Picture Perfect

Picture Perfect

Steve Elliott

Copyright Steve Elliott 2012.

All rights reserved

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 1.

It started off as something innocuous. It really did. But from
there
it blossomed into a conflagration of immense proportions, or so it seemed at the time. Looking back on it now, our argument seemed so
trivial
, so pointless.
Why
do we invest so much energy into insignificant details? I wonder if this is how all wars get started.

Kim and I were relaxing on a park bench. In the
park
, of course.

- Well,
duh
!

-
Quiet
, you.

It was one of our favourite places to visit. The grass was green and mown; the surrounding scenery was pleasing to the eye and the pathways full of happy people simply strolling along, hand in hand, or trying to control frisky dogs. Funny how you never saw people walking
cats
or sheep or goats. Why
just
dogs? Sorry, my mind wanders a bit at times.

- Just ‘
at times
’?

- That’s enough out of you. When I want
your
opinion, I’ll ask for it and then ignore it completely.

- As you always do.

- At least I’m consistent.

As I said, everything was peaceful. The sun was out, warming an otherwise cool day, and the sky was a cloudless blue. I was totally chilling out, when…….

- What? Totally ‘
chilling
’? Have you reverted back to being a teenager again, or something?

- It’s how all the youngies speak these days.

- It may have escaped your notice, numbskull, but we are no
longer
‘youngies’. If anything, we’re ‘
middleageies
’.

- We are
not
! Okay, we may not be part of the ‘under twenties’ crowd anymore, but we’re certainly not into middle age just
yet
. I’ve always thought of myself being young at heart.

- I’ve got a newsflash for you, buster. Even your
heart
is creeping up towards middle age.

-
Nonsense
! Okay, maybe it is, but if I don’t
think
about it, it doesn’t happen.

- Typical male mindset.

- Hey, it works for me.

Anyway, I was feeling pretty good –
satisfied
? – when a man waltzed by, being led by a small, white creature, which I presumed was an exotic breed of dog, although I had no visible evidence to confirm its canine species. This ‘
dog
’ thing was all hair and floppy ears. How it managed to see where it was going remained a complete mystery. I couldn’t even tell if it was walking forwards or
backwards
, although the ear position favoured the former. Its owner was exactly the opposite. He was groomed to perfection and quite handsome with it, I have to say. His clothes were stylish (not that I know
anything
about fashion), and everything about him screamed elegance. He strolled past with a graceful gait, and I could see him in my mind’s eye as a
dancer
of some sort. I felt, rather than saw, Kim straighten her sitting position. I turned slightly and found her flicking back her hair in a coy gesture. I chuckled inwardly. That was my sister. She never passed up an opportunity to flirt. Most of the time she wasn’t even aware that she was doing it.

The man passed and smiled at us in a friendly way, causing Kim to straighten her already rigid pose and thrust out her chest a little more. The man nodded his head briefly and continued walking, but suddenly stopped, turned around and came back to our bench. He stopped in front of Kim and introduced himself.

“I hope you’ll pardon this unwarranted intrusion,” he began, “but my name is Roger Galway, and I couldn’t help but notice you as I walked by. Can I be so bold as to ask your name?”

Kim stood up and held out her hand. “My name’s Kim,” she answered. She waved a vague hand in my direction and continued, “And this is my brother, Paul. Pleased to meet you, Roger.”

We shook hands all round and stood in an awkward silence until Roger explained further. “I’m an
artist
, you see, and I’m always on the lookout for models and
you
, my dear,” he announced, touching Kim lightly on the hand, “would be
marvellous
. I’d simply
love
for you to pose for me one day. May I offer you my card?”

His hand dived into a breast pocket and produced a gold-edged business card that he pressed into Kim’s palm.

“There’s no pressure or obligation here, you understand,” he hastened to add. “You don’t have to do anything further if you don’t want to, but I believe that you’d make a simply
stunning
model. If you’re at all interested, give me a call anytime. My number’s on the card. We can talk pay rates then.
Lovely
to meet you both. Good day.” With that, our artist continued on his way, giving us a final wave as he left.

