The Woman in the Painting

Lus liked solitude. Quietness suited her, it allowed her to observe not only the magnificence of the nature around her, but also the nature within. To recollect her thoughts and feelings was calming, and it worked best when alone and in silence. Not to say she couldn't enjoy or appreciate the bustle of the city, the conversations of strangers, the laughter of children, or even the low humming of cars or the loud honking of its inhabitants. Her low heels clicked on the pavement in a steady rhythm, the golden sun beaming down on her face. Right turn, straight ahead, cross the street, avoid a car, take a left, cross the street again, bend out of the way of an approaching group of people who had no awareness of their surroundings, take a breath to calm down from the annoyance that had begun to bubble up within her.

There it was, she had arrived. The museum was by no means extraordinary or famous. It was no Louvre, no Rijksmuseum and no State Hermitage. Quite small in stature, it stood on a hill at the end of the lane, surrounded by tall oak and cherry trees and thickly-grown vegetation. Ivy vines clung to the red brick, crawling along the side of the building, unwilling to let go no matter how many times the city tried to get it removed. The entrance was signified with thick oak doors, adorned with an iron handle and hinges, the patio leading up to it holding up the canopy with ionic pillars.

The floor inside was of a creamy marble, her heels clicking sharper than before, the loud, snapping sound echoing through the hallway. Lus clutched her leatherbound sketchbook in her hand. One by one she passed the various openings into exhibition rooms, blinks of paintings flew by too fast to properly take them in, and all were rather unimportant to her. The sign above the archway at the end of the hallway signaled her destination, and she ducked into the spacious room.

The floor remained the same tiled marble, yet the walls were covered in a mustard yellow wallpaper, which, if she were to touch it, would probably feel soft and velvety beneath her fingers. She resisted the urge, however, and walked alongside the wall. Her eyes lingered only for seconds on the carved, limestone busts placed in the middle of the room, creating two unofficial pathways between the two sides of the wall, each of them decked with oil paintings covered in glass. Each were painted by the same artist, belonging to the same collection. And though they were contemporary to Lus, the artist had tried to replicate the intricacies of romanticism; its solitude and naturalistic tendencies shining through like a blinding light. Perhaps it was a touch too obvious, like a parody of the great masters.

A certain allure drew Lus further forward, past the wild landscapes and expressive scenes of emotion, until she reached the back wall. There on its own hung a painting of a size not much larger than a piece of paper. While there was space on the mustard wall, no other paintings surrounded the occupant of the golden frame. Lus sat herself down on the low, wooden bench in front of it, her right hand automatically flipping through her sketchbook to find an empty page, and the left reaching for her charcoal pencil. Meanwhile, her eyes never left the face of the painting, as if it was impossible to do so.

A captivating woman stared back at her, intense eyes looking down upon the small figure on the bench. She sat posed gently, depicted from her waist up, enveloped in soft and warm hues dancing around her, coming from some invisible source of light. Her gaze was intense, yet tenderness exuded from every other aspect, inviting the current admirer to take a peek within her soul. Her dress didn’t seem to come from any particular era, as timeless and elegant as was her allure. Red silk wrapped tightly around her torso, tied together with white string at her breast. Her collarbone lay exposed to the air, shining from the absent candlelight. Each brushstroke was visible, yet untraceable in the cacophony of the woman. They captured perfectly the delicate features of her face, and managed to describe the sharpness of it beneath.

Lus was glad for the absence of other people in the room as she measured the boundaries of the painting with her pencil. Closing one eye, she stretched her left arm forward, holding the pencil up at the woman. With her thumb she measured, copying it down on the page to get the proportions right. From there, her hand took over. All Lus needed to do was keep looking ahead at the woman, at the soft curves of her face and neck and breasts, at the waterfall of fabric that flowed from her sleeves, at the soft, yellow light coming from the outside, and her hand would follow.

The woman in the painting was kind if you looked at her, but looking away her gaze turned sour. She liked to be looked at, was what Lus’ sketch was saying. She was aware of her beauty and the power it wielded. Not once did she look away from Lus’ gaze, nor did she change pose at any moment. She sat still for hours, as the sun hid away behind the horizon, and the moon rose behind the thick clouds to take its place and reflect its light. Nothing it did to change the woman’s pose or mood, she insisted on her fierce gaze and soft smile.  

The sketch was long done when the sun had set, but Lus stayed watching until the museum closed.

