A Work of Art

A short story about an artist's muse and how he makes her feel.

He derives a certain pleasure from taking pictures of me.

I don’t usually let someone take my picture. I refused to go into modeling when the pressure was on, when I was fifteen. It wasn’t the sort of modeling you’d want to do anyway. It didn’t involve showing off the latest fashions and trends, and it certainly didn’t involve shiny hair and perfect skin. It had nothing to do with beauty and glamour. It was the opposite. I was a work of art, an unattractive vessel.

But things are different now. He likes to take pictures of me, famous photographer that he is. And so I let him. He doesn’t know that getting my picture taken is one of the most loathsome experiences of my life. But he enjoys taking my picture. It gives him pleasure, and his pleasure is my pleasure.

            Every night, after we make love, he reaches for his camera and takes pictures, telling me to pose this way and that. The poses are never vulgar. It’s just me, sprawled on the bed, naked. The flash of his large camera blinds me. Closing my eyes, I sigh deeply and imagine I’m a devastatingly beautiful woman. My hair is the color of sleek gold… or maybe red. What’s that word they use for orange-brown hair? Ah, yes, Titian. I’m a Titian-haired beauty; my eyes are an aquamarine blue; my face is reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe; my neck is long and graceful like Audrey Hepburn’s, my body a collection of long luscious curves like some modish ergonomic furniture design. I stop traffic whenever I walk down the street. 

            He thinks my contented sigh is for him.

            Doesn’t he know he shouldn’t make assumptions? Can’t he see past the surface? Aren’t pictures worth a thousand words? He should know better than to see things at face value. The man is a photographer, for goodness sake!

            Then it dawns on me. He does see past the surface. That’s what makes our relationship special. I see him and he sees me.

 

****

 

When I was a little girl, my mother drove me to Vermont during the apple harvest, to an orchard with plump apples, real apples, not the dried up ones found in supermarkets. The ones in Vermont, she said, were perfect for baking apple pies. The pies tasted better, and you got more pleasure from them.

“Eating is pleasure,” she said. “There is nothing more exquisite in life than food. There are too many delectable meals to waste even one. When you eat, you shouldn’t just bite and swallow. You savor it. Roll it around your tongue, and enjoy the sheer pleasure it brings you.”

            My mother wasn’t a chef or even a perfect cook. She just loved food. And so she did special things, like drive to Vermont during the apple harvest. Once home, together we baked apple pies, apple cobblers and apple tarts. And then we ate them.

And I ate again.

Then I ate some more.

No matter what I did, I simply couldn’t stop.  My mother didn’t know that, no matter what I ate, I was never full. 

            Food was pleasure, and my need for pleasure was insatiable.

 

****

 

He and I met on a beautiful autumn day in Boston. It was sunny and very windy, colorful leaves drifted through the air, casting an orange glow through the bright day. He carried a camera, a long lanyard hanging around his neck. I couldn’t help but notice that he was very handsome. Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair, brown eyes. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans. The second thing I noticed about him was that he seemed very comfortable in his own skin.

            “I’d like to take your photograph,” he said to me. “I don’t usually take this kind of photograph. I mean, not of people like you.”

            Not of people like me. “What do you mean by that?”

            “Well… you know.” He gestured toward my midriff and said nothing.

            “No, I don’t know. What do you mean, people like me?”

            He didn’t want to say. I pressed on. I knew what he would say, but I wanted to hear it. I needed to hear it. To me, hearing it is a form of punishment. It’s terrible to hear it, but it feels good. It’s good because it’s punishing. 

            He sighed, fidgeted a little. “What I meant with ‘like you’ is someone whose physical beautiful is not… you know.”

            “What?”

            He sighed. “Above average. Not even average at that. You’re… well, you know"”

            “Fat?”

            “Yeah.”

            We stared at each other. A cold breeze wafted through the air, enabling me to wrap my parka tighter around me. The man looked uncomfortable, almost shamefaced. I just stood there, digesting his words, measuring them, even appreciating them. 

