Fugitive Colors, page 4
“Julian is new to my antics, so everything I do is highly original.” Felix turned to Julian. “I once painted an entire wall of my governess’s room with fat naked ladies on her day off. My father, of course, was livid. I tried to explain that I was merely copying the Botticelli hanging in the library. The servants loved it.” Patting the wall like an old friend, he said, “A wall, Julian, is a splendid medium to release pent-up energy. You will never do a wall at the Beaux-Arts. Any objection?”
Julian shook his head, unable to take his eyes off the van Gogh. He wanted to touch it.
“Good. Now grab the paints over there. The brushes are drying on the rack in the kitchen. Would you mind?”
As Julian walked toward the kitchen, Felix playfully flung a balled-up sweater at the back of his head. It nipped him, but Julian did not turn around.
“Nice reflexes,” Felix teased when Julian returned with the brushes.
René ground out his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray on the floor. Julian noticed that several butts were stained with pink lipstick. He wondered if they had belonged to Adrienne. Stretching his arms, René walked across the room and turned on the radio, which was playing Verdi’s Nabucco. René’s eyes met Felix’s, and they locked.
It was strange, Julian thought uncomfortably, the intense way they were looking at each other. He wondered if he should leave. Then, as if someone had given René and Felix their cue, they removed their shirts and turned together toward the bare wall. Julian pushed some magazines off the couch and sat down to observe.
René landed the first stroke. This caught Julian off guard. He assumed that Felix, who had been boasting all evening, would claim his stake as the leader. But Felix stood back and waited.
René began to caress the wall with midnight blue pigment, lightly dragging his brush across the white plaster, creating an undulated effect. He added in light dabs of orange, and the texture changed completely. Julian had never seen anything like it. As the music picked up, René’s body began to twist as he painted. He swept from left to right, blending in various shades of yellow, green, and red into the blue. Each stroke, each poetic movement, was mesmerizing. Julian felt dizzy.
He did not know where to focus first: René’s hands, his chest, the shuffle of his bare feet, or the wall itself. He settled on René’s face. His full lips were parted, his breath was heavy, his eyes opened and closed rapidly as if surprised. His neck muscles seemed to be bursting through his skin. René looked at once monstrous and inhumanly handsome. He did not paint. He was the paint.
Julian tore his gaze from René and turned to Felix. Tiny bubbles of moisture had gathered at Felix’s temples, and his lips were pursed so tightly that they had all but disappeared. Felix seemed daunted by René as well. But there was something else, something Julian could not put his finger on. He did not really know Felix, except that his moods, his expressions, his drink, seemed to change by the second.
“How does this work?” Julian asked Felix, wanting to know exactly when he was supposed to join them. But Felix feigned deafness, firmly concentrating on René’s brushstroke. As far as Felix was concerned, Julian was invisible.
Felix finally walked toward the wall with his brush thrust forward like a tomahawk. It was his turn now. Julian leaned forward with great expectation. Let’s see what this guy can do.
Felix’s gaze never deviated from René as he painted. Only he was not painting, Julian realized. He was copying René. Felix’s strokes were surprisingly timid and awkward. And René, oblivious or used to being imitated, pranced around Felix. It was a dance of sorts. Julian was baffled by their role reversal. He grabbed an uncorked bottle of Bordeaux from the floor and swigged hard. The music was swirling around him. He closed his eyes, feeling his body sway to the rhythm.
Opening his eyes, hours or perhaps minutes later, he glanced over at the wall. René and Felix were now intertwined, painting over and under one another. Julian gulped down the rest of his drink, which no longer had a taste, just wetness.
Suddenly, it didn’t matter—none of it—except for the burning inside him. He knew he should stop the drinking now and leave this place while he could still stand. He rose from the couch, willing his body toward the door. Instead, he ripped off his own shirt and flexed his fingers. He had waited long enough for the invitation that had not come. They had invited him here to paint, but what they really wanted was an audience. To hell with them both, Julian thought. It was time to crash the party.
When Julian approached, they both stopped painting briefly to admire the image of the woman on the wall.
