The Artist

TW: mention of gore.

His motley crew – that was how Mike thought of his students, would be joining him shortly. He turned the radiator up two notches in the attic room studio and covered over his most recent work, the one with the pet alligator swimming in the blue tiled pool. Nor exactly his best piece perhaps, but more than adequate for clients with a reptilian menagerie on the Costa de Sol, who in his opinion had more money than sense.

The white sheets Mike had spread over the canvasses he’d been working on most recently, gave a faintly surreal air to the surroundings. A successful artist in his younger years, the only work of his on permanent display was the self-portrait he’d painted in oils not long after he’d left art school. It depicted a man with white-blond hair and pale skin standing pensively at the side of a pool while paying homage to a distant male swimmer. He privately regarded it as his most truthful work. He was conscious of criticism from some quarters of having “sold out,” but there was always a certain amount of sniping in the art world. The wider public knew of Mike Adler through his commercially driven seascapes. Painted in acrylic, sinewy figures in various stages of undress, were either catching the waves at the edge of the sea or running their toes through silky ochre sand. Popular in expensive gardening centres and the like, the prints were instantly recognisable. 

A turnout of four was the most Mike could reasonably expect on a night when Storm Helena had cast her wrath on the town. Trees had been uprooted and a deluge had caused sections of the city to flood. In parts of the town, the river had broken its banks, and the station power line had come down, increasing commuter’s woes in already fraught journeys.

Unbeaten, Mike’s valiant coterie were seated on the sofa bed or on large scatter cushions drinking mugs of hot cocoa, forming a circle at one end of the studio. There was an air of expectancy in the room.

Mike cleared his throat. “Your project this week is to draw a portrait which you can begin here. It can be of a friend, a member of your family or simply someone you find interesting. However, it cannot be a picture of anyone in the group.” He’d learnt that one the hard way. 

It was unrealistic to expect Sophie and Sylvia, a pair of lively twins not a day over eighty, to make it in through such harsh weather. Lovers of the colour pink and very much alike in thought as well as looks, their saucy humour leant a certain charm to proceedings. Kevin’s rough edges were rubbed off by their faux flirting. 

To his credit, in a former life, Mike had tried his hand at running a psychodrama group. Telling himself he should have got used to the vagaries of human nature by now, getting the wrong mix of people could prove disastrous. On one occasion, a disagreement had led to someone being bitten, but perhaps that was par for the course when relationships turned sour. After that, Mike issued an unofficial edict preventing ‘couples’ from joining the group. Not that it necessarily always worked out that way when it came to it.

Tonight, Kevin Wordless who hadn’t appeared at the group for weeks, presented the most obvious challenge to a peaceful session. Mike was in no position to criticise male hirsuteness, but with his brown long hair and even longer beard, Kevin was prone to taking things to extremes. He had a tortuous way of crossing and uncrossing his long legs. Like one possessed, his eyes flicked back and forth as if on stalks, dissecting everything and everyone around him. Now, he raised his hand in an exaggerated mocking gesture.

“Kevin?” 

“What kind of medium should we use, oh Master Mike?”

“I prefer to be called simply Mike, if it’s all the same to you.” 

“Okay, Simply Mike.”

Sometimes Mike wondered why he put up with this sort of nonsense, especially in his own home. His partner Jeff said he did it because he had a good heart and cared about people. Maybe that was true. Or maybe it was because he was able to penetrate Kevin’s harsh exterior and see the tortured soul within. “My preference would be pencil, crayon, charcoal, or acrylics, but I’ll leave it to you. Whatever feels comfortable.”

Unfortunately, nothing felt comfortable for Kevin who’d only returned to the art group because John, his therapist had recommended painting as a way of dealing with his “problem.”

“You need to become immersed in something other than writing. Take the pressure off yourself for a bit.” That had been John’s advice. In the meantime, Kevin had been going mad with frustration. All he’d ever wanted was to be a writer, but since his breakup with Lila over his selfishness, he hadn’t been able to write a word, let alone finish his latest novel about the bleak life of a factory-farmed pig. He was beginning to see that Lila had been the yin to his yang. Or was it the other way round? On the other hand, turning his mind to the art project meant he was going to have to eat humble pie and ask Lila to act as his muse. Just as she had always been before he got the dreaded writer's block.

“I’d like a more specific brief.” This came from Leonie, a skinny woman with bright pink hair, dangling jewellery, and eyes that matched her bedraggled violet dress.

