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“Honestly, I’m not quite sure what to say.”
“Seriously? You’re the writer, why not try by putting one word after the next? That might work.”
Katherine gives me a sharp look and it’s clear she doesn’t appreciate the sarcasm, and her response is just as biting.
“Yes, I know what I am, but nowhere in my CV does it state that I’m an art critic.”
“Phfft…critics. I’ve never given one solitary fuck about critics. They’re dilettantes, the lot of them. They have no skills of their own. They’re all cowards, just sitting on the sidelines watching and waiting to pounce on someone’s work. What's that old saying, 'Those who can, do, those who can't, teach, and those who can't do either become critics!”
“I couldn’t have said it better. And that’s precisely why I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to make hasty judgments.”
“Katherine, you’re not one of them. You never could be. I just want to know what you think. What you feel when you look at it.”
“Why?”
“Because, I’ve never painted anything like this.”
“Oh, please. You’ve probably painted dozens and dozens of women. I’m no different.”
“You think that? You can look at it and believe it’s like anything else I’ve ever done?”
She doesn’t nod yes or no. She doesn’t move, she simply stares at the canvas.
Rubbing my forehead with the palm of my hand, I turn away. At this moment, her opinion means everything. And everything I feel for her is on that canvas.
“Katherine, you understand it isn’t finished,” I say. “There’s more work to be done, but the bones, the emotion, the essence of it is there.”
I’m begging for a reaction, but she seems frozen, with no words or movement. And after what seems like an eternity, she nods her head. It’s almost imperceptible, but I’m noticing everything about her, including the dust motes against the sunlight that surround her frame.
“Hmm…” she muses, and begins to turn away.
I grab her wrist and pull her toward me. She doesn’t protest, but when she looks at me, her eyes are sad.
“Listen, this is the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“But…it’s…raw…it’s so personal.”
“Of course it is. Thisispersonal,” I say pointing to her and me, and the painting. “Youare personal”
I stop and take a breath, but I don’t loosen my grip on her wrist, and I don’t move away. I’m waiting for her to look me in the eye.
“This is personal,” I repeat it as a whisper, “and your opinion matters.”
“I feel as if you’re hounding me,” she says, her words laced with anger,
“I am not hounding. I just painted what I believe is my best work.Youare the subject.Youbrought that out in me.Youare mymuse, for God’s sake! Is it too much to ask what you fucking think?”
I am yelling, and I feel her pull away emotionally. That’s something I can’t afford to happen. I need her because she is my source of inspiration. So, I make one last ditch effort.
“Katherine, I know…you feel something. Good, bad, or indifferent…just, please, tell me.”
“You cannot show this painting to anyone,” she finally says.
But there’s a catch in her voice, tears in her eyes.
“Are you crying? What’s happening?”
She shakes my hand off her wrist and wipes at the tears. “I don’t know how you did it. I knew you were talented, but that doesn’t describe what you’ve created here.”
