NOTE:
This is a small portion of a much longer piece. It is the culmination of a long, slow and dangerous flirt, and this scene proves to be their first time together...
*****
I just couldn't find the inspiration - I sat for nearly an hour staring at the three bold blue vertical lines on the canvas; I felt like they were the start of something, but the next move eluded me. Paint sat drying on my palette as I sought the rest of the mental image. I began absently mixing colors, with no actual goal or plan - at least not at first.
I suddenly looked down - the color on my brush was her...a shade of reddish brown that exactly replicated the color of her long, wavy hair. My hands were inspired and I began working on the background behind the blue lines. First two wispy lines that met at a near point - not straight like the sides of a triangle, but slightly curvy as though simulating hair on a crudely drawn stick figure. More mixing; my hands moved frantically to create a pale flesh tone for a center to the somewhat triangular shape, followed by a deep red - almost maroon - that emulated the color of the dress she'd worn the first time I saw her.
More colors appeared; grays and blues in the foreground, warmer colors in the background. By the time my brush had completed its work, it felt much like I was gazing at an abstract version of her through the bars of a prison cell, her warmth and beauty just beyond my reach.
"Do you really feel trapped?" she said as the clickety-clack of her heels signaled her entry into the studio.
"What do you mean?" I hadn't even noticed the door opening. "Wait - what are you doing here?"
"The painting - do you really feel trapped, as though you're looking at me through a cage like that?" she whispered as she wrapped her arms gently around me from behind, completely ignoring my question.
I was amazed at how well she'd read the painting - it wasn't overly detailed; essentially an abstract, but somehow she had figured out exactly what it felt like to me. I stepped my way out of the hug.
"I - I don't know. I guess...well, it feels like you've somehow captured me; like I'm under some sort of hypnotic spell."
She didn't reply immediately; instead she grasped my hand and locked her deep, beautiful eyes onto mine for what seemed like hours.
"Do you want to be free?" she finally breathed into my ear.
I couldn't answer, I could barely breathe at that moment. I stared at the floor, then at the painting, and then back at the floor.
She abruptly changed the subject. "I've never tried painting before, but it's always intrigued me."
She paused, a sly grin crossing her face.
"Teach me?" she queried.
"Well, I...really...I mean, I wouldn't know how to teach someone any of this - it's not like I actually know what I'm doing."
"Look at that canvas - really look at it. Was I wrong about the meaning?"
I focused on the painting for a few moments, then shook my head. I couldn't deny it - she read the meaning spot on.
"So then if I could figure it out from one look, it's pretty safe to say you know what you're doing. Give yourself a little credit."
She trailed a fingertip across my cheek.
"Teach me?" she asked again.
I handed her a wide brush and gingerly lifted my still-damp work off the easel, placed it on my workbench and grabbed a fresh canvas from under the bench.
"I'm not really certain how much I can show you - I can't claim to know any actual techniques or styles; honestly, for me it's all about feel. Much like my writing used to, the paint just kind of flows, almost as if I'm unconscious."
"So it's all about the feel?" she murmured, a hint of seduction in her voice.
"Not automatically. Some might tell you different. But for me, yes it is."
"Then make me feel it," she whispered, grasping my hand.
I led her to my stool and motioned for her to sit. I settled the blank canvas onto the easel and grabbed a palette.
"What's your favorite color?" I asked.
"Hmmm...red, I think."
"Tell me why," I said, taking a tube of red acrylic from the bench.
"It's bold and strong, plus I like warm colors - although I suppose red might fall into the category of hot rather than warm."
I reached to the bench for tubes of yellow, burnt sienna and white.
"But maybe the best thing about red," she continued, "is that it's such a passionate color. Red makes no compromises or apologies for its fire, strength or boldness - it's about power, desire; maybe even lust, if that's possible for a color."
I squeezed a dollop of the red onto the palette as she spoke and grabbed another brush. I added a small dot of yellow and a tiny dab each of the burnt sienna and white and began mixing.
"I thought the first tube was already red. Why do you have to mix?"
"You don't just
like
red," I explained. "You breathed life into it; put a picture of a very specific red into my mind. So that's the shade of red I will create for you."
I mixed and tweaked for a few minutes. Suddenly she gasped softly.
"That's the red you love, isn't it?" I whispered.
It really was a stunning shade - just enough of the yellow and sienna into the mix to take the red a tiny bit toward orange; a fiery mix that walked the line between bold and sensual. The shade matched the feeling her smoldering eyes drove into my soul every time she looked at me.
She didn't take time to answer; instead she dipped her brush immediately into the paint and prepared to attack the canvas. But she stopped short of the first brush stroke.
"I don't know what to do," she giggled. "I've never done anything more than 'paint-by-numbers' in my life."
