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THE PAINTER'S LOVER

She would stand there still as a statue and I would draw her soft skin on my rough canvas. It's always the challenge: How do I draw on a a coarse canvas fabric, with a gritty piece of coal, and still have her skin look as delicate as thin glass. The result always astounded me. I don't know how I accomplish it. I only remember my feverish hand-strokes, whipping at the crude surface.

I could be perfectly happy just looking at her for hours. She assumes a position and with sheer control of the mind, over the body, she is completely still. I could never be still like that. What kind of happiness do I need to obtain, to stay perfectly still.

Sometimes I believe she is a statue. If someone had already carved her out of stone, what's the point of copying his perfect work- it would only be a mediocre copy of another man's work?

But she isn't another man's work, is she? She's flesh and blood, some might say. They could be her doctor, and it would make sense that they might say that. I'm a painter and she's my model. I would say, she's shadow and light, negative and positive spaces, a line, a shape, a blot. But I'm a man and she's my lover and I should say she's my inspiration, my sorrow and pain, my devotion and lust, my blindness and forgiveness.

And I may have to forgive her, before I draw her too darkly. Her body becomes a piece of coal and all I can do is try to erase her with my big, thick hands. I have to follow the nuances of light, shattering off of her body. Little diamonds- speckles of glass. She becomes a mythical creature, to me, like a mermaid or a unicorn.

I've seen her do the laundry, a couple hours earlier, but then she washed off her sweat and rubbed cream on her hands. Now, there's no evidence of her mundanity. She's a statuesque goddess that I may humbly try to perpetuate.

I know all her curves and creases and wrinkles and I know how she likes them to look. I know how she imagines herself and I can make it true. She loves me because, through these paintings, she can see herself through my eyes. In my eyes she is perfect and possesses no doubts. Who wouldn't love that?

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