alex during my last visit with him was that his family’s apartment was not above their shop on the Rue des Écouffes as I expected, but actually in the sixteenth arrondissement.
“Like many of the Jewish middle class, we’ve since moved out of the Marais,” he told me. “It’s just too crowded now with families like Solomon’s who’ve just arrived. Belleville is the same...” He looked into her eyes realizing that she was probably unfamiliar with the changes the community had undergone in the past few years. “But we’ve kept the shop there. The rent is inexpensive, and for our wealthier clients, we take the books to their homes so they can view them privately.
“It’s a bit inconvenient to meet near us, but perhaps we could find a place in between. Do you know the Café Saint Georges? It’s acrossfrom the old Adolphe Thiers estate. It might be a good meeting place since it’s not far from your grandmother’s.”
“The one with the large red awning?” I asked. I was certain I had passed it on occasion. “Doesn’t it look right onto the square?”
“Exactly.” He smiled.
Just before I left the store, he gathered enough courage to ask me if I might meet him at the café.
“Perhaps next time you visit your grandmother, we could meet for a coffee before I go to work...” I felt his hand graze lightly over the sleeve of my coat. Even through the cloth, his touch penetrated into my skin. I shivered, as if he had nearly ignited something inside.
“I would like that... very much.” I could feel my face becoming flushed. “I plan to visit her on Wednesday. Finally I’m learning about the artist who painted her. I’ve been waiting for months to hear the details.”
He laughed. “The Picture of Dorian Gray...”
I smiled. “I think Oscar Wilde would have been deeply amused by my grandmother. She’s certainly witty enough to have entertained him.”
“In all matters but love...”
“Yes, I fear he would have preferred you in that regard,” I teased.
“Well, Solange, I look forward to Wednesday.” He walked me out the door.