“Well,
that
was rather unusual,” Kim mused, looking at the card as we sat down again. “It’s not something that happens to us every day.”

“No, it certainly isn’t,” I agreed. “Very odd.”

“Roger Galway……hmmm. Does that name mean anything to you?” Kim asked.

“Not really,” I replied, “But then again, neither of us is well up in the art world. We could ask around, I suppose. Why? Are you thinking of taking up his offer?”

“Of course not,” she snorted, scratching her face with the edge of the card. “But you have to admit, it’s pretty flattering to be asked to model for a painting.”

“Don’t get carried away, sweetie,” I reminded her. “He could paint
gargoyles
for all you know.”

“What!” she exclaimed. “Don’t be
ridiculous
! He knows outstanding
beauty
when he sees it. He’s obviously been captivated by my radiance.”

I emitted a strangled cough of derision. “
Radiance
?” I echoed. “Yeah,
right
!”

“Hush up, you,” she scolded. “Just for that I think I
will
take him up on his invitation. Gargoyles,
bah
! I’ll show
you
.”

Chapter 2.

And that’s how Kim became a model. She rang Roger that night and arranged to meet at his studio the following day but then began to have second thoughts.

“You don’t mind if I
do
this, do you?” she asked me, tentatively.

“Kim, honey, you’re a big girl now,” I reassured her. “You don’t need
my
permission to do
anything
.”

“Actually, yes, I
do
,” she fretted. “You’re the eldest, and my big brother, and you’ve
always
looked out for me, ever since I can remember. I know you think I’m a bit on the wild side, and I don’t want to get all soppy, but, deep down, I’ve always secretly needed your approval for everything I do, even the weird stuff. I’ll feel bad if I don’t have your permission to go ahead with this. What do you think?”

This was an amazing admission from her. I never suspected she felt this way about me. I toyed with the idea of saying ‘no’, but that would have been a mean joke to play. She would have gone ahead and modelled anyway, but then would have been loaded with guilt about it. I couldn’t do that to her.

“Go and have fun, sweetie,” I informed her. “You know that I’ll always back you up, no matter
what
you do. That’s what big brothers
do
, after all.”

She gave me a grateful smile.

“Don’t forget me when you’re a famous supermodel,” I teased her.

“That’s the
other
type of model, you dummy!” she retorted. “The catwalk ones. Don’t you know
anything
?”

“Apparently
not
,” I replied. “The fashion world is a closed book to me, I’m afraid. I think all those scrawny things strutting up and down are more
sad
than glamorous.”

“At least we agree on
something
,” Kim said.

Kim allowed me to go with her when she set out for Roger Galway’s residence. I think she was a little nervous at the prospect of modelling and welcomed my company. We found our host’s house to be modest, but well cared for, and set in a respectable neighbourhood. Somehow, I was expecting the stereotypical squalid, struggling-artist-attic situation that I’d often read about in books. The doorbell was answered by what appeared to be a housekeeper, accompanied by the yipping, mutant dog thing we’d seen in the park.
Mister Galway must be moderately well off financially to afford a housekeeper in this day and age
, I thought, as we were led inside to a sitting room. But maybe it was his wife or a
mistress
, perhaps.

Kim stated our business and the housekeeper
/
wife
/
mistress departed to find our host. The room we were in was pleasantly furnished and adorned with paintings on the walls. I went over and took the opportunity to examine some of them. If our resident artist had painted them, I was fairly impressed with his ability. They were a curious and wide ranging collection, however. Some were abstract, while others were photo-realistic. If they were all by the same artist, he showed a remarkable diversity of styles.

The housekeeper
/
etc. woman returned and motioned us to accompany her. She led us upstairs where we were ushered into what was obviously an artist’s studio. Paints and canvasses were liberally scattered around an otherwise bare room and I saw our erstwhile park acquaintance in the middle of it all, posing before a canvas which was propped up on an easel, frowning thunderously at what he was seeing. He glanced up in annoyance at our entrance but then smiled a welcome.

