Tonight, I am taking you into the Courtauld Institute Gallery in London. A glorious early eighteenth century manor in the heart of London, just a block away from the parliament buildings. The night guard tips his hat to us as we enter the building. You in a sleeveless black velvet gown, black shoes, toting a small evening purse. God you are ravishing. My very own Holly Golightly. I in a classic black tuxedo with the bowtie undone from your handiwork in the beautiful old fashioned London taxi we just now exited from.
You turn to watch as the guard locks the door behind him, leaving the two of us alone for the night. Turning back, you look at me with those glorious eyes and smile sweetly. We hold hands as we walk up the enormous marble staircase ending at a landing some thirty feet above the first floor. We proceed forward into the west gallery as the sun sets. We gaze around the large square room at the dozen or so paintings, mostly by the later Impressionists. Your gaze stops as you spy Modigliani’s Portrait of Jeanne. Placed strategically in front of the painting is a marble bench which has been covered with a white tablecloth. Set upon it are two wine glasses, a plate of fresh fruit and cheeses, and a bottle of Merlot. Two burgundy cloth napkins are laid on the bench as well, with a shining silver corkscrew placed alone on one of them. two natural creamy-colored candles adorn each side of the bench. A short one on the outsides and a tall one on either of the two insides. The candles are already casting a warm glow into the room. We walk to the Modigliani to look, and to our left, notice the window opened into the courtyard of the institute below us.
In the courtyard are seated a young lady in a short back dress playing a viola. Accompanying her on a classical guitar is a young man in a black dress shirt and slacks. Both are angelic in appearance. They are playing the sensuous Eroica, Beethoven’s symphony No. 3 in E Flat. They look up to us and smile. You look down at the girl and comment to me about her creamy white breasts, the cleavage of which is opened for us to see. You touch your own breasts. We smile back at the musicians and return our attention to the painting. The eyes call to us. My heart races at the site of this work of art as I reach to embrace the work of art standing next to me. We stand together for what seems like hours, staring at her staring at us. You turn to face me with tears streaming down your cheeks. What a sight in candlelight. We hold each other tighter as I bend my neck to reach for your mouth. We kiss a beautiful kiss. Soft, not too short, not too long (like there could ever be a kiss that was too long). I pull away from you, careful to slide my right hand down your left arm and into your waiting hand. We will not lose contact tonight. I pour us each a too-full glass of the deep red wine. Clos du Bois, 1997. Gasp, an American wine in London? I hand you a glass, then take mine. Still holding hands, we raise the glasses to toast this romance, then we turn to face Jeanne and raise our glasses to this beautiful Madonna. We sip. Not bad. But good because this night is good. The air is not cool, not hot. Just right. We kick off our shoes. The room darkens as we drink, and walk around the bare room, looking at Degas’ self-portrait as an old man. The poor soul, cursed with failing sight, he drew with pastels in his later years so that he could feel the paper beneath him. This portrait shows how his failing eyes captured the lights and darks of his visage in a mirror as he worked. Then on to Gustav Klimt, what a beauty, the lovers embracing. The gold leaf work is exquisite despite its aging. The beauty of these works has heightened our fires of passion. We again embrace and finish off the first glasses of wine.
