Impasto
Impasto
I had been offered a commission to paint a little girl’s portrait—she was eight, possibly nine years old—and I did so while having toss-abouts with the child’s mother. Not at the same time, mind you; I’m not a cretino. Mrs Parker and I met at the Hotel Francesca in the East Village during school hours. She paid for the room; I brought the bug spray. Later, the girl, a dull composite of her parents named Nina met us via limousine, at my studio.
“I want to paint you.” I’ve expressed this desire to the mother on numerous occasions, frequently while nudo e spinto. (She inspired me.) It seemed her husband was the obstruction in the path to securing Mrs Parker’s resplendent image onto canvas for eternity.
“Ha! Fat chance, Freddy,” she’d say, when her mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied. “You might as well tell him we’re banging.”
“Is this such a crime?” I cried. “In Italy, you will… bang… who you want to bang when you wish to bang. Not such a big deal.” She tried to look back at me from her flipped and passive position. “Besides, I can run much faster than your little man.” She stuck her sumptuous tongue out at me, and I made her bite it.
I know what you are thinking: I’m an adulterer, a lecherous nincompoop, a cheating, two-timing, skirt-chasing scoundrel. I disagree with my flailing fist; I am not a nincompoop! I require this… stimulation… for the betterment of my work, just as you need a calculator or a frying pan or a driver’s license for your occupation. Mrs Parker will be my masterpiece, I know it. A rare beauty, a delight for the eyes, a diamante to behold and to hold in all her leggy and lurid lustfulness. I want to take her on a massive canvas with a gallon of crimson paint and the studio door left open for all the roofless cats to witness.
Mrs Parker was twice my age but had such exquisite features and a magnetic charm with an irresistible pull. I had found it impossible to decline her initial advances and accepted the commission with the forethought of a fruit fly. She had an elegance to her movements and spoken innuendos, yet they exuded such impurity as to be considered utterly obscene if you drew the right conclusions. Her husband was the polar opposite in appearance and style, a dumpy man six years her senior with the charisma of a bored shoe store employee… but he made a lot of money.
I purposefully extended the time to finish the child’s portrait more than was necessary. “What’s another week or two?” I told Mrs Parker; I wanted it to be perfetto. The girl was patient—I will give her that—sitting still enough for me to extract the glow from her cheek, snatch the flyaway wisps of her blonde hair, pinch the rounded chin, and plagiarize the stain of grape juice at the corner of her juvenile mouth. She sat with her stuffed rabbit, apparently an antidote for nervousness in my cavernous and musty studio.
Mrs Parker read her glossy magazines and made calls to her various associates, legs crossed at the knee, one silky heel exposed from the confines of a black velveteen pump. Every afternoon, after their departure, I covered the painting with burlap, tossed my brushes in brown turpentine, and relaxed in the shower while Mrs Parker’s errant perfume still had a grasp on my vitality.
After a month of brushwork with the daughter and carnal corruption with the mother, the painting neared completion, but I still required a few days for touch-ups and flourishes; the child’s presence was no longer necessary. Mrs Parker came to the studio to “check on the progress” but never had the aspiration to even glance at the canvas. We remained in my paint-splattered space until the end of the school day, brutishly utilizing an overstuffed sofa, the wooden floorboards covered in drop cloths, a pallet of boxed stretcher bars, and even the front window ledge if our senses were stifled enough by our mindless immorality.
“I want to paint you,” I repeated for the fiftieth time. She was lying naked on the sofa, eating an apple, and I sat on the floor at her feet, coloring her toenails with ultramarine blue acrylic paint (the only halfway decent purpose for that detestable medium). She frowned, but I took her arousing pout as a maybe, so I continued. “I won’t paint your pretty face, mi amor, only your neck and jawline and your collarbones and your sternum and the rest of this bella signora.” I used my hands to tangibly demonstrate the curves and hidden recesses and fleshy perfection I wanted to capture.
“You promise no one will know it’s me?”
I jumped up, threw her apple core into the trash, and retrieved my sketchbook. For the next hour, I posed her and sketched, then reposed her and resketched. Mrs Parker insisted she remain on the sofa during the process so she wouldn’t get achy joints. When the perfect composition arose, it was as if it gleamed with a golden aura and sang a triumphant aria. I ordered Mrs Parker to hold still, and I snapped a Polaroid to guide her in future sittings. I pulled out a previously treated three-foot by four-foot canvas and began the layering process. Another hour in, the image of a goddess began to appear, even if it was merely a rough outline with messy brushstrokes. Mrs Parker had fallen asleep by this time, so at 2:30 I woke her and gathered her clothing. By three o’clock, she had cleaned and dressed and refreshed herself into the respectable woman the rest of the city’s population knew her to be.
The child’s portrait was forgotten, covered, and left leaning against a wall in the shadow of a heating unit at the rear of my studio; the dust motes danced in the just-out-of-reach sunlight from the back windows before settling on the burlap shroud. The broader canvas, with her mother’s shameless nudity emerging by each minute, required my full attention for the next twenty days. Every weekday, Mrs Parker willingly practiced self-defense against my ruthless depravity. I succeeded in relinquishing every wanton craving she had hidden away in her domesticated mind, and, surprisingly, she found ways to reciprocate. And then I’d paint.
