![\"Picasso](\"https:\/\/marksaywriter.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/07\/Picasso-woman.jpg\")
<\/a>\u201cNot long,\u201d I promised. \u201cA few more strokes of the brush, a little more detail, and we\u2019ll be finished.<\/p>\n\u201cTake your time,\u201d she said. \u201cYou\u2019re paying me for the full day.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo I am. Maybe we can make use of the remaining time in another way.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t get any ideas. You\u2019re paying me for this today, not the other.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if we arrange the other as well? For a discount?\u201d<\/p>\n
She twisted her lip, at first a faint scowl, then a smile. I knew I would get the discount and smiled to myself. She was also a good whore.<\/p>\n
I thickened one of the lines on the forehead, added extra streaks of yellow to the hair, a touch more pink to the lower lip. I was nearly there but felt it needed something else. I placed the brush on the palette, stood back, stared at Claudine, then back at the painting. The idea came, a dab of red in the larger of the eyes, a tiny distortion, a little dash of fire. Then I stared at it for a full ten minutes. Claudine was silent. I felt the glow inside me; my inspiration was fulfilled.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s done. You can stand.\u201d<\/p>\n
Claudine stood, stretched and pushed her loose breast back into her dress.<\/p>\n
\u201cHappy?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cVery happy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCan I see?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot yet. You know my rule. I like to give it a day before I let anyone else see.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIn case the doubts creep in.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd it needs more work. Or I decide to destroy it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou had better not destroy that. Not after I sat there with my tit out for two days.\u201d<\/p>\n
She took a step towards me. I picked up the easel, carried it away and placed it facing the wall.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you come back tomorrow evening you can see.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll be working tomorrow evening.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo we\u2019ll arrange another time.\u201d<\/p>\n
I steered her towards the coat stand at the other end of the studio.<\/p>\n
\u201cNow just give me five minutes to clean my brushes, and then we\u2019ll go down to Bertrand\u2019s and have a drink to celebrate our good work.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re buying I hope.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course, but we can also talk about that discount.\u201d<\/p>\n
A couple of hours later we lay naked on my bed, smoking the last of my cigarettes. A radio played in a room across the alley, wafting the voice of a female chanteuse through open windows. Claudine was still curious.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou spent a lot of time on that painting of me. I mean, a lot of time without actually doing anything, just standing back and staring.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt needed a lot of thought. I\u2019m trying something new.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you mean? A picture\u2019s a picture.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere are different ways of seeing a person when you paint a portrait, and different ways of conveying what you see.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo what did you see with me?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at her. She was bright for a whore, but she wouldn\u2019t understand what I was getting at with the portrait. I realised that had influenced the way I had painted her, and decided immediately that I was happy with the work. I was going to ask the gallery to include it in my show. I smiled to myself. Then I had another idea.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you want to come to a small party?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t do that kind of work, not where any old fart can fondle me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t mean that kind of party, and it wouldn\u2019t be work. A private gallery is going to show some of my paintings, and it\u2019s holding a reception for the opening. A week on Thursday.\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked at me as if wondering if I was making fun of her.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m serious,\u201d I said. \u201cI won\u2019t pay you, so regard it as a night off, drinking some wine and meeting some interesting people. If the gallery owner has done his job that should include some wealthy, interesting people.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you mean as your \u2026. what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, not as my escort for the evening \u2013 I won\u2019t have one \u2013 but as the model for one of the paintings. And as a friend.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you sure?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sure.\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked pleased.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The room was busy. A few of the usual characters were around, always on for a free drink and the chance of a worthwhile meeting, and a group of my friends were doing their bit to fill the room; but there were also men in good suits and women in couture hats with expensive jewellery. I had a chance of making money from this crowd.<\/p>\n
I was talking with a couple who had a Bugatti in the street, an apartment near the Tuilleries and a house in Nice. I knew they had bought from Picasso and was feeling encouraged by the woman\u2019s praise of my work. I was expressing my gratitude when Claudine entered the gallery. She was smartly dressed, wore just a little mascara and make-up, and looked as if she could have been the girlfriend of any of the single young men in the room. She saw me and I gestured to her to join us. I introduced her to the couple as a neighbour who was interested in my work \u2013 not a big lie as she lived just three streets away \u2013 and brought her a glass of wine. I was confident that she could handle some small talk, but caught the eyes of two friends and glanced towards her. One had met her before, and had agreed to entertain her while I chatted with potential buyers. We spent five minutes talking with the couple before I decided it was time to move her on.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo where\u2019s the picture?\u201d<\/p>\n
