I have reorganized my entire studio three times since yesterday.
Now my back feels the warmth of the sun's light streams that flow through the five foot paned window. Dried grains of Plaster of Paris and dust swim in the air and shine in the light. I look at my full paint tubes, my drying brushes, and my clean water. My walls are empty, my canvas is blank. The gallery called Donna yesterday and asked for more. More.
How can I paint a male nude and not fall in love with him? I decide to paint a woman. I get excited, but I don't know where to start. I think about going to the corner liquor store, but they know me in there, so I go to Hollywood Blvd. where tourists, who I will never see again, fill the streets. I am afraid to touch the "Hustler," "Oui," or even "Penthouse." I thumb through "People" getting up the courage. I see a picture of George Clooney and I think about painting him naked. I drop the "People" and pick up "Hustler," run to the front, throw five bucks on the counter, and leave.
Cherry Popsicle-- she's naked and cute. I think I can paint her. Her hair is short, bleached white, and sticks up straight. The palm of her hand lays against her stomach reaching down "there." Her breasts are big and perfect. Her skin looks slicked with oil. I think that I should masturbate but figure I should get to work.
It only takes me two hours to paint Cherry and it usually takes me days to paint a male. It looks pretty good and I nod exhibiting self-affirmation. I take a second look and I realize I forgot to paint the face. I look at the magazine and I see that the body is exactly like in the photograph. So why paint it, I think?
I throw the magazine away and paint the face. I play with colors, darkening any bright color. I let go of my conscious thinking as I swirl the brush in the bruising colors.
I always start with the eyes, green I thought. He, I mean she, needed green eyes. Almost black I made the color. The green is strangled by the black, so much so that the viewer needs moments of looking directly into the eyes to see the strands of green, and then there is a sense of relief.
I continue with delicate care: lips, mouth, cheeks, wrinkles in the forehead, like freckles, lashes, and finally a nose. I stand back. I recognize this face. It's Steve. The face is Steve and I start to panic. My heart races and I sweat. My first impulse is to destroy the painting and pull it off the easel. The paint of Cherry's body smudges and I stop in my tracks because I have an idea.
Quickly I set it back up and mix more paint. Grays and blacks. I pick a
2/8's inch brush, good for lines. I want the lines straight, perfectly straight. And when I am finished I feel complete. This is fine.
Her perfect body smudged and disfigured and Steve's face trapped by bars that exist in front of his face, where he lives.
