Tonight, he’d fill them with a model, one that had taken him several weeks to select. The face mattered, of course. The model’s dark beard would require some filling in. But he had that ready, as well as the wig.
But for this, the hands. The hands had to be elegant. Narrow, long-fingered, sensual. It was a shame the full-length had proven so difficult to display, even with a droid’s assistance.
Then again, the model display was only, in essence, an advertisement for the painting.
He turned back to the canvases.
He’d finish the first today. If that went well, and he knew it would, he’d work on the second. Most important to him to finish the first, to have that accomplishment before he brought the fourth model into his studio.
He chose his pigments, his oil, carefully mixed his paints. With his selections on his palette, brush in hand, he began. The painted eyes watched him as he worked. To his mind they looked on him with gratitude.
And in his mind, he heard her say: “I was nothing. I was no one. You’ve made me beautiful. You’ve made me worthy. You’ve made me immortal.”
“Yes,” he murmured as he carefully added a glimmer of white to the girl’s lips. “Yes, I have.” With the same white, he dabbed an accent on the pearl earring.
Switching brushes, he gave his attention and skill to the blue of the turban to bring out the folds, the shadows.
Then the gold, lighter, a bit lighter there along the shoulder, there against the white collar.
He felt himself glowing with his own brilliance, energized by his own commitment.
When he finally stepped back, tears burned at the back of his eyes.
“You’re magnificent. I created you. I gave you life, and a life that will never end.”
After dabbing at his eyes with the back of his hand, he cleaned his brushes. He paused only long enough to call for the droid to bring him a double espresso he’d use to down what he thought of as his energy pill.
He wanted the jolt to carry him through his work on the next.
As he drank, his ’link chirped. When he glanced at the display, he saw his mother’s name.
He could ignore it, but… Though he cast his eyes to the ceiling first, he answered. He could consider it a sign to decide between the island or the mountains for his winter retreat.
“Mommy! I was just thinking about you!”
He let her chat, laughed when he knew she expected it, inquired—also expected—about the rest of the family. And since he knew how to manipulate her, gradually wound the conversation around where he wanted.
“You timed this so well, Mommy. I was just taking a short break. My work is going beyond well. I’m working on a series of portraits, and there’s a great deal of interest in them already, Mommy. I’ve planned for a series of eight, and expect to be finished for my showing here in New York.”
“Darling! That’s wonderful!” Phoebe Harper’s eyes, deep and darkblue like her son’s, lit with pride. “Where’s your show? When? You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
“I’ll give you the details when it’s all set. You’ll be my date, so Dad will just have to stand aside.”
“Jonathan.” She laughed. “I’m so proud of you. Haven’t I always told you that you were meant for great things?”
He actually felt a little tug of sentiment. “You always did. You’ve always understood like no one else in the world.”
“I know how much this means to you, and how much you deserve it. You’ve never given up on your dream. And I’m happy, my darling, to see and hear you so happy. You look a little tired though.”
“The art, Mommy, it’s consuming, and at the same time, so freeing.”
“I hope you’re getting enough sleep. And taking time out for a break, for some self-care. You know Mommy worries.”
“When the series is finished, I’ll take some time. In fact, I could use a break after the showing. Maybe I could use the house in New Caledonia for a month or so this winter. Recharge, get out of the city. Paint without pressure, soak up some tropical breezes.”
“Of course you can. Whatever you want or need, you know that.”
“I do.”