“She’s ugly as sin, isn’t she?” René pointed to the mural.
“I wouldn’t sleep with her,” Felix said.
“You’d sleep with anyone.” René laughed as he waved his brush.
“What do you say Julian tries his hand at fashioning our duckling into a swan?”
“That’s much too easy.” Felix turned to Julian. “The object is you cannot recreate what we have already done. You have to work around it. Remember, it’s not a baseball field, Julian. Think you can handle it?”
Julian wanted to tell Felix that he had been watching him mimic every stroke of René’s, but he held back because he wanted to paint, had to paint, with them. Without responding, Julian took the brush and the palette that René offered him and began to work.
A streak of daylight seeped through the window, landing next to Julian on the floor. Staring at it with half-closed eyes, he reached out to touch the slim golden ray.
“You’re not going to the École des Beaux-Arts,” René declared sleepily from his corner of the hardwood floor. “What you don’t need is more theory, Julian. You need freedom to paint—to feel, not to be muzzled by lectures and useless technique. Join our studio.”
Julian traced the sunbeam distractedly.
“You’ll move in with me,” Felix announced as he struggled to sit up. His voice was heavy. Even from across the room, Julian could smell the Bordeaux on his breath, like rotting grapes.
“I don’t have the kind of money—”
“I have plenty to spare,” Felix said, as he reached for a cigarette, and then threw the pack to René. “I don’t like to talk about it, because I detest my family’s ridiculous obsession with titles, but my father is a baron. My grandfather was a count, and the list goes on. I may live like a bum, but my blood is fucking blue.”
Julian began to perspire. He looked at his wristwatch, and then at Felix. His first class started an hour ago. “I couldn’t possibly touch your money.”
“With your ability, I would be honored to have your hands all over it,” Felix said.
“I couldn’t,” Julian said slowly, not convincing either of them.
“Von Bredows don’t beg. Move in,” Felix insisted. “And I’ll even clean off the couch.”
“He doesn’t do that for anyone,” René affirmed with a half smile. “Now you have no choice but to stay.”
Julian gazed at the fiery brushstrokes covering the wall. A woman’s enormous face stood out from the muted background like a full moon. Her lush mouth was painted every shade but red. From one angle, her features were contorted, jaundiced, and she appeared to be crying. From another angle—the one he had painted—she was blushing, crimson and joyous. Julian felt the sensual movement of her drying lips and smelled the vibrant hues of yellow and orange gleaming from her sun-streaked hair. Her slim body seemed to writhe before him as if she were still under his fingertips.
He, like René, had become the paint, the brush, and the wall. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before, and he realized that it would likely never happen again if he went to the École des Beaux-Arts. He would come out with more baseball fields—or worse, fruit bowls.
“Yes,” Julian whispered, as he watched Felix sweep debris off the couch and onto the floor. “I’ll stay.”
Chapter Three
Léon Dubois’s studio was located in the heart of the Latin Quarter above a small bakery, and Julian could smell the aroma of fresh bread through the walls as he painted. The studio, which also doubled as Dubois’s home, was ornate, with two large floor-to-ceiling windows and exotic plants scattered throughout the room. The walls were painted a shimmering aquamarine, the ceiling was coral, and the antique furniture was upholstered with various patterns of green. Nothing matched, yet somehow everything blended brilliantly. Dubois boasted that nothing in life was black or white, except, Julian quickly learned after a few months in his studio, his attitude toward his students.
Dubois played favorites. It was a perverse little game. René was his pet student, followed by Adrienne. Dubois seemed indifferent about Julian, neither criticizing nor complimenting his work. Felix, on the other hand, could do nothing right, and Dubois seemed to relish letting Felix know it. And today was no different as he stood over Felix’s shoulder with a pointer, rapidly tapping his unfinished painting.
“This is amateur, imitation!” Dubois’s mood was particularly foul. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Felix, I don’t want to visualize the sea. I want to smell it. I want to feel the heaviness of the waves, the texture of water. Use color and contour.” Five taps. “This is a postcard, not a painting.”