“Oh, hello,” he said, pleasantly. “I’m sorry I didn’t meet you, but I tend to become a little preoccupied with my work and lose track of time.” He glared at the canvas one more time, wiped his hands on a piece of cloth and strode over to shake our hands. “I apologise once again,” he remarked. “I hope I didn’t come across as boorish. It’s this latest work of mine. It just won’t gel properly. It’s a blasted nuisance.” Then he dusted his hands vigorously. “But enough of my minor irritations,” he exclaimed. “Can I offer you anything to drink? Or eat? Maria, my maid, makes a
marvellous
tea cake.” Ah ha, I thought.
One
mystery solved.

We were persuaded to partake of Maria’s cooking efforts and it lived up to the hype. It was delicious. The dog facsimile, which I was informed was unfortunately named ‘Fluff’, spent its time begging for scraps. We washed the cake down with a cup of rich coffee, while Roger regaled us with stories of unscrupulous art dealers and conniving sellers that he’d come across in his time.

I questioned Roger about the pictures I’d seen in the sitting room. “Did you paint them all?” I asked curiously. “They certainly appear to be from a wide selection of styles.”

“Yes, they’re all mine,” he replied. “I don’t seem to be able to settle down to just one school of painting. I like to try different themes and methods of capturing images and thoughts.” He smiled. “I guess I have ADPD.”

“ADPD?” I queried.

“Attention Deficit Painting Disorder,” he joked. “One day I might find a style and stay with it, but right now I’m having too much fun experimenting.” He arose and said, “If you like, I can show you my latest obsession in painting. It doesn’t have a name as yet, because I’ve just invented it, and I believe that I’ll be the first to use it……that I
know
of, anyway.” He led the way back to his studio and displayed the canvas he’d been scowling at when we first arrived.

“I can’t quite get it right,” he complained, “but that’s to be expected with any new art form. I want to convey metaphors and emotions with the minimum of lines and colour, but perhaps it’ll be too individual to be useful.”

What I saw was an almost blank painting, with a few lines and patches of colour throughout. There was almost nothing there, but paradoxically,
everything
was there. It was astounding. My mind conjured images and scenes from the scraps of lines, as my vision desperately tried to knit the random swirls into coherent patterns.

I blinked and tore my eyes away. “That’s amazing!” I announced. “I can see all
sorts
of things in there! It’s a kind of painting
without
the painting.”

“An apt description,” Simon said. “That’s what I’m aiming for – to have a basic image but to then let the viewer decide what the rest of the scene should be. I hope to tap into the deepest emotional levels of each person’s psyche…….but then again, maybe I’m just nuts,” he added, disarmingly. “But
enough
of my ramblings,” he announced decisively. “I imagine that you’re here, my dear Kim, to be a model for me. At least, I
hope
you are.”

Kim assented and Roger clapped his hands gleefully. “
Wonderful
!” he exclaimed. He gently held Kim’s face in his hands and turned it right and left. “You have a most marvellous bone structure,” he complimented. He stood back and appraised her critically. “And your figure is to
die
for,” he announced. Then he lifted her hands and examined them. “Such
perfect
hands,” he murmured, “but what do you do with them, ducky?” he asked, noticing Kim’s calluses on her knuckles and the sides of her palms. “Break
bricks
or something in your spare time?”

“Um….
yes
, as a matter of fact,” she admitted, blushing a little.

“Oh, I see,” he muttered, “You’re one of those macho
martial arts
people. Well, no matter, I’ve seen worse.” He shuddered. “You won’t
believe
some of the things my other models do for recreation! It makes my blood run cold.” He ran one last scrutiny over Kim and said, “If you want to model for me, my dear, I’d be
delighted
to employ you. You’re gorgeous and sassy –
exactly
what I was looking for. I’ll pay you fifty dollars an hour just to sit still while I paint. What do you say?”

Kim glanced over at me. “It’s
your
decision, sweetie,” I announced. “I’ll be happy with whatever you decide.”

“Well,” Kim mused, “I’ve never modelled before. It might be interesting for a change. I’m becoming a little bored at home. Very well, Mister Galway, I’ll do it.”

