In his airy loft-atelier, he is working on different things. Covering a board with plaster. Finishing a large charcoal and blue drawing of a woman. Sculpting a bow from maple wood.
"O!" he exclaims softly at hearing my voice on the other side of the grille. Of course he knows that I was coming, but he is a master at making surprise seem genuine.
And in that sound - that slow, elongated 'O' - is the theatrical standard to which the mood, the lilt of the conversation will now be set. Coupled with slow, careful movements, like those of a man far older than his thirty years, nothing about his presence is glaring or obvious, everything fits perfectly. I enjoy his performance. It makes me dream.
The fine-smelling wooden door gives with a creak and light bursts into my eyes. I see a strong nose, rough wolfish curls. The playful wolf.
If he touches me - my arm, the small of my back to guide me - his trace is barely felt but with enough of these tender collisions, I feel his almighty presence fill the room, taller than I remember, genteel, aloof.
"O!" he exclaims softly at hearing my voice on the other side of the grille. Of course he knows that I was coming, but he is a master at making surprise seem genuine.
And in that sound - that slow, elongated 'O' - is the theatrical standard to which the mood, the lilt of the conversation will now be set. Coupled with slow, careful movements, like those of a man far older than his thirty years, nothing about his presence is glaring or obvious, everything fits perfectly. I enjoy his performance. It makes me dream.
The fine-smelling wooden door gives with a creak and light bursts into my eyes. I see a strong nose, rough wolfish curls. The playful wolf.
If he touches me - my arm, the small of my back to guide me - his trace is barely felt but with enough of these tender collisions, I feel his almighty presence fill the room, taller than I remember, genteel, aloof.
An awkward laugh follows his eyes rising from the floor to mine: and just for a quick second, the daring look that sites prey, that says, mine.
He points at the drawing and he props me next to it as if we are dancing around his studio. He falls into a chair nearby, his cold amber eyes darting between me and the work, and he says, 'this is you .. isn't it?' leaning in to add more details to the drawing.
He points at the drawing and he props me next to it as if we are dancing around his studio. He falls into a chair nearby, his cold amber eyes darting between me and the work, and he says, 'this is you .. isn't it?' leaning in to add more details to the drawing.
I stand like there's a broom handle wedged down my back, an unlikely model. And as he draws, he laughs softly and I cannot be sure if he is joking or not. But some detail, some quality of his drawing resonates in me. Within it, there is a flicker of his adoration.
And he makes me feel adored, as if I'm the most vital thing that ever existed. His eyes gleam with disbelief as he now stares at me until I have to look away.
So he draws me with charcoal. My hair ends halfway down my back. He makes of me something of the past, drawing attention to the long white dress I wear, embroidered with tiny cream flowers that I had never really noticed. Now, I am from another time, in this atelier from another time, in the company of this man who is both lines and scents and imaginary.
Emboldened, I recklessly pick up a brush and try to act the artist, applying layers of plaster to the half-finished board, hoping he will admire my courage. But I apply too much plaster. The layers do not agree. Each crass intervention, passing from dare to damage control in a stroke, makes his exquisite work collapse into something low, tacky. I abandon the brush before he comes to inspect it.
He tells me things that I only dreamt of hearing. "You must want answers. I'll tell you everything. Whenever you want." He is a father now, giving me only the best. And though he doesn't offer all the answers I want in the end, he says, "living without you..." and lets the sentence hang. I see hurt on his face. "I lived without you, and it was difficult."
I am not free. I cannot be here, with him, bathing in this feeling of being his. As he nears me, making it seem incidental, a brush past my arm, a caress of my elbow, he is standing very close, his face more irregular and stranger than I remember but his eyes, the eyes that know me whole and who I am bound to without knowing why, they are the same. And as he nears my lips, I look away and say, "I can't." He begins to kiss me. And with a touch of his lips, my face becomes pale.
At my rejection, his kisses end and his sarcasm rises like kicked ash. Suddenly he has turned away, on his phone speaking Italian, maybe, probably to a girl, to tell her she is the one and how being without her is torture. And I stare and stare at the blue and back charcoal drawing, sensing the show. One with no exit.
And he makes me feel adored, as if I'm the most vital thing that ever existed. His eyes gleam with disbelief as he now stares at me until I have to look away.
So he draws me with charcoal. My hair ends halfway down my back. He makes of me something of the past, drawing attention to the long white dress I wear, embroidered with tiny cream flowers that I had never really noticed. Now, I am from another time, in this atelier from another time, in the company of this man who is both lines and scents and imaginary.
Emboldened, I recklessly pick up a brush and try to act the artist, applying layers of plaster to the half-finished board, hoping he will admire my courage. But I apply too much plaster. The layers do not agree. Each crass intervention, passing from dare to damage control in a stroke, makes his exquisite work collapse into something low, tacky. I abandon the brush before he comes to inspect it.
He tells me things that I only dreamt of hearing. "You must want answers. I'll tell you everything. Whenever you want." He is a father now, giving me only the best. And though he doesn't offer all the answers I want in the end, he says, "living without you..." and lets the sentence hang. I see hurt on his face. "I lived without you, and it was difficult."
I am not free. I cannot be here, with him, bathing in this feeling of being his. As he nears me, making it seem incidental, a brush past my arm, a caress of my elbow, he is standing very close, his face more irregular and stranger than I remember but his eyes, the eyes that know me whole and who I am bound to without knowing why, they are the same. And as he nears my lips, I look away and say, "I can't." He begins to kiss me. And with a touch of his lips, my face becomes pale.
At my rejection, his kisses end and his sarcasm rises like kicked ash. Suddenly he has turned away, on his phone speaking Italian, maybe, probably to a girl, to tell her she is the one and how being without her is torture. And I stare and stare at the blue and back charcoal drawing, sensing the show. One with no exit.