When the painting was completed, I signed it with Mrs Parker’s blood, taking the tip of a razor to her inner thigh and extracting only the required amount for the application of my surname in the bottom corner. She was thrilled with the outcome, even though I had indeed painted her face from the side. It was oscurare in shadow and bore little resemblance to the famous one most people knew. I also omitted the small tattoo on her ankle, a butterfly that presumably flitted from one flower to the next. We did our rightful duty and consummated the finished product right there in front of the painting. It was the final time our bodies were united, as she decided to discontinue our daily conferences without the alibi of a child’s portrait as a foundation.
I searched the reclaimed merchandise stores and the antique shops for an appropriate frame for the object that had initiated Mrs Parker’s and my temporary association. After framing and wiring the back, I wrapped Nina in butcher paper and sealed her with tape.
The next Saturday, I visited the Parker residence for delivery. A housekeeper named Valencia greeted me with skepticism, eyeing my disheveled appearance and bespotted cloak. She was a petite thing, with several strands of gray mingled with her chocolate hair. I told her she looked lovely; she asked me to wait outside. Mr Parker came to the door, invited me into his home, and asked me to unwrap his daughter’s portrait. He was quite enamored with it and requested I hang it on a wall adjacent to the grand piano. I did so as he gushed about the colors and the detail and the perfect likeness to the wretched child. I was presented with a wad of cash as settlement for my services.
“I’m sorry, señor, your wife has already paid me for the painting,” I explained, knowing full well everything but monetary currency had been exchanged between us. Mrs Parker entered the music room as I said this and verified my statement.
“Yes, dear. I’ve compensated the gentleman,” she said brightly with a formal manner I had forgotten she possessed. (Her designer top was brass-buttoned all the way up her slender neck.) “But you may tip the man for his hard work and tireless dedication to the task. He is quite talented.” And to me: “I’m sorry, what is your name again?”
And so it went. I was again handed the cash and escorted to the front door by Mr and Mrs Parker and their diligent housekeeper. I gave them instructions not to touch the paint, and I would apply a protective varnish in six months’ time. Goodbyes and thank-yous were exchanged, and Valencia held the door open as I exited.
“Good day, sir,” she said with what was possibly a knowing half-smile.
“Ciao ciao, mia cara. You are like a glowing lily of relentless beauty,” I said, perhaps laying it on a little too thick. I turned and saw the Parkers with locked arms, waving with their free hands. I walked around the massive block twice before returning to my van and driving back to my lair.
I hung Mrs Parker’s portrait, with all its sordid glory, on the wall above the sofa where she had posed and slept and sat cross-legged with her magazines, and where we performed countless acts of unspeakable turpitude. Mrs Parker and I never met in person again, but I occasionally saw her on the television at Bruno’s bar, next door to my studio. I silently asked Mr Parker for his forgiveness as I tossed his money into an old coffee can.
A week had passed when a letter arrived from Mrs Parker. It contained a brief handwritten note and a business card…
Hope all is well.
Thank you again for Nina’s portrait… and everything else!
I enjoyed our time together.
A friend of mine expressed a desire to have her daughter’s portrait
painted by you, so I’ve enclosed her information.
She is very eager to meet you!
Take care of yourself,
…and she signed it using the vulgar nickname I had given her on our second afternoon together. The enclosed business card displayed the embossed logo of a posh hotel in Manhattan, the woman’s name, her title, and various phone numbers. On the reverse was another number written in purple ink and a command:
Use this one.
I called the woman, a Mrs Porter, the next day, and we met for espresso and biscotti at a café on the third floor of her hotel. She showed me photographs of her dreadful offspring, and I felt the sole of her Fendi lambskin loafer press down on the top of my sneaker. Mrs Porter was as elegant as Mrs Parker, around the same age, and seemed to be much more physically fit, which was a plus for us both. She had brilliant blue eyes that created charming little crinkles when she smiled. I had my hand flat on the table, and she ran a finger back and forth across my knuckles. I agreed to paint the youngster, and she accepted my fee. She asked if she could tour my studio privately that same afternoon, and my toes were nearly crushed.
Mrs Porter gazed at the full-body portrait of the unclad Mrs Parker hanging above my overstuffed sofa. Despite being friends, I saw no hint of recognition; in fact, she didn’t even inquire about the identity of the model. She turned to face me and silently unbuttoned her silk blouse. The eye crinkles appeared.
“Do you mind?” she said as she dropped the blouse onto the arm of the sofa.
“You may do as you wish in here,” I said. The sunlight streamed in at a low angle, illuminating her calves. Her perfume transcended the stale air. I stepped toward her and rubbed her cheek with my open hand and firmly, but playfully, slapped her face.
“I see,” she said, and her skirt fell to her ankles. I put my thumb in her mouth as if she were a new, unstained palette, ready for me to apply my colors. She responded by sealing her lips around it, and she held it there, resting on her tongue. The sound of mischievous young boys on bicycles outside permeated our space; their carefree shouts of youth and energy echoed off the buildings until we heard them no more.
“Mrs Porter,” I said. “I want to paint you.”
