Beauty and the Artist

Beauty and the Artist

Monica's day had begun so well. John, her boyfriend, had called before breakfast to ask her out -- again. She had felt a momentary pang of regret as she turned him down but she could not let him think that he was in control. Besides, she had a good reason this time; her woman's group was to appoint her to lead the fight against the exploitation of women; certainly no place for a man.

Yes, the day had been perfect -- right up to the moment that she received the phone call. Jane, her lawyer and best friend, had called while she was speaking to tell her to come to the art gallery immediately. Monica knew that Jane would not have called unless it was important but, then again, she would not let a simple phone call ruin an otherwise perfect day - at least not until she knew what it was about.

Still, she could not help wondering as to the nature of the call. Why could Jane not have left a more detailed message? There was something that she had to see for herself, her friend had said, and it was at the art gallery. She would have to drive there to find out what it was.

Monica was still perplexed as she pulled her car to the front of the gallery. ‘Paintings by Karl’ the marquis read. ‘An old master returns to glorify young love.’ Monica remembered that there had been some controversy over this artist recently -- something about the difference between art and pornography. Probably just another dirty old man exploiting young women, she thought.

Men! That's what this was all about. John had been acting a little strange lately -- much more aggressive than his usual self. Ever since that little tryst behind an old farmer's cottage he had been acting like a little boy in a candy store begging her to return to that spot for a ‘second cumming’ as he put it. (It would be the fifth as far as Monica was concerned) Monica had to admit that she was tempted.

The sex had been very good, fantastic really, but she could not let John think of her as a sex object -- as gratifying as the sex had been. He had probably found a younger, more willing thing and was now impressing her with his interest in "art" before he took her to some farmer's field and had his way with her. Monica blocked out the memory of her tryst in the forest, both eager to return there and furious with herself for wanting to return. A sex object she was not and she would not be treated like one -- or think like one. She slammed the car door and quickly rehearsed the speech that John would get as she approached the front of the gallery.

Monica had no trouble finding Jane -- She was the one who was frantically waving her arms and yelling ‘Monica! Monica!’

"You won't believe this!" said Jane excitedly almost out of breath. "I know that you would never agree to something like this but don't worry, I've already made a few phone calls - you haven't signed anything have you - and John, he's involved too. We'll sue of course . . ."

"Slow down," interrupted Monica. "I don't want to sue John. Where is he anyway?"

"I don't know, don’t you? Anyway, I don't know how we’ll include him in the suit, being a man and all. We'll have to work around that somehow."

"Stop!" said Monica. "You mean that John isn’t here? I'm confused."

"You haven't seen them yet have you?"

"Seen what?"

Jane gave her friend a long sympathetic look. Taking her by the arm, she led Monica to the main foyer of the gallery and up to a small but growing crowd who stood admiring a group of paintings. Pushing through the crowd Jane placed Monica directly in front of the largest of the paintings -- and then stood back. The crowd broke into applause.

Monica's mouth dropped as her hands moved simultaneously, one to her chest, the other to her mouth which gasped involuntarily, and her legs carried her two steps back into the surprised arms of an applauding man before giving way. There, upon the wall, exposed to the world, Monica recognized herself and John behind the old farmer's cottage locked in an ecstatic embrace.

"A very good likeness," said the man who had stopped her from falling. Had he known Monica he would have kept his silence.

"Get your dirty hands off me you, you . . . man!" said Monica slapping him, her shock turning to rage. If not for Jane pulling her away by the arms, hair, or whatever else was graspable she would have ripped his eyes out as well.

A few hours and several cocktails later Monica was finally calm enough to talk about it.

"Who would have the nerve to do such a thing? And why?" Monica asked.

"His name is Karl," replied Jane. "No last name, just Karl. He was an up and coming artist about forty years ago then he just disappeared until about a month ago when he reappeared with this work of you and John. He lives in an old, rundown cottage on his brother's farm near here. The place is so overgrown that you wouldn't know that anyone lived there."

"No, you wouldn't," replied Monica. A smile grew across Jane's face as she heard the story.

"You mean that you and John actually. . . . This could be embarrassing for you then. Maybe the best thing to do would be to quietly buy the things. I'll draw the papers up for you tonight. What are you going to tell John?"

"John's not involved in this. That's me up there being exploited. This is between me and that old man and believe me, one way or another, those paintings will burn. First thing in the morning I'll be at that dirty old bastard’s door."