            Moments later, a floating sensation coursed through me. My body felt numb, and only one emotion swept through it: self-hatred. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, but I didn’t have to. I gazed at him and he gazed at me, and he recognized me for what I was. I was self-hatred.

            He seemed to like it. His artistic side lived for things like this. So he photographed me.

 

****

 

“Look at me.”

            He pulls me back. To this night. To his bed. I watch him point his camera at me. A flurry of flashes soon follow. I smile at him through half-closed eyes and pretend to be a gorgeous model again.

            It is easier to pretend you’re someone else. It’s always better when you’re playing a part. 

            “You’re my best work of art,” he says. “The realest. The most vivid, the most naked. I love taking your photograph.”

            Then he puts down the camera and approaches me. Within moments, the brass bed creaks as he climbs into it. Before I could rise to him, he grabs my elbow and draws me against him. He kisses the back of my neck. The scents of masculinity and vanilla fill my head as he trails soft kisses from my neck to my collarbone, holding my spine to his chest.

            He steps back and looks at me, smiling.

            “I want to f**k you,” he says.

            “Okay.”

            Our lovemaking is full of the kind of violent passion that would terrify some people. But, to us, this kind of lovemaking is perfect. It’s almost an escape for both of us. When we make love, we don’t worry about roles and cameras and works of art. We think of our inner pain, our tortured pasts, and express them through our tumultuous encounter. For I know that he must feel pain. All human beings have felt pain at some point in their lives, and he is no different. But in case he’s never felt the sort of emotional pain that I’ve felt, I make sure that he feels it during our lovemaking. Physical pain is better than no pain at all.

            Afterwards, the sound of our heavy breathing fills the entire room. My head falls back into the pillow; his head lands on my chest. My fingers play with his hair, and I braze myself for what’s coming next.

            Smiling a lazy smile, he delivers a small kiss to my nose and clambers off the bed, padding naked toward the kitchen, almost stumbling on one of his shoes. I sit up in bed and wait.

Our bond is not one of emotion, or even mutual attraction, but of interest. We get something in return. He makes me feel desired, needed. He enjoys making me feel this way. He feeds on it, just like my mother used to feed on feeding me. Then he takes his photographs"one click after another, almost blinding me. This is what we do. This is what we are.

            He reemerges with a plate full of cheese, strawberries, cake and ladyfingers draped with honey. Towering above me, he slathers a piece of vanilla cake with honey, and instead of handing it to me, he holds it to my mouth. I bite into it and close my eyes, savoring its sweetness.

            Suddenly the sharp light of a camera flashes at me.

            “That’s it,” he says. “Perfect. Beauty is found even where there’s none to be found.”

            I eat the ladyfingers as he continues to photograph me. I reach for another ladyfinger, only to find they are gone. The plate is useless and empty, like my heart. I have eaten it all.

            “You are fabulous, darling,” he says, flashing his camera at me. “You’re a work of art.”           

            A small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. 

            “Your ugliness is a true beauty. A work of art.”

“A work of art,” I say.

Reviews

[CaptiveRaven]

This was very interesting, it called to me in way that connected with my own self-hate. I can feel the pain of what your main character feels as if it leaks out of the writing. I really enjoyed it as it was. The little detail given in what their "love making" actually was left it open to the reader as a place to put their own experience or the imagination into the story. Well written and connectable. Thank you for sharing your writing.

[WithinTheHeart]

You paint such a vivid picture in this piece.
Spoken beauty ; forced beauty ...upon layers and layers of pain. Self loathing.
Your words flowed so beautifully. I didn't want the story to end. I wanted to hear of the transformation- of mind, body and soul. Yet, that isn't always reality.
My heart hurt for her. The way her mind processed things. The way her mother made food to be the ultimate love. The way she allowed this man to treat her.
A very emotional piece.

You are very talented.
Brilliant work.