“Excellent,” he said, shaking Kim’s hand to seal the deal, “but please just call me
Roger
. I detest formality.”

We agreed to return the next morning for Kim’s first session. When the time arrived, I came along as well out of sheer curiosity. Maria ushered us into the studio where Roger had already set up a blank canvas. He welcomed us both, ushered a curious Fluff out of the room, and posed Kim on a chair.

“Just try to look natural,” he urged her. “I’ll be doing a charcoal sketch first of all, and then filling in the details with paint later on.” He began to sketch, but after bout ten minutes, it was obvious that the process wasn’t going at all well. Muttering under his breath, he repeatedly rearranged and rubbed out lines on the canvas. Finally, he threw down his charcoal stick in exasperation and complained, “This isn’t working out at
all
. Kim, sweetheart, you’re wriggling around like an itchy lizard. You’re going to have to sit
still
if we’re ever going to do this.”

“I’m sorry, Roger,” Kim apologised. “Sitting still isn’t something I do well. Maybe we should forget the whole idea.”

Roger walked backwards and forwards in agitation. “No, no, I don’t want to
lose
you, my darling. I
adore
your look. We’ll have to think of something.” He paced for a few minutes, and then stopped in front of Kim. “You say that you’re a martial arts person,” he declared, “so you must have done some meditation exercises,
yes
?”

“Quite a
lot
, really,” Kim reassured him.

“Well then, my dear, how about you do a few for me now? Perhaps they will calm you down,
hmmm
?”

“I’ll try,” Kim promised. She took a few deep breaths and relaxed her muscles. Her eyes lost their focus and I could almost
see
her mind drifting away.

“
Marvellous
!” Roger whispered, as he saw the result. Carefully, he turned Kim’s face up and a little to the left, then tiptoed back to his sketch, where he happily worked for the next hour. During all of that time, Kim barely stirred. The sole sign of life was her slowed, steady breathing. It was like watching a
statue
.

Finally Roger was satisfied and called for a break. Kim didn’t hear him and I had to shake her by the shoulder to bring her back to this reality. She must have been deeply into her meditative state because it took a few minutes before she came back to us.

“Was
that
what you wanted, Roger?” she asked.

“My dear, you were
wonderful
!” he enthused. “You could give lessons to a
rock
! I didn’t see even a hair twitch. I wish
all
my models were like you. We’ll have a coffee, do another session and then call it a day. I’m so excited about this partnership of ours. I’ve so many ideas for paintings with you swirling around in my brain. It’s going to be
fabulous
!”

We had our coffee and some more of Maria’s tea cake, complete with more Fluff begging, and started another sketching session. Kim went into her trance state once more and Roger busily occupied himself at the easel. I sat in the background, frankly bored to tears. Simon strictly forbade any movement or talking on my part as he said it interfered with his concentration and I had to content myself with looking around the studio – an occupation that quickly palled after the first ten minutes. This was going to be the
last
time I’d accompany Kim to these sessions, I vowed. After what seemed to be an eternity, Roger pronounced himself satisfied and I shook Kim back to wakefulness once more. I was curious to see the progress Roger had made and asked him to show his sketch. He was a little reluctant, saying that it was still too early but eventually allowed us to view what he’d done. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, never having seen a painting in the process of being created before, but was astonished at how
little
had been accomplished. I mean, in two hours I would have expected the canvas to be at least
full
of drawing, but it wasn’t. On the other hand, what presented itself
was
indisputably Kim. He’d captured her
perfectly
– the tilt of her head; the little smile she wore while she was daydreaming; her perfect features; the graceful hands – it was all there in the sweep of the lines and the cunning shading.

“Roger,” I praised, “this is brilliant. You’re a
genius
!”

“Hardly,” he grimaced. “Every time I look at what I’ve done, I always see what I
haven’t
managed to do. I’m never satisfied. It drives me crazy.” He shrugged. “But, hey, what can you do?” He took Kim’s hands in his and patted them. “Kim, my lovely, you were marvellous!” he complimented. “Same time tomorrow?”