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"I'm going to take dozens and dozens of candid photographs of you. I've been reading about some other artists and how they work," he quickly continued before I could respond. "This one artist I admire. Arliss Thornbee, believes you have to submerge yourself in your subject, eat, sleep, and breathe nothing else until your artistic subconscious forms an image so powerful it cannot be denied and you as artist are merely a communication device, a transmitter bringing the idea out and onto the canvas. Isn't that a truly interesting and exciting idea?"
"Yes." I said. but I also felt a bit of a twang in my heart. Some tiny alarm, like the tweep of a baby bird alone and vulnerable in its nest. "But is that healthy? I mean, to permit yourself to be consumed by one thing?"
"It's only until the artistic subconscious has completed the vision," he explained.
"Why do the photographs all have to be candid?" I pursued. He shook his head, his face filling with disappointment.
"I would have thought you of all people would know why. Willow, When people pose, when they are prepared, they do things to hide their true inner selves. You're the daughter of a psychiatrist and you want to be one. too. You should know that, should know that first you have to strip away all the subterfuge, the masks and devices people use to hide their true selves. The best photographs are the ones a photographer takes of an unaware subject."
But now that you've told me what you intend to do. won't I be aware?" I asked softly.
He smiled.
'Now you are, but you won't be like me. You won't be thinking about it day in and day out. and I'll know when to snap that picture," he said with more confidence than I had ever seen him exhibit,
"How long will this preparation take?"
"Maybe a week or so. I don't want to give you an exact time frame or you will be anticipating. One day soon I'll let you know the portrait is ready. Okay? You still want me to do it, don't you?" he added when I hesitated.
"Oh, yes, of course," I said.
"Good. Good." he muttered, and went off with a tight smile on his lips like someone who has just gotten his opponent to agree to something that would place the opponent at a disadvantage. It troubled me, but he was right: I was too busy and too occupied with other things to think about it all the time.
He went off to complete the setting up of his studio. Linden had ordered new supplies and decided to change the color of the walls and improve the lighting. Mother was encouraged. The dark thoughts that had troubled his mind so often since his injury and operation seemed to have gone. He moved about with more energy, smiling, eager to help her and take on more household responsibilities. When he wasn't working on his studio, he over-saw the work of the gardeners, and even got into some of that work himself, planting new flowers, trimming hedges. trying, I thought, to restore a look he remembered from before his world had turned upside down.
His doctor was satisfied with the results she saw and reduced his medication. She told Mother she was happily surprised and confessed that she had expected his condition to grow worse before it improved. The result was that she gave her permission to let him drive again. The first trip he made was to take Mother and me to help him get fitted for his tuxedo. He even agreed to go to a hair salon to get his hair cut and styled by a professional rather than have Mother trim it as usual. I thought he looked handsome and told him so.
"Even with this ugly scar?" he asked.
"It's so slight now. Linden, it doesn't detract at all from your good looks," I told him. "It even adds some character. Why, just think of the war stories you can tell some unsuspecting, innocent young woman when you go out."
"I don't know if I can do that," he said, looking away quickly.
"Oh. I mean just in fim. Linden. You can tell her it was just a boating accident afterward."
"I don't mean the story. I mean go out, date," he confessed, "I've been out of that game so long. I don't even know how to begin."
"Thatcher will give you some pointers. I'm sure," I said, His smile dissolved.
"I don't need Thatcher's pointers. I'd rather stay home." he muttered.
"Maybe some night we can all go out on a double date," I suggested. "I know some very nice girls at college."
He kept his eyes down,
"When you're ready." I said softly, but I made a mental note to invite same of my college friends over one afternoon, thinking that if he could just begin to socialize, even slowly, he would gain self-confidence.
The opportunity came a few days later at lunch after Professor Fuentes's class when Loni and Petula Butterworth, Holden Mitchell. and I were talking about studying for upcoming exams. I suggested they come to Jaya del Mar the following afternoon when we all had free time. I really only wanted the twins. but Holden was there and I didn't have the heart to exclude him. Loni seemed to be taking a fancy to him, anyway, and working at getting his attention and interest.
"I know he's shy." she whispered. "but I kind of like that in a man. Most of the men I know want me to think I should be grateful they want to get into bed with me,"
I told Linden they were all coming the next day and asked him to join us for coffee on the rear loggia. At first he was reluctant.
"I have nothing in common with any of them," he said.
You don't know that. Linden, and besides, if you're still planning on doing my picture and working everything into your artistic subconscious as you told me, you should try to participate in everything I do, even if just as an interested observer.'
He stared at me, his eyes narrow with suspicion. "Are you using psychology on me?"