“But it is my interpretation,” Felix said meekly, using his body to conceal his canvas from the others.
“Interpret all you want, but not like a child,” Dubois countered. “Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, the greatest German Expressionist, did not allow his emotions to knock his brush from his hand. Look at René’s canvas. The strokes are natural, not contrived. You can practically taste the salt in the water. That is why he is exhibiting at Charles Ferrat’s gallery next month.”
Julian glanced quickly at René and Adrienne. They nodded back. Brutal.
Felix squeezed his brush so hard that the wood cracked. The sound was faint but audible. Aware that everyone was watching him, he released the brush just before it broke.
“Get to work!” Dubois shouted when he noticed that the other students had stopped painting. He straightened his coat and tugged at the drooping end of his reddish-gray beard, jiggling his excess chin in the process. Julian could not help but think how much he resembled a walrus. He laughed to himself until Dubois met his gaze angrily.
“You, Klein, are fortunate even to be here.” Dubois’s heavily hooded pale-blue eyes narrowed in. “Stop gaping and paint, damn it.”
Dubois left Julian, sauntered over to Adrienne, and glanced down at her canvas. “Interesting. Now go and get Charlotte. Tell her we are ready.”
Adrienne glared at Dubois, and Julian could tell by the way her shoulders tightened that “interesting” didn’t quite cut it. She then proceeded toward the studio’s small adjoining dressing room and emerged with Charlotte, the new model, by her side. Felix and René exchanged looks. Charlotte was beautiful.
The model, holding her head high, advanced slowly toward the podium. The slightly tattered hem of her peach silk robe skimmed the floor. Julian watched Dubois, who was moving toward her almost hypnotically from the back of the class. He seemed to light up as she walked by. It was the first time Julian had ever seen a sign of life in his instructor, and it was almost embarrassing to watch. The guy was so old, and she was so young. The girl paused momentarily in front of Dubois, and then she smiled as if no one else existed.
“Lucky bastard,” Felix whispered to Julian as Charlotte stepped up to the podium and dropped her robe. “He’s sleeping with her.”
“Clearly.” Julian nodded as he closely studied the model. Her golden hair was pulled back into a tight chignon, emphasizing the perfect lines of her oval face, high cheekbones, and full lips. Her breasts, round and ample, were tipped with dark pink nipples. With only his eyes moving, Julian followed the smooth line of her torso, leading to a blonde triangle. She was physically perfect, but something was missing, he decided. It was in her eyes. They were clear and blue, but vacant, lacking warmth and vibrancy. Somehow he would have to convey that flaw on canvas.
Dubois was now circling the model, stopping behind her. He reached for her right breast and lifted it with his hand. He then took her free arm and placed her palm over her forehead. Pleased with the pose, he rested his hands on her generous hips.
“Pain and longing,” Dubois announced in a deep, eerie voice. “Experience the energy, the vibration of this woman’s beauty, its hidden life.”
Julian scoffed inwardly at the melodrama. Dubois cleared his throat as if to say more, but then seemed to change his mind. He descended the podium and returned to the back of the studio. Julian glanced at Felix, who was gently stroking his broken paintbrush. Next to him, René sketched ardently, mesmerized by the model, unaware that Adrienne was watching him angrily. She, too, had seen the lustful look that he’d exchanged with Felix.
Adrienne turned and saw Julian observing her. He quickly averted his gaze and tried to focus on the model. He began to dissect the girl’s perfect features, hoping to find inspiration, yet he felt nothing. She just stared forward blankly, unblinking.
Closing his eyes briefly, Julian’s mind wandered, hoping something would inspire him. He began to sketch aimlessly. When he examined his work, he saw not Charlotte but Adrienne. He paused, realizing what he’d done, and then he felt a surge of fire in his fingers. He wanted to keep going. Dipping greedily into red paint, Julian began to create Adrienne’s mouth: wide, toothy, and inviting. He applied twin marks of gold to the canvas and shaped them into delicate almonds, envisioning the glow of her eyes when the sunlight hit them. Julian painted zealously without looking up, experiencing the energy of Adrienne’s beauty, which had the hidden life that he longed to explore on canvas, and off.
