littered with bacon bits, that Diana began to feel guilty. Stupid. Dirty.
They ordered dessert. Diana remembered that it had been called Mud Pie—chocolate ice cream on a dark, compressed pastry, drizzled with even darker chocolate. It had tasted, perhaps, as sweet and dense as the mud out of which God had fashioned the first human form...
Diana took out her box of charcoals and clipped a fresh sheet of paper to the easel and began to sketch the teenage bodies she'd seen—even though they were gone and she had always been best at drawing forms she could actually see. When she looked directly at the thing she was rendering, the process was easier, less inward. But when she drew from memory or imagination, there was often a sameness to the things she drew. The faces would be nearly identical every time—something about the eyes, even the eyes of old men, of children. They weren't exactly her own eyes she'd find herself giving those faces, but they were remembered eyes,
someone's
eyes, eyes that had imprinted themselves on her mind as the archetypal eyes,
the eyes she saw watching her when she closed her own and imagined the
idea
of eyes.
Still she wanted to draw those kids, and the kids were gone, so Diana recalled what she could of them as she looked out her studio window at the Ellsworths' backyard. She sketched first what she saw—the lawn chairs, the pool, the sliding glass patio doors—and then she drew what she imagined:
The girl's figure, reclining in one of the chairs.
And then the boy, all sleekness and skin.
She drew the girl's arm, bent at the elbow, tossed casually over her head. It was a gesture Diana remembered making, a gesture that casually let the observer see the entirety of her nakedness.
With a charcoal shadow across her shoulder, Diana suggested that the body of the girl was wet The boy's face was tilted toward the sky—chin lifted, arrogant His eyes were closed.
The girl's legs were raised, crossed at the knee, as if she were swinging a foot.
Diana considered adding a cigarette to the hand bent above the girl's head. It seemed like something this girl might be doing, naked after sex in a stranger's pool, midmorning three weeks into June.
But she didn't do it This girl didn't smoke.
She drew the girl's eyes last. Then she looked up from her drawing and out the window again to check the light Would it be pouring over their heads—baptismal, cleansing? Or would it be slanted? Would the slanting elongate their forms, divest them of innocence, or—?
It was the light she was looking for—light's physical emptiness, as she described it to her students—as she parted the curtains again. Diana never worked in color. It was so much
mote interesting to see what could be done without it, the incredible range of what was possible to render with only darkness and light.
She'd been looking only for light, but there was movement down there. Something beyond the lime green leafiness of the trees.
It was the girl.
She'd come back.
She'd put on a white tank top and faded jeans, and she was bent over, buckling a high-heeled sandal. Her hair had dried, and it was gossamer blond. She looked up just at the moment that Diana looked down. Perhaps she'd seen the curtain move above her....
Diana yanked it closed again, instinctively, and felt somehow embarrassed to have been looking out the window of her own studio.
Still she could see the girl through the sheerness of the curtain—although her form was muted, a shadow, nearly transparent. Perhaps stupidly Diana believed that the girl could no longer see
her.
But then the girl straightened herself, still looking toward the window.
She was a thin, tall girl.
She tucked a strand of pale blond hair behind her ear and rested all of her weight on one angular hip, then pulled the strap of her tank top up her shoulder. Still staring straight at the window, straight at Diana's face hiding behind the curtain there, the girl raised a middle finger from her fist
They ordered dessert. Diana remembered that it had been called Mud Pie—chocolate ice cream on a dark, compressed pastry, drizzled with even darker chocolate. It had tasted, perhaps, as sweet and dense as the mud out of which God had fashioned the first human form...
Diana took out her box of charcoals and clipped a fresh sheet of paper to the easel and began to sketch the teenage bodies she'd seen—even though they were gone and she had always been best at drawing forms she could actually see. When she looked directly at the thing she was rendering, the process was easier, less inward. But when she drew from memory or imagination, there was often a sameness to the things she drew. The faces would be nearly identical every time—something about the eyes, even the eyes of old men, of children. They weren't exactly her own eyes she'd find herself giving those faces, but they were remembered eyes,
someone's
eyes, eyes that had imprinted themselves on her mind as the archetypal eyes,
the eyes she saw watching her when she closed her own and imagined the
idea
of eyes.
Still she wanted to draw those kids, and the kids were gone, so Diana recalled what she could of them as she looked out her studio window at the Ellsworths' backyard. She sketched first what she saw—the lawn chairs, the pool, the sliding glass patio doors—and then she drew what she imagined:
The girl's figure, reclining in one of the chairs.
And then the boy, all sleekness and skin.
She drew the girl's arm, bent at the elbow, tossed casually over her head. It was a gesture Diana remembered making, a gesture that casually let the observer see the entirety of her nakedness.
With a charcoal shadow across her shoulder, Diana suggested that the body of the girl was wet The boy's face was tilted toward the sky—chin lifted, arrogant His eyes were closed.
The girl's legs were raised, crossed at the knee, as if she were swinging a foot.
Diana considered adding a cigarette to the hand bent above the girl's head. It seemed like something this girl might be doing, naked after sex in a stranger's pool, midmorning three weeks into June.
But she didn't do it This girl didn't smoke.
She drew the girl's eyes last. Then she looked up from her drawing and out the window again to check the light Would it be pouring over their heads—baptismal, cleansing? Or would it be slanted? Would the slanting elongate their forms, divest them of innocence, or—?
It was the light she was looking for—light's physical emptiness, as she described it to her students—as she parted the curtains again. Diana never worked in color. It was so much
mote interesting to see what could be done without it, the incredible range of what was possible to render with only darkness and light.
She'd been looking only for light, but there was movement down there. Something beyond the lime green leafiness of the trees.
It was the girl.
She'd come back.
She'd put on a white tank top and faded jeans, and she was bent over, buckling a high-heeled sandal. Her hair had dried, and it was gossamer blond. She looked up just at the moment that Diana looked down. Perhaps she'd seen the curtain move above her....
Diana yanked it closed again, instinctively, and felt somehow embarrassed to have been looking out the window of her own studio.
Still she could see the girl through the sheerness of the curtain—although her form was muted, a shadow, nearly transparent. Perhaps stupidly Diana believed that the girl could no longer see
her.
But then the girl straightened herself, still looking toward the window.
She was a thin, tall girl.
She tucked a strand of pale blond hair behind her ear and rested all of her weight on one angular hip, then pulled the strap of her tank top up her shoulder. Still staring straight at the window, straight at Diana's face hiding behind the curtain there, the girl raised a middle finger from her fist
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