It was either a matter of quality decline, or perhaps my standards had changed. Art is nothing without a muse. If I couldn’t find another one soon, I might lose my touch. Or worse, I might turn to something else to find what I was looking for.
“Is this one good?” Kostya asked.
“No.”
“Really?”
“The left side of her face is too strong compared to the right. Her nose curves slightly to the left, and her lips are asymmetrical.” I moved around the table carefully. “She is too lean, and she is also too dead.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you usecorpsesas still-life subjects, Arkasha. They will look dead.”
I looked up so quickly that Kostya physically flinched. I didn’t need to say another word.
“You reallyarein a bad mood.” He pulled the sheet back over the corpse. “Not even the warmth of your own woman could thaw your stone heart?”
“Do not speak of my wife.”
Kostya glared, moving back to his desk. “You know, I’m breaking a lot of rules just by showing you bodies for your little art studies.”
I sighed and leaned against the table. “I know.”
“You should be nicer to me,” he grumbled, “and the corpses.”
“They are dead, Kostya.”
“It’s about respecting the deceased.”
“What is more respectful than memorializing them as art?” I raised a brow, pulling a cigarette from my pocket and flicking the wheel of my lighter.
Kostya glared at the sound of the light. “Not all art is respectful.”
I shrugged.
“Why not ask Petronille to pose for you?”
I didn’t answer, instead pulling a long drag from the cigarette.
“Hm.It seems your art is not respectable enough for her, then?”
“That’s not true.”
“Then why do you do this?”
“Performance anxiety. Old habit.” I shrugged, moving toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Studio.” I stamped my cigarette out on the concrete floor. “I need to finish something.”
Chapter Eleven
The Performer
At the age of twenty-four, I found myself feeling more girl-like than ever before. There I was, standing before the massive doors of the studio with a basket of fruit. I’d thought it was a good idea before I realized how mortifying it would be to present it to him as a gift.
The concrete was dull against the silk of my shoes, dust accumulating against my cream underskirt. I shouldn’t have worn something so light. My shoes hurt my feet from insisting on walking most of the way here. Some say sporadicity shows you care, that you’d abandon your routine for something important. So why did it feel so absurd?
I’d imagined my visit would be cheeky, but now I realized it might be completely ridiculous. It was too late, I was here already.
