us.”
“Oh, yes, do,” said Maurice, “he’s my favourite.”
There was an interminable silence during which I could virtually feel the physical weight of their anticipation, but I said nothing and the intensity waned. The conversation moved elsewhere. It always strikes me as odd the way they all chatter quite openly in front of the model, as if he or she were not really there. It must be the way the aristocracy behave in front of servants, acting as if they are deaf or aren’t really human. I barely say a word when I’m drawing there—the complete opposite of when I am drawing Gore alone, when I can’t keep quiet.
So I decided on the way home never to go there again. It will be awkward; my absence will undoubtedly be commented upon, and I shall no doubt bump into one or more of them in the street on occasion. Barnes is like a medieval village sometimes. But I don’t need them. Shan’t miss them. It’ll give me more time to work on my paintings at home. I never produce anything very interesting at the group; it was always more of a social thing, strangely enough. Now the social element has gone to the dogs, there hardly seems any point in pursuing it.
I always reassured myself that at least I acquired wisdom as my youthful ignorance was replaced by knowledge and experience. Now, however, having met a man half my age who has truly lived life to the full, I feel like a child again.
His appearance belies his knowledge—for there is a knowledge there, after all, which I have come to discover.
Much more there than meets the eye. He isn’t as dim as he first appeared, just inarticulate, incapable of expressing the complexity of what he feels. How do I know? The rapidity with which his moods change, and the colour of his eyes with them; the world-weariness worn like a garment that ill fits the statuesque demeanour. His intelligence is of a different order—an intelligence of the body, if you will. An intelligence that shines unselfconsciously, wordlessly, and which would evaporate should he ever try to articulate it with anything other than his body. It is a logic of the blood-beat, a meaning held within the contours of his skin, coded within its tones and lines.
His face expresses such a joyful innocence when it breaks into a smile. His eyes sparkle with mischief, though not of a specifically sexual nature. His face and neck always discolour to a light shade of red when he is naked, making him look slightly embarrassed, even though his body language suggests the opposite. When he gets excited—which he does often when he talks—his hands move with wild abandon and his voice oscillates madly as he stumbles to find the right word. There is something extremely innocent about him that I wouldn’t immediately associate with a whore, though what that says about my prejudices I daren’t begin to imagine. He is like a beautiful child, and he makes me feel so jaded by comparison, so cynical and tired. His joy serves to remind me of my solitude, my self-enforced speechlessness—my monastic vow of silence that I took in my sleep one night, unaware of how much I’d miss engaging with the world. Until Gore’s arrival into my narrow world, I had grown accustomed to expressing no further sounds than “good morning” or “good afternoon” to neighbours and shopkeepers, and the weekly banal small-talk of the drawing circle. And now this man has come into my life who seems to question all my beliefs, casting on them the light from his skin and bringing them under scrutiny—without even knowing he’s doing it. I feel like a pupil with everything still to learn. Oh, I can hold my own, I’m well-read if not well-travelled, but everything I know seems anodyne in comparison to the side of life to which Gore has been exposed. His experiences are the stuff you never read about. He has a scar on his back, just underneath the right shoulder blade, from where he was stabbed in Johannesburg. He lost a toe from gangrene in a
“Oh, yes, do,” said Maurice, “he’s my favourite.”
There was an interminable silence during which I could virtually feel the physical weight of their anticipation, but I said nothing and the intensity waned. The conversation moved elsewhere. It always strikes me as odd the way they all chatter quite openly in front of the model, as if he or she were not really there. It must be the way the aristocracy behave in front of servants, acting as if they are deaf or aren’t really human. I barely say a word when I’m drawing there—the complete opposite of when I am drawing Gore alone, when I can’t keep quiet.
So I decided on the way home never to go there again. It will be awkward; my absence will undoubtedly be commented upon, and I shall no doubt bump into one or more of them in the street on occasion. Barnes is like a medieval village sometimes. But I don’t need them. Shan’t miss them. It’ll give me more time to work on my paintings at home. I never produce anything very interesting at the group; it was always more of a social thing, strangely enough. Now the social element has gone to the dogs, there hardly seems any point in pursuing it.
I always reassured myself that at least I acquired wisdom as my youthful ignorance was replaced by knowledge and experience. Now, however, having met a man half my age who has truly lived life to the full, I feel like a child again.
His appearance belies his knowledge—for there is a knowledge there, after all, which I have come to discover.
Much more there than meets the eye. He isn’t as dim as he first appeared, just inarticulate, incapable of expressing the complexity of what he feels. How do I know? The rapidity with which his moods change, and the colour of his eyes with them; the world-weariness worn like a garment that ill fits the statuesque demeanour. His intelligence is of a different order—an intelligence of the body, if you will. An intelligence that shines unselfconsciously, wordlessly, and which would evaporate should he ever try to articulate it with anything other than his body. It is a logic of the blood-beat, a meaning held within the contours of his skin, coded within its tones and lines.
His face expresses such a joyful innocence when it breaks into a smile. His eyes sparkle with mischief, though not of a specifically sexual nature. His face and neck always discolour to a light shade of red when he is naked, making him look slightly embarrassed, even though his body language suggests the opposite. When he gets excited—which he does often when he talks—his hands move with wild abandon and his voice oscillates madly as he stumbles to find the right word. There is something extremely innocent about him that I wouldn’t immediately associate with a whore, though what that says about my prejudices I daren’t begin to imagine. He is like a beautiful child, and he makes me feel so jaded by comparison, so cynical and tired. His joy serves to remind me of my solitude, my self-enforced speechlessness—my monastic vow of silence that I took in my sleep one night, unaware of how much I’d miss engaging with the world. Until Gore’s arrival into my narrow world, I had grown accustomed to expressing no further sounds than “good morning” or “good afternoon” to neighbours and shopkeepers, and the weekly banal small-talk of the drawing circle. And now this man has come into my life who seems to question all my beliefs, casting on them the light from his skin and bringing them under scrutiny—without even knowing he’s doing it. I feel like a pupil with everything still to learn. Oh, I can hold my own, I’m well-read if not well-travelled, but everything I know seems anodyne in comparison to the side of life to which Gore has been exposed. His experiences are the stuff you never read about. He has a scar on his back, just underneath the right shoulder blade, from where he was stabbed in Johannesburg. He lost a toe from gangrene in a
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