When the museum opened the next morning, Lus stood waiting at the grand entrance. Ignoring the openings along the hallway into other rooms, her heels clicked on the marble floor faster and faster until she reached once again the very back. She was ready to begin, until she saw intruders in the space; a couple, arms linked, strolled leisurely along the wall, passing by the paintings, reading the plaque, discussing between each other. Rustled, Lus slowed into a careful pace, past the busts and landscapes and expressions, and there she was again.

The woman was ready for her second session, yet Lus wasn’t. She sat on that bench until the couple had finished their circulation of the room, had wrapped up their conversation, and left through the opening. With one more glance through the room, Lus pulled from her bag a travel size oil paint palette. Only yellow, red, blue and white dots were in the wooden box, with next to it a little bottle from which, when she opened it, wafted the pungent smell of turpentine. On her thigh she spread a piece of fabric, already stained thoroughly with past paint.

It was time to capture the essence of the woman in the painting. She sat at the ready, retaining the same pose from yesterday. The candlelight flickered from beyond the painting’s borders, the flowing silk drifted in a gentle breeze, but her eyes never left their target nor their intense quality.

A touch of blue in the red for the elegant dress, a touch of yellow in the white for the string, some yellow and red and white and blue to capture the composure of her hair, careful to include the flying strands in her neck and on her forehead, as light as a feather.

The sun rose quietly in the background, not wanting the disturb the privacy created in the bubble of the exposition room.

Keep the background as dull as possible, even though it was already impossible to look anywhere other than at the woman in the painting. She wouldn’t allow it. Her gaze was more loving today, glad that Lus had returned, but not yet forgiving for the times that Lus had to look down at her palette to mix a new color. She wanted the attention; she was the sun and Lus her moon, reflecting her light onto the pages of her sketchbook.

The next day was a Sunday, and Lus couldn’t return. The woman in the painting waited from sunrise to moonrise in the dark of the room, staring down at an empty bench. Her eyes still intense and tender, because when Lus returned, and she was sure, hoped, that she would, she needed to be perfect. Not perfect in the general sense, but perfect in her own eyes and Lus’.

It was the day after that Lus returned to her. Through the oak doors, heels clicking on the marble, through the last opening, past the busts and landscapes and expressions, sitting down on the bench, checking for privacy. When Lus was sure she had it, she took out her sketchbook again and flipped to an empty page now that her first attempt to capture the essence of the woman in the painting was complete. Taking her charcoal pencil, she put its tip on the yellow paper, and waited. Now for the first time she looked up. She was disappointed, the woman. She felt abandoned and alone, without anyone to admire what she had worked so hard for.

Stroke by stroke, the image appeared on the page in thick, black lines. It was an apology to the woman, was what each movement of the pencil said. The sun rose and then the moon, and Lus packed up her stuff again. But, before she left, she stood in front of the woman, closer than she had ever been, and suddenly she saw a detail she hadn’t before. Earrings were visible behind the thin curtain of her hair; a brilliant diamond in each ear.

When the next morning she returned again, the first thing she did was add them.

With each new day the woman revealed a new detail of herself, whether inside or outside didn’t matter. Each Monday that passed Lus would return to the woman in the painting, uttering apologies with each line her pencil drew, and with each stroke of her brush she attempted to make amends, to close the glaring bridge which separated them. Each day that passed, each sunrise, Lus drew closer, dug deeper within the soul of the woman in the painting, got to know each intricate part of her appearance and personality. So much so, that when Lus wasn’t there she was still there mentally. Never did the stare of the woman leave her, and she found she didn’t want her to, didn’t want to lose the warmth and comfort she gave of.

At a certain point, she filled a page daily, until the day came for the last one to be filled. One last attempt to convey to the woman in the painting what she felt for her.

But when Lus came up the steps of the museum, past the ionic pillars and through the hallway she now knew like the back of her hand, turning into the last opening, racing past bare podiums and empty, mustard walls, the woman in the painting was nowhere to be seen. All that was left was the yellow wallpaper.

Lus sat on the wooden bench, sketchbook closed in her right hand, charcoal pencil clutched in her left. She sat staring at the bare wall. A tangible loss grew on her heart at the absence of this constant that had been in her life for weeks. Someone she had known deeply, cared for and cherished deeply, had been killed—it felt as if right in front of her eyes. Blood was sprayed on the walls, a pool gathered around her feet. Her heart pounded in her chest at this sudden grief. She had lost someone, some part of herself.

She opened her sketch book. She turned to the last empty page. She lifted her pencil. The tip touched the paper and—nothing. There was no tender gaze beaming down on her with the intensity of the sun, no light to be reflected down on the paper. Lus looked down at the last entry in her sketchbook, and found the face of a stranger looking back at her.