“Ok!” Mike said slowly. “Draw me a picture of a friend in black ink.”

“Righto.” Unfortunately, Leonie’s best friend happened to be Sandi: that was until the two them had fallen out when Sandi had taken it upon herself to “comfort” an old boyfriend of Leonie’s a little too generously. Leonie was less bothered than she pretended to be – the relationship had come to an end anyway, but it was important to make the point about loyalty. However, if revenge was a dish best served cold, she would get some form of it by drawing an unflattering portrait of Sandi. Whether she showed her it or not remained to be seen.

On the sofa bed opposite, Kevin gazed at Leonie with a translucent stare. He actually found her rather scary, the sort of woman he’d be terrified of in the bedroom. Not that he was ever like to encounter her in one. Neither could he imagine her having any friends. 

Adam, a care worker, who was embracing a large cushion on the floor, had quite different ideas. He had in fact become intimately acquainted with Leo - as he called her, in the second week of their meeting at the art group and had found the experience interesting. Unfortunately, after drinking a bitter cup of mocha coffee the next morning, he found himself turfed out of her riverside flat. Somewhat disconsolate, he had trudged to his car and driven back to his lonely house in a village several miles away. Leonie’s words were still ringing in his ears -  that it would be best to “keep it low key” and “just be friends.” Words he was not unused to hearing. 

***

A week later, the townspeople were relieved when another storm, this one less fierce than its predecessor, passed them by, with the wind dropping to more manageable levels. Mike had invited a new member to join the group. Guy, an amiable character who had worked in finance in a previous life, was ready try his hand at “something new.” Mostly, he wanted to impress his wife who said he was becoming “staid.” Admittedly, their love life had become a trifle boring lately. Either way, he had a burning need to step out of his “comfort zone.”

Everyone except Guy entered the studio clutching their portfolios. Mike smiled, showing the gold capped tooth his partner found so sexy. “Who’d like to go first?” He turned to the twins. He’d rung them midweek to brief them on the week’s project. 

The twins sprung up giggling, their pictures wrapped in a gauzy material tied with ribbons. The younger versions they had painted of themselves made it even more difficult to tell them apart.  With their blonde hair and bright red lipstick, they resembled pale versions of Marilyn Monroe.

Very pale versions. Like them, she’d been a Gemini, they pointed out.

**

“Before we go any further, I’d like to introduce a new member to the group,” Mike announced. “Everybody, this is Guy.”

“Hi,” Guy smiled amiably. “I’m afraid I know next to nothing about art. I’ve just come to try my hand at something different.” He was going to say he wanted to get outside his comfort zone, but it sounded like a cliché. “It was actually my wife who suggested it.”

“And do you always do everything your wife suggests?” Kevin asked crudely.

Guy pondered the question. “Generally. I find it usually makes for a happier home life. Happy wife, happy life, and all that.” Guy had a long history of being underestimated.

Mike rubbed his hands. “Ok folks. Who’d like to go next?”

Leonie was already making her way to the easel, watched closely by Adam. In fact, she could hardly wait for the group’s reaction to her piece.

The picture of Leonie’s “best friend,” revealed a pair of semi-malevolent eyes staring back at the group. 

“That’s a striking picture,” Kevin said, trying his best not to laugh. “Not necessarily the sort you’d want to take home to meet your mother.”

“She’s alright when you get to know her,” Leonie snapped. 

“Who? Your friend or your mother?” Kevin quipped.

“Not my mum. She died when I was very young.” Leonie instantly felt exposed.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Kevin, who had lost his father at a young age, was mortified. 

Guy felt obliged to cover the awkwardness, “I know I’m no expert, but is it ok to put in my pennyworth here?”

“Sure, providing its constructive,” Mike said.

“To me, it seems an excellent portrait. I have to say it does seem to bear a slight resemblance to the painter.”

“I can’t see it myself,” Leonie protested. “It’s just a picture of my friend.”

This time Kevin kept his thoughts to himself.

**

Adam’s picture, drawn in crayons, was of a woman who bore a passing resemblance to Leonie. However, when pressed, he insisted it was a portrait of his sister.

“A good likeness,” Mike commented. He had met Adam’s sister in another life. “You’ve definitely captured something. The pose is very human. Well done, Adam.”

“Pretty good for a hobbyist,” Kevin said.