True to her word and as determined as ever, Monica approached the now familiar cottage along with the first rays of the rising sun. The cottage was much as she remembered it -- so overgrown with vegetation that it was easy to assume it empty. Weeds and flowers alike fought for space along its walls. The trees had crept up to the house over the years until their bows, like giant protective arms, embraced the cottage and drew it to their bosoms. Squirrels scolded Monica as they ran along the eves and deer looked lazily from their grazing. Mother Nature had clearly come to terms with man here and, in fact, had accepted the cottage as her own. One could not help but feel the naturalness, the passion of this place. It was no wonder that she had responded to John in such a natural way -- and wanted to again.

But that was not her purpose here. Steeling herself against the trance that the cottage produced she remembered her cause and approached the front door with renewed anger.

 Finding it to be open she entered without knocking; perhaps hoping to catch her adversary off guard as he had her; perhaps frightened that a pause would allow her resolve to be seduced by the peacefulness that permeated the air.

The inside of the cottage blended so perfectly with the outside that Monica had to check to see if she was coming in or going out. Huge bows from the surrounding trees grew into and blended with the walls and supported a counter and shelves. The floor was a carpet of grass and undergrowth. Several birds found it comfortable enough to nest here as had the odd squirrel or two. Here lived true harmony between man and all that was natural. A place that made rage difficult -- except for one thing: above the fireplace, which lit the room with a comfortable glow and warmth, placed so that the rising sun could illuminate its beauty, hung the biggest and clearly the best painting of Monica and John wearing only the afterglow of their act and smiles that could have rivaled the Mona Lisa's.

Secretly Monica was pleased and impressed with this impression of her beauty. Karl was very good at what he did enhancing what was naturally hers but that was the point of her being here, that her beauty was naturally hers and only hers. She would display it at her, and only at her, choosing. ‘Where was that man anyway?’ she thought.

As if in answer to her thought, Monica heard a soft whistling coming from the back toward the stream -- the one that she and John stopped to picnic by before discovering this cottage. Suddenly ashamed at her uninvited intrusion Monica darted for the shadows. She found herself next to a small window, offering an excellent view of the back of the cottage and of the path that led up to it.

There, sure enough, was Karl carrying a stick that skewered several fish. He had paused to whistle at -- or was it with -- a Blue Jay.

Karl looked about as old as Jane had estimated -- pushing sixty -- but he had a spring in his step that belied his years. As well he had a serene calmness about him that Monica had only seen on well-fed babies and freshly laid men. He was in no hurry to get to his home. Pausing several times, he chatted with the denizens of the surrounding forest. A young doe nibbled at the old artists' ear appearing to whisper into it, an effect that was enhanced when Karl stared straight at the window behind which Monica was hiding. With quicker steps he strode up to the back porch.

Feeling uncomfortable being illegally in the man's home and believing that attack was the best form of defense, Monica charged out the back door to confront Karl with her best ‘I am women hear me roar’ look but Karl just smiled sweetly and brushed past her.

"Breakfast?" he asked placing the fish on the counter. "They're fresh."

"You know who I am and why I’m here," replied Monica sternly. "I think that you owe me an apology and an explanation."

Karl gave Monica a long look, once up and once down. "You're right," he replied. "Painted your breasts much larger than they really are. I am sorry. Do you have a lemon with you by any chance?"

Karl's manner had remained serene, almost childlike in its innocence. His voice held neither malice nor humor. It was as if he lived in his own world, existing outside the rules of Monica's society. She did not know what to make of him or how to deal with him. Men had always been putty in her hands but Monica could tell that all of her usual weapons would be useless here.

She could not humiliate him with the crimes of all men against women for he existed outside of that world, nor could she bring social pressure to bear, for judging by his past, he cared little for social interaction and suing him would gain nothing if the cottage were any indication of his wealth. Even the greatest of all her weapons, seduction seemed powerless here, for this was a man content, without need. But, then again, if her instincts were correct, then why the paintings? Monica remained confused by this enigma of a man.

"Lemon?" Karl was saying.

"Uh . . . no; Why would I have a lemon?" said Monica, now more irritated at her powerlessness here than at the paintings. "People don't normally carry lemons in their pockets."

Karl searched around the counter and then himself before finally reaching into his pocket and finding a lemon.

"Always be prepared - and then of course, remember your preparation."