I had briefly forgotten why she was there. I asked the couple to excuse us and led her to the spot where the portrait hung. It was striking: the figure was recognisably female by the length of its hair and the nipple on the triangle that hung from its chest, but it played havoc with the usual perceptions of feminine beauty. I had misaligned the mouth and chin, thickened the lower lip to one side, removed a couple of teeth to the other, broken the nose, reduced one eye to a defensive squint, enlarged the other into an explosion of white and blue with that dab of angry red at its centre. Thick streaks suggested distorted cheekbones and the visible ear hung low and tilted upwards towards the large eye. I was more pleased with it than ever. I head Claudine speak in little more than a whisper.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s me?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at her. She obviously failed to understand.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s a redefinition of femininity for a disturbed age,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou painted that while you were looking at me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou provided the starting point. But it\u2019s an expression of something wider. Think of the troubles in our country, in Germany, in Spain; it reflects the dangers of our times.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut you\u2019ve told everyone it was me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve mentioned that you were the model.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd now everyone here has seen it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course, and I believe that most of them have been greatly impressed.\u201d<\/p>\n
She kept staring at the portrait. I decided that she needed some time to appreciate its appeal. One of my friends appeared at our side. He seemed to understand what was happening and led her back to his company. I resumed my mingling.<\/p>\n
Everything went well over the next hour. Three of the guests bought paintings at the asking price, two put in bids, and others said they would return for a second look. I had money on the way, and the gallery owner was pleased. A couple of times I glanced towards Claudine and saw her still attached to my friends\u2019 group, talking and drinking the wine. It was on the third look that I noticed she had drifted away and was standing alone in the middle of the room, staring at the portrait. I wondered if I should speak to her but the gallery owner took my arm and pointed out a man in a bowler who was leaving.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s Tresor,\u201d he told me.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe critic? Why didn\u2019t you tell me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe doesn\u2019t like to meet the artists, says it helps his objectivity, but he was impressed. He especially liked the portrait of your friend.\u201d<\/p>\n
That was the best of the evening. A favourable review from Tresor could launch a career, attract buyers with serious money. I was happy. Then I noticed that Claudine was coming towards me, and that she held a wine bottle at her side.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou still telling everyone that\u2019s me?\u201d<\/p>\n
Her words were slurred. My friends had let her have too much of the wine. I realised that the occasion, and the radical nature of my vision, was a lot for her to handle. I smiled and spoke quietly.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know it\u2019s very radical, but it\u2019s had a marvelous reception. The man who just left is an important critic. He expressed his approval.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf what you did to me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf the whole show, including the portrait.\u201d<\/p>\n
We looked into each other\u2019s eyes and for a moment I thought she was going to cry. Then she swung the wine bottle into my face. It struck me hard on the chin. I collapsed. My head rattled, I felt something on my chest and as my vision cleared I realised she was kneeling on top of me, the bottle still in one piece and above her head.<\/p>\n
\u201cBASTARD!\u201d<\/p>\n
It crashed onto the bridge of my nose. I was vaguely aware of a third blow smashing my cheek, then I passed out.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Dinner time. Another dish of mushy bread in soup; my jaw still hasn\u2019t healed and, with half of my teeth gone it\u2019s all I can manage for now, that or porridge. I place it on table, give it a little stir and try a mouthful. Too hot; my gums are sensitive between the teeth that are still in place. It will have to stand for a few minutes.<\/p>\n
I rise from the table and walk to the window. Sometimes it\u2019s interesting to stand here and look down, the monster hiding from the passing world, fearing he will scare those who do not know him. The light is fading and it\u2019s raining, so there\u2019s little to see. I feel a chill, decide that I should put on a jersey for the evening and go to the bedroom. I can\u2019t avoid the mirror on the cupboard. It\u2019s there to taunt me every time I enter the room and as soon as I rise in the morning. I have tried to cover it, but the blanket kept slipping off. So as I get the jersey I can\u2019t avoid seeing myself, and once again I\u2019m struck by the transformation.<\/p>\n
No longer a handsome young man. My chin is twisted, my nose bent at a sharp angle, my lower lip badly scarred and half of my teeth are gone. There are two more scars across my left cheek and forehead, ripped by the wine bottle after it shattered, the right cheek is sunken and the left eye closed, permanently, from the last splinters of glass. I don\u2019t look human.<\/p>\n
Claudine did to me what I did to her; she had redefined the artist for a disturbed age. For the first time I smile. She did a good job of it.<\/p>\n