Julian knew he had to cut off those thoughts—that desire. Adrienne was not his to think about. Yet, as the hours passed, he felt an overwhelming connection to his painting. Across the room, however, the real Adrienne was not smiling, nor was she painting. Her own brush had disappeared inside a full jar of black paint, as if it drowned. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest as she watched René. The model, Julian knew, was about to become a problem.
Julian felt a tug at his sleeve as he packed up his brushes. “Wait for me,” Adrienne whispered, as she put away her supplies. Julian noticed that she did not say goodbye to René, nor did he seem to notice that they were leaving the studio.
As they exited the building, Julian felt the silent sting of Adrienne’s emotions. She walked ahead of him, mumbling something. Her jacket collar was turned up, concealing her ears and most of her face.
“Is everything okay?” Julian asked softly, catching up to her.
She stopped walking and looked at him as if he were an imbecile, her acerbic tone taking him by surprise. “You saw René. Don’t pretend you didn’t.” She searched Julian’s eyes for truth, but he averted his gaze. “I’m not imagining it,” she said, giving him a look of disgust—as though he, too, were guilty.
“She is just a model. I am a painter,” Adrienne declared as they continued walking.
Julian did not want her to hurt, but he had seen what she saw. “Adrienne, listen to me. There is no comparison to you. The model is pretty, but after a few days she will blend into the woodwork—like all of them. You know exactly how it works.”
He didn’t have to explain to Adrienne the unwritten code about most artists’ models:After a few days of modeling, they quickly transformed from real to inanimate. Once the artist’s brush grazed the canvas, the model became no more lifelike than a ripe red apple in a fruit bowl, a blossoming rose in a garden, or a fading sunset over water. She ceased to be a woman and instead became an object of interpretation. And those models who became muses, ending up in bed with the artist, were quickly discarded once a new model entered the studio and a new painting was ready in the wings.
Adrienne nodded. She knew.
Julian wanted to make her laugh. “How about Dubois and his ‘pain and longing’ act.”
Adrienne did laugh despite herself. How he loved that smile. “Not to mention the model’s mysterious ‘hidden life.’ Truly pathetic.”
“But it was definitely the first time I have seen the old goat come alive,” Julian said.
Adrienne’s smile quickly disappeared, and Julian knew that he’d said the wrong thing.
She turned away and kept walking, leading them past several of their favorite cafés. She ignored the familiar faces, the waves, and the shoutouts to join them. He should not have said that, Julian thought, as he watched her weave through the streets, the color drained from her face.
After ten minutes of silence, Adrienne stopped mid stride. “Yes, Julian, Dubois came alive when the model walked in, and so did René. There have been so many models, but this was the first time I’ve seen that look—” She paused. “A look that belongs to me.”
“She is pretty, Adrienne. But you know damn well it was nothing.” Julian tried to sound convincing.
Adrienne clearly wasn’t buying it. “But did you see her eyes?” Her voice was shaky. “Empty and callous. You could sense that immediately.”
Julian grabbed Adrienne by the shoulders as they cut through an alley and made her face him. “You are taking this too far. It was one night of painting. René is not an idiot.”
There is no comparison to you.
“I just know him too well,” she whispered, blinking back tears, and he wanted to hug her.
Admit it, you want to kiss her. But she’s not yours.
“The model was beautiful but lifeless. I saw what you saw. And I’m sure René did too,” Julian said. Couldn’t Adrienne see herself? She was beautiful. She was worth painting. She had hidden life. He had never seen eyes so goddamn alive.
Adrienne shook her head with disbelief. He wanted to lace his fingers through hers and protect her somehow. Instead, he led Adrienne back in the direction—the distraction—of the Latin Quarter, more for himself than for her. He had to stay in control.
“How about we let it go for now. Coffee’s on me,” he said lightly, pointing to one of their nighttime haunts in the distance.