“No need to sound quite so patronising,” Leonie shot out.

Adam caught the pain in her face. For some reason, the barb hurt, even if it had been directed at him. For him, this was never going to be more than a hobby. But for Leonie? At what point did a hobby turn into a passion? Become a way of life.

**

Kevin was standing at the easel watching the member’s faces. Their expressions ranged from delicate amusement to outright disgust, but then surely Great Art ought to move people. Painted in oil, his picture depicted a woman with long fair hair and a gentle face holding a severed head. The eyes of the head seemed to wander in all directions and the mouth gaped showing dirty teeth and bedraggled hair. 

“Hardly original,” Leonie muttered just loud enough to be heard.

“What do you mean by that?” Kevin exclaimed.

“No need to blow a gasket, but isn’t it an imitation of Caravaggio’s work? You know, the one where David has killed Goliath and is holding up his head.”

“Eh?” Kevin had once come across the Caravaggio picture in an art book and it had left a deep impression.

Leonie was like a dog with a bone. “The head of Goliath looks a lot like you. Did you intend it to be a self-portrait?”

“No,” he lied.

“Who is the muse? She looks like an angel.” Years of people management had taught Guy the art of deflection. Flattery too.

“She is. The muse is actually a close friend of mine.” 

“So, you had no idea it might be seen as a self-portrait?” Mike asked.

Kevin, who had been convinced his interpretation of the brief had been highly original, was sullen.

“I have to say it’s a remarkable picture, even if you were influenced by Caravaggio. It’s so full of life.”

“Not to mention death,” Leonie put in. 

“You could almost write a short story about it,” Mike continued. “The characters jump out at you. I’d like to know more about the woman and why she is holding a head. Why her face is sad rather than triumphant! What is the backstory here?” 

Suddenly the muse seized hold of Kevin and he found he could hardly wait to get home to Lila and his laptop, though not necessarily in that order. “You may just have something there, Mike,” he said. He almost felt like pummelling Mike’s hand. “You’ve inspired me to write again. Thank you.”

Adam had planned to walk to the taxi rank after the art session because his car was being serviced. Instead, he found himself walking along the riverbank shielding Leonie from the rain with an enormous umbrella. As they drew near her flat, the river’s currents swirled, but last week’s flooding had abated. Leonie suddenly burst out laughing. 

“What’s so funny?” Adam asked. 

“I dunno. Just the absurdity of the group. Life even. I mean, Kevin drawing that huge self portrait of his own head! Mind you, the head fitted the size of his ego perfectly.”

Adam laughed too. “It was funny.”

Leonie’s eyes glittered in the moonlight. “Do you have to go home just yet? Fancy coming in for a cuppa?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Adam and Leonie seemed transfixed as they stood together on the pavement in the rain, but it was a nice rain.

“I mean really, who draws something like that?” Leonie repeated. “It was meant to be a portrait, not a self-portrait.”

“So along as he hasn’t killed anyone.” Adam was thinking of Caravaggio’s murky past.

“I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Still, whatever turns you on, I suppose. I don’t mean killing someone.”

“It was a good picture though. Mike seemed to find it inspiring.”

“Yeah. Mike must get something out of running the group, otherwise why does he do it?”

“Good question, Adam. To which there’s no easy answer.”

”Maybe he enjoys getting insulted by Kevin.”

“Kevin’s a decent artist. I’ll give him that.”

“Grudging praise indeed! If only he wasn’t such a pain in the neck (excuse the pun), he’d be alright.” Adam touched Leonie’s arm. “Anyway, who cares about him? I find you far more interesting.”

“Do you now?” 

 What the hell - you only live once, Adam thought, flinging caution to the wind. If you liked someone, there was no point pretending you didn’t. His friends had always said his best quality was honesty. That, and perseverance in the face of adversity. “You know, I think you’re really cool – as humans go, Leonie.” It sounded better than “I fancy the pants off you, even though he did.

“I’m not sure there’s much to like about me,” Leonie said mournfully.

“Nonsense.”

“Well, maybe we can step out of the rain and settle our differences inside. Pointless standing here getting soaked.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Adam said.

***

Once everyone had gone, Mike uncovered his pictures. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but for a moment, he could have sworn the alligator was winking at him. Overall, the session hadn’t gone badly – in the end. If just one person got something from going, it was worth it. On a high, he closed the studio door and quietly made his way downstairs.