“Well, seeing as so much is left,” she says, gesturing to the tables with jewelry and antique collectibles. “Go ahead, have a look around.” She watches as I peruse the items. I pick up an emerald ring that my mother would have loved and try it on, and then a stack of paintings catches my eye. I put the ring down and move over to the paintings, still feeling her gaze. She smiles when I turn around. “Can I offer you any tea? There’s also zucchini bread that I just took out of the oven.”
I blink back at her, no longer scared but still a bit disoriented.
“You look hungry. I’ll make you a plate.” Before I can decline, she disappears into the kitchen, leaving me standing there among all the piles of antiques and clothing.
A few minutes later the woman returns with a cute little floral plate and hot buttered zucchini bread, the smell of which makes my mouth water. I take a bite with the tiny fork.
“Are these yours?” I ask, gesturing to the paintings I’ve been browsing, but also trying to break the awkward tension from her staring.
“No, they are my husband’s. Ivan was an artist,” she explains as I eat. “Well, that’s not exactly it. He was a neurosurgeon at Mount Sinai, very talented, you see, but in his free time, what little of it he had, he loved to paint.” Her face softens. “I was so distracted, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Maude.”
I smile and hand her the plate. “Thanks for the zucchini bread, Maude—it’s wonderful—and his art, wow. This one is stunning.” I admire a seminude painting of a woman in her twenties, sitting on an antique velvet settee, draped in a silk robe. Her hair is long and dark, falling around her shoulders; her hands cover her breasts; and her blue eyes stare directly at the viewer as if challenging them, or seducing them. “Were you the model?”
She laughs, a dry sort of chuckle. “No, dear. That was one of his classmates. He always had pretty girls posing for him. Muses, he called them. She was his favorite.” I note the hint of jealousy in her tone.
“Oh.” I feel sorry for her and don’t want to pry, but she goes on.
“He insisted the models were an important part of the process. We were in our thirties. He was just gaining recognition, specializing in epilepsy. We had only been seeing one another for—ah, what was it? Six months—” She sighs.“Anyhow, what’s done is done.” She sets my plate down on the table and brushes her hands together. “Ivan passed away last year after a long battle with cancer.”
I look down, thinking of how painful it was to lose my mother. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She smiles. “Thank you. Well, these are his belongings. I need them out of the house.”
My shoulders relax, and after admiring some gold trinkets, an old watch, and a wooden birdhouse, I turn to a second stack of paintings. All contemporary designs, geometric patterns, studies, and abstract nudes. They are impressive, indeed. Contemporary and yet classic at the same time. In fact, they look like they could fit within Isabella’s gallery. “Was he featured in any collections?” I ask Maude.
“Oh, no,” she says, coming over to look at the paintings with me. “He was so shy about his art. Never showed a soul. I think he just liked spending time with these girls.”
I lift what looks to be a partially finished Impressionistic oil painting. It’s an abstract nude of a woman in water—the same woman, I realize, as the other painting.His muse.The same long, wavy brown hair, this time wet, the same pale, milky skin and light eyes. Her face is turned in profile, partially obscured by her wet hair, and her eyes are open, staring at the viewer as if teasing them. The underpainting—the first pass of what would later be painted over and become the final painting—is still visible. Charcoal lines peek through the translucent brown oxide that he used for the underpainting, yet he had begun to add a soft, powdery blue in the water and sky and a pale tone to her skin. I use a similar technique, which my mother taught me: Get the perspective and proportions right first, then go in with the color and shading.
Time seems to slow. I feel drawn to the painting, drawn to its subject. She is captivating, enchanting, otherworldly. Like Sorolla’s style, his brushstrokes are impatient yet filled with emotion, and she seems to be alive, caught in motion.
I can hear Isabella’s voice in my head:My buyers want something original.This piece is original. It is unlike any painting I have seen before. It blends my realistic style and the more abstract, contemporary approach that Isabella needs.
For the first time in days, I feel a thrill of excitement rattle through me. Perhaps this painting can bemymuse.
“It’s yours,” Maude says, startling me from over my shoulder. She is staring at me so intently that I take a step back.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t ... Let me give you something for it.” I reach for my purse for some cash.
“Please,” she says, pressing the cash back into my hands. “He has so many of these unfinished pieces. I would have thrown it out, and besides,” she says, with a cheeky smile, “I need to get this woman out of my house. She’s been haunting me since she and Ivan met.” Maude gives me a kind yet forlorn smile. “I’m glad to know that it will be appreciated by someone.”
3
In my studio, I set Ivan’s painting on an easel and stare at it from several different angles: near, far, low, high. I move it to a corner, away from my other pieces, into the sunlight. I’ve always had an active imagination, and when I paint, I can’t help but get obsessed with a subject, imagining her life, sketching her over and over until she is just right.
Who is this woman, Ivan’s muse? What was she going through? Was she a good person? Were they in love?
As I begin to work on a few figure studies in charcoal, I feel the tension leave my muscles, and soon I drop into another dimension. It’s like dancing to live music or kissing in the rain or making love for the first time. That near-euphoric feeling of being in my body, of being fully present.
I turn on my “Create” playlist and tear the page from my large sketch pad. Start again. My fingers grip tightly to the gritty charcoal, my eyes flicking back and forth from Ivan’s painting to my sketch pad as intuition takes over. Just the form: an oval here, a triangle there.
My heart beats calm and steady as confidence fills my pores. Once I am satisfied with the figure, I re-create it on a fresh canvas, then begin to shade in the shadows, filling with adrenaline as she comes to life. Twice the charcoal slips frommy hand, breaking down the middle, and I grab a fresh piece, grip the charcoal tighter.
I am alive in this state, buzzing with energy, and yet there is a growing guilt that I can’t ignore. This piece is deeply inspired by Ivan’s painting. Had it been a living artist, would I do the same thing? Is art not a subconscious reproduction of some combination of personal experience and all the movies, books, paintings, and plays that we have seen? Is this not the same? Or is it a step further?
Despite my attempts to convince myself that what I am doing is okay, I cannot tamp down the prick of guilt in my chest. My mother would tell me to put Ivan’s painting away. To create from a place of inspiration, yes, but to reference many pieces, not just one.
After grabbing my glass of water from the stool, I take a step back to review my work. It’s a decent start. With broad strokes, I apply the paint, carefully laying in brushstroke after brushstroke. I’m in the middle of adding shadows to her thigh when someone buzzes from the gate.