Karl continued to prepare the fish seemingly oblivious to Monica's presence or purpose. Monica watched him but for all of her experience and education she could not get a handle on what motivated him. She also found it difficult to rage against what appeared to be an innocent old man who was simply content to be whom he was and apparently held no malice against anything or anyone. Yet he had painted her nude, had hurt her.

"Karl," said Monica softly, gently touching his forearm, "those paintings really hurt me. You do understand that don't you?"

No answer was given as Karl wrapped the fish in a wet leaves and bark thing, a concoction that Monica did not recognize, and then placed them in the fireplace to cook.

"Karl, the paintings - I can't allow them to be displayed," persisted Monica.

 Karl’s manner changed slightly as he considered his answer. His shoulders drooped slightly and his voice held a sadness, as if he had lost something precious. "Niece took them, didn't ask, just took them. Said she was collecting the rent."

Despite herself Monica felt drawn to Karl as a mother is to an idiot-savant child who has been bad. It was clear to her that this simple man could hold no ill will, yet the paintings still disturbed her.

"Karl," said Monica softly. "Why did you watch us? You must have known that it was wrong."

"Sit on the porch every afternoon . . ."

"You were on the porch!"

". . . and watch the birds' nests over there. Like to watch the grass grow too."

"But Karl, we were - you know - making love."

"Is that what you call it? Saw a couple of squirrels do that. You know, the look on your faces in the middle of the thing -- a lot like the squirrels. You snarled sort of, showed your teeth. Course the squirrels don't blush when reminded of the thing."

"Well," said Monica blushing, "at least you were looking at my teeth!"

"Could've looked better. Would've got your breasts the right size then. A B-cup, right?" asked Karl taking a good look. He let the look linger for just a moment too long before bringing his gaze up to Monica’s face. Their eyes met for another brief moment. Despite herself Monica blushed but remained silent allowing him even a gentle brush of her hair.

 "The face, now, that holds the truth - and yours was beautiful - a true expression of what you were feeling, without shame or guilt - like the squirrels. And that boy too. By the way, is his penis the right size? Hard to tell a thing like that when it won't sit still. Afterwards you looked so content. Free from Pandora’s curse. It was a thing of true beauty. Bottle that and cure the world."

Monica was having a hard time maintaining her indignant rage. "But Karl, why did you paint me?" She asked almost apologetically. "You haven't painted anything in years. Why start now? And to allow them to be hung for public display . . . Don't you understand? You hurt me."

To Monica’s relief and disappointment Karl’s attention returned to his fish. "Didn't hang the paintings; didn't intend to. Just wanted to remember. Stopped painting years ago because of the hype. The actors and actresses strutting, posing, salivating over the color of their money. They saw nothing real, nothing beautiful. Ambrosia has always been here for those that could see it, taste it, feel it, as you did, for a brief moment. Moments like that are so rare for people like you that it needed to be preserved -- so you could remember. Felt good didn't it? To be free from Pandora's curse. Please, some breakfast?" asked Karl taking the fish out of the fire. "Ambrosia, this, if it is viewed in the right light - although the fish might not see it that way."

Monica accepted Karl's offer of breakfast. They ate in silence for several minutes. Despite all of her experience, her training, and her philosophy, Monica felt Karl’s sincerity and, despite herself, she liked him. Monica had heard some of the best lines of bull in her time, but Karl's words had the ring of truth to them. There should be no shame in what she and John had done. It was with mixed emotions that Monica again broached the subject that had brought her here.

"Karl," Monica began softly, "I would like to buy the paintings from you. I believe you are sincere, that your lust is in the beauty but the rest of the world would not understand. They would see this as simple exploitation."

Karl finished chewing the last bit of fish before answering.

"Ain't mine to give. Niece took 'em."

"She can only act as your agent. If you would sign here," said Monica producing the purchase agreement that Jane had prepared. "Fill in whatever amount that you deem fair," continued Monica surprised at her own generosity.

Karl filled in the amount of one dollar and signed the agreement. Monica left, reluctantly, taking her likeness with her. After a small argument with the niece, she obtained the rest of the paintings. Alone at home she destroyed them, slowly, one by one. (She smiled when she noticed that John's penis did look larger than she remembered it to be) All but two found their way into the fireplace: one she sent to an old man who lived in the woods and the other she hung over her bed.

Then she called John.