Artist in the Park

She was looking at her phone, and without looking up at me she started reading out loud as I approached. "Kirkpatrick's special gift is his ability to bring life and somehow realism to his sweeping pastel sketches. In but a few lines, dashed off with creative brio, he can produce portraits or landscapes that are somehow as recognizable as a photograph, but with enchanting flair and whimsy," she read.

She was on my website.

"That is a helluva review, especially from a big paper like the Chicago Sun-Times," she said with an appealing smile. "You could build a marketing campaign around that.

I shrugged. I had, in a way. All I said was, "My parents now live in Chicago. Mom sent me three copies of that edition. It was a Sunday paper. I'll bet she spent forty bucks on shipping."

My new client laughed, set at ease. I sensed that we both felt we at least had the same sort of woman for a mother in common. I popped up the second, much cleaner chair and set it out for her, putting a bottle of water in the cupholder in the arm.

"We didn't discuss whether you'd like a profile, full on, three quarters, or what," I said, holding my chair and trying to decide where to position myself.

"Dealer's choice," she said trustingly.

I nodded and silently walked around her, examining her face for the most flattering angle. I specify most flattering, because every angle did the job. I indulged myself in a little subtle appreciation of the rest of her, too. The blouse she had changed into was quite a bit more fitted than the tank from before. She was every bit as well shaped up top as she was down in the yoga pants department.

Whatever. She'd be nice to look at while I worked. More importantly, I felt extremely confident that her charge would be approved when I ran her card for the deposit later that evening.

I looked at the sun, and considered how it would move over the several hours I thought I would need for this sitting. I helped her move her chair around slightly, then chose a position for my own that would keep the sun out of both our eyes, and where the fairly minimal change in shadows I anticipated would just give me a little more depth perception, rather than changing her appearance.

I set up my easel, and laid out my colors. "Just relax for right now. I'm going to start with two or three lightning sketches, just to get a feel for your face."

"Those sound interesting," she said calmly, relaxing. "Can I have them too?"

"Maybe one of them," I said, my hand already moving across the paper. "I'll hang on to the other two so I can sell them for big bucks when you show up in the Forbes 100 someday."

She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. It was a great look, though she'd never be able to hold it consistently enough for the final work. But it was the look of a woman who understood the vanishingly small chance that she'd ever reach that level of wealth and success, but who also was fully intent on making it happen, regardless.

Similarly, I intend to have my work in the Met someday. Cheers to us both.

"Will I need to smile?" she asked.

"I will want you to smile often," I said calmly. "And hopefully the same way each time. But smiling for long periods is exhausting and rapidly become more of a rictus. Most of the time, I'll just want your normal, relaxed face."

"What if I have resting bitch face?" she challenged me good-naturedly.

"I doubt it," I chuckled. "Relax for a second and let me see."

She tried to let her face relax and stare forward. A very pleasant visage...

I cringed visibly. "Ugh! Jesus, woman. That is seriously unfriendly!"

Her eyes crinkled around the edges and she laughed musically.

"Great," I mumbled.

"What?"

"Now I'm going to have to keep thinking up jokes every time I need to get that smile," I groused.

I was already done with the first sketch. I had wanted to capture her jaw line, and I felt like I had it. I ripped off the paper and started a second pre-sketch, looking to see how to render her brows, and the color of her eyes.

"I'll see if I can remember how to smile on demand," she said, clearly confident. I hoped that she was right. I'd done a lot of portraits, and smiling consistently, over and over, is harder than you would think.

"I am going to need one other thing from you," I went on, quickly trashing my first effort at her brows. They had a peculiarly sweeping arch, even at rest, and I wanted to catch that distinctive curve just right.

"Besides payment?"

"Well, yeah that, obviously. But I meant... I'm going to need your name!"

"Damn, I was betting that I could make it another hour before you broke down and asked," she chuckled. "It is Sophia. Sophia d'Abruzzi," she said in a heavy Italian accent that was otherwise entirely absent from her voice.

I gave her a bow from my chair, in lieu of getting up to shake her hand. "Thank you."

"And what is your name?" she said, tilting her head in return inquiry.

"First, please don't tilt your head," I said in the gentle tone I use to tell paying clients what to do. "And second, it's Robert, Robert Kirkpatrick, which you already know, since you were looking at my website to read that quote when I walked up."

"True," Sophia said, obediently focusing once more off to my left. "But what do you go by? Robert seems so... stuffy."

"Um, Robert," I admitted.

"Sorry! I should probably shut up while you work anyway," she said, sheepishly apologetic.

"De nada," I waved away her discomfort. "And talk all you want. Now and then, when I ask you to smile like you did before, you can bestill your voice."

And so I worked. I knew I was doing good work, if only because I was going fast. I really was feeling the contours of her face, seeing them flow naturally from my hands onto the paper. There were none of the fits and starts, the errors that I encounter, or the workarounds I have to employ when a subject is eluding my artistic grasp. Sophia was, I reflected at one point, turning out to be a bit of a muse for me.

And we talked, chatted really, as I worked. We covered a great number of subjects. I surprised her by how interested I was in her work for an investment capital firm headquartered here in the city. But I found money intriguing beyond just spending it, and had a background to intelligently engage on the subject. I would have likely ended up in finance myself, like my father, had people not started demanding to give me money for my art at a fairly early age.

I was, as always, glad to talk at length about wine, as the sortof kindof expert that I am. She engaged on the subject entertainingly. We each had knowledge to share with the other about The Grape.

We were not in perfect accord, however. I tried to talk about baseball, football, basketball... most any kind of ball, but she kept countering with soccer references.

Soccer? Not at all the perfect woman by any means.

I think I likewise disappointed her by my utter disinterested cluelessness about opera and ballet.

Suddenly, I realized I was done. The portrait wasn't finished, of course. There were hours upon hours of painstaking detail work yet to go, to hide blemishes and tiny mis-steps, to add depth, and to blend colors. But to most people's eye, it was already finished. And I didn't need to make her sit out here in a lawn chair any more.

I sat back, looked at my work and smiled. "Done," I said, in satisfaction.

"Already?" she asked in surprise.

I looked at my watch. "We've been out here for two and half hours," I said.

"No! Really?"

"Yup. And while you are done with the sitting. I am not done with the niggling details," I reassured her.

"Can I see it?" she asked, genuinely wondering if I would allow it.

"Of course," I said, standing up to stretch and waving at the canvas on the easel.

She rose, and tentatively walked around to look.

She whistled low. "Holy shit! I look... hot! My dad is going to absolutely hate it."

"He will?" I asked in alarm.

"Relax. He hates it if I wear a sleeveless shirt around the house. He was a total pain in the ass in high school, and then the most incredible rock for me through college. Mom will love it unconditionally," she added firmly. Then she looked at it again and sighed. "And I love it. I just wish I really looked half that sexy."

"That's you," I said firmly, contradicting her. I had not gone for a vamped up version of her. I had done her exactly as she was, which was sexy as hell.

She just continued to stand there, shaking her head a little, as if in wonder. "You are full of bullshit," she said. "But I love it. Thank you. When can I have it?"

"When will you be in town next?"

"Two weeks from this upcoming Thursday," she said instantly. "But I have meetings between some money and my clients all day that Thursday and Friday, and golf Saturday morning. After that, I can stay here the rest of the weekend, if anywhere in there fits your timeframe. I don't want to rush you."

"I'll have it ready by then. Shall we say late that Saturday afternoon? How about five o'clock? I'll give you my address," I said.

"I'll be there," she said, still unable to keep her eyes off the piece. I have to say, I was not used to anything like her reaction to the portrait. I mean, people virtually always loved the work, but this was hitting something visceral in her.

Gently, I closed the pad over the portrait to protect it. She shook her head. "Damn, I'm glad I decided to take a walk today," she said. "Thank you." And she turned to move determinedly back toward her hotel.

I'll admit it. I stood there and watched the receding back of her yoga pants for a good long while.

*

The Monday before our scheduled unveiling, my phone buzzed with my generic text ring tone.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Robert? This is Sophia. Is my portrait still going to be ready this weekend?

ME: Yes! In fact I kind of went into overdrive on it. It is finished now. We are all set for Saturday afternoon.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Already! Excellent!

I shook my head, updating her contact in my phone. Five minutes later, it buzzed again.

SOPHIA: Are you free Wednesday night?

Huh? I looked at my calendar.

ME: I can be. But you said you weren't here until Thursday, and were busy.

There was a surprisingly long pause before I got a response.

SOPHIA: I'm impatient. That portrait has me thinking about it all the time. I've dreamed about it. I still can't get over how it makes me look.

SOPHIA: The impression it gives of me. I swear I've been feeling better about myself than I have in ages.

ME: Can't keep you away from the finished product then, can I? Still five o'clock? Just Wednesday, instