listen to music?”
He reflects for a moment. “I enjoy looking at paintings. It reminds me that others also toil to create.”
I’m not used to being so close to a man, and I have to concentrate on appearing calm, pressing down the coil of excitement springing up inside.
He shrugs. “In a way I can appreciate it more than a symphony—I don’t have to compare myself and my talents.” He laughs. “Or lack thereof.”
Paul seems different from other people I’ve met in the capital. He doesn’t possess the smooth manners of the rich or the crusty suspicion I have encountered with the working classes. He has a frankness to him, an honest spontaneity that draws me in.
“So was that what I interrupted on the bench? You were soaking up inspiration.” I’m teasing, and it catches me by surprise.
His eyes sparkle. “Come on. I’m wide awake, and my search for the muse continues.” He takes my hand. “We are going to find a melody for my composition.”
Delighted that he wants to remain in my company, I glideout of the gallery, my heart pounding from the warmth of his hand in mine.
“Portraits generally do the trick. This way.” He navigates through a small group of visitors and takes me up a flight of marble stairs and to a long gallery, the ceiling of which is lined with skylights.
There are several other patrons dotted around the room, and on the far wall a woman artist has set up her easel and paints, with a cloth underneath to protect the floor.
Paul turns to me. “I can hear music in certain paintings. Women evoke melodies for me. Seascapes and rivers are the string section; in battle scenes the percussion reveals itself.” After saying this he gives a half smile, maybe feeling self-conscious about sharing his theory.
“That makes sense.” I nod thoughtfully, as if considering his words, but my eyes are examining his appearance. When he smiles, it sends a ripple through me like a wave. He has a small scar on his cheekbone. His hands are expressive, always in motion when he talks. They look like a sculptor’s work, large and strong with slender fingers; the skin is smooth with the trace of the veins underneath.
“There’s Ingres’s
Bather
,” says Paul, gesturing to a painting of a nude woman. She’s seated with her back to the viewer, her face partially visible. “It wasn’t popular when he debuted it at the Salon. But tastes change, and now people can appreciate it.”
I worry for a moment about whether I should feel awkward. Is it hugely inappropriate to be looking at a picture of a naked woman with a strange man? The blush rises to my cheek, butI will it away. This is art, I decide, and find my composure. I concentrate on the painting.
“What do you think?” asks Paul. He looks at me expectantly, as if I’m going to say something most original and intelligent. Does he not realize I’m only a village girl who knows nothing about art?
I clear my mind and study the painting.
“It’s curious, how the artist had taken something ordinary, a private moment, and made it so striking.”
“Go on,” urges Paul.
“I mean, she’s exposed, the bather, yet hidden.” I take a step closer to examine the canvas. “And the colors—when you look up close, they appear a bit messy, haphazard.” I step back from the painting, as if I need the perspective of distance, but really, I just want to stand close to him again. “Yet when you look at the whole canvas, it all fits together.”
I turn to him, surprised by my own ease and confidence in his company, trying to control the excitement beneath my chest.
“You possess it,” he says.
“Possess what?” I ask, hoping what follows is a compliment.
“You have that capacity to be moved by art, to be affected by beauty.”
Beauty
. That word clangs like a saucepan lid crashing to the floor. I move on to the next portrait. Another beautiful woman. Her painted eyes stare blankly out at me, and from her rosebud lips I hear her
He reflects for a moment. “I enjoy looking at paintings. It reminds me that others also toil to create.”
I’m not used to being so close to a man, and I have to concentrate on appearing calm, pressing down the coil of excitement springing up inside.
He shrugs. “In a way I can appreciate it more than a symphony—I don’t have to compare myself and my talents.” He laughs. “Or lack thereof.”
Paul seems different from other people I’ve met in the capital. He doesn’t possess the smooth manners of the rich or the crusty suspicion I have encountered with the working classes. He has a frankness to him, an honest spontaneity that draws me in.
“So was that what I interrupted on the bench? You were soaking up inspiration.” I’m teasing, and it catches me by surprise.
His eyes sparkle. “Come on. I’m wide awake, and my search for the muse continues.” He takes my hand. “We are going to find a melody for my composition.”
Delighted that he wants to remain in my company, I glideout of the gallery, my heart pounding from the warmth of his hand in mine.
“Portraits generally do the trick. This way.” He navigates through a small group of visitors and takes me up a flight of marble stairs and to a long gallery, the ceiling of which is lined with skylights.
There are several other patrons dotted around the room, and on the far wall a woman artist has set up her easel and paints, with a cloth underneath to protect the floor.
Paul turns to me. “I can hear music in certain paintings. Women evoke melodies for me. Seascapes and rivers are the string section; in battle scenes the percussion reveals itself.” After saying this he gives a half smile, maybe feeling self-conscious about sharing his theory.
“That makes sense.” I nod thoughtfully, as if considering his words, but my eyes are examining his appearance. When he smiles, it sends a ripple through me like a wave. He has a small scar on his cheekbone. His hands are expressive, always in motion when he talks. They look like a sculptor’s work, large and strong with slender fingers; the skin is smooth with the trace of the veins underneath.
“There’s Ingres’s
Bather
,” says Paul, gesturing to a painting of a nude woman. She’s seated with her back to the viewer, her face partially visible. “It wasn’t popular when he debuted it at the Salon. But tastes change, and now people can appreciate it.”
I worry for a moment about whether I should feel awkward. Is it hugely inappropriate to be looking at a picture of a naked woman with a strange man? The blush rises to my cheek, butI will it away. This is art, I decide, and find my composure. I concentrate on the painting.
“What do you think?” asks Paul. He looks at me expectantly, as if I’m going to say something most original and intelligent. Does he not realize I’m only a village girl who knows nothing about art?
I clear my mind and study the painting.
“It’s curious, how the artist had taken something ordinary, a private moment, and made it so striking.”
“Go on,” urges Paul.
“I mean, she’s exposed, the bather, yet hidden.” I take a step closer to examine the canvas. “And the colors—when you look up close, they appear a bit messy, haphazard.” I step back from the painting, as if I need the perspective of distance, but really, I just want to stand close to him again. “Yet when you look at the whole canvas, it all fits together.”
I turn to him, surprised by my own ease and confidence in his company, trying to control the excitement beneath my chest.
“You possess it,” he says.
“Possess what?” I ask, hoping what follows is a compliment.
“You have that capacity to be moved by art, to be affected by beauty.”
Beauty
. That word clangs like a saucepan lid crashing to the floor. I move on to the next portrait. Another beautiful woman. Her painted eyes stare blankly out at me, and from her rosebud lips I hear her
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