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“So what? I’m not ashamed to admit we are sleeping together.”
Unable to stand still, I start to pace the length of the studio. I need to move. I need to walk to be able to clearly express my emotions.
I walk up and down, back and forth. Blake simply watches. He seems confused. He cannot understand where I’m coming from.
“It’s too personal.” I blurt out again. “I think it’s way too personal to be out on exhibition for the world to see me. I…” I trail off for a moment, and I sigh before continuing. “I know the whole world won’t be looking at me, but you know what I mean.”
Blake still says nothing. He is looking at me and then back at the painting.
Eventually he shrugs.
“I don’t get it. It’s you. All of you. You come through the painting just the way you are.”
“Exactly.” I’ve stopped pacing. Hands on hips I look at him.
“Exactly what?”
The little smile around his lips leaves me confused. Is he trying not to understand or does he really not understand?
“Anyone that looks at me will see all this sex aura around me.” I try again.
“What’s wrong with that? You’re perfect.”
He comes toward me. Next minute I’m in his arms. He kisses my face, neck and arms.
“You’re delicious. You’re sexy.”
I push away from him. It’s not that I don’t want him, it’s just my brain shuts down the minute there’s close personal contact between us.
If I want him to understand how important this is to me I must keep a clear head.
“But it’s just that the world will see me that way. Complete strangers will drool over me, maybe.”
Again Blake shrugs.
“What’s wrong with that?”
Obviously I’m not getting my point across.
“I’ve told you before. You inspire me. You inspire this painting. It’s you.”
“Yeah. But it’s too intimate.”
I can see Blake study the artwork again, as if being a critique.
“You write?” His gaze returns to me.
Since I’m not sure if this is a rhetorical question or not I nod.
“And isn’t your writing inspired by personal matters, by intimate occasions and maybe even people you meet and fuck?”
His crudeness surprises me.
“It does.” I hesitate. “But it’s only words. Words on paper, words people read and re-interpret. Sometimes my experiences and what inspires me is left out so the reader can imagine it using their own experiences and put their own interpretation on it.”
As Blake seems to ponder my words I try and remember what one of my lecturers said during my studies.
“Writing is not really original. Everything has been written before.” I pause. There was something about writing being the clashing of words, but I’m not sure if this will add anything. “Every writer is shaped by what has been written by someone else. Writers are readers. When I write, I reinterpret what has been written by someone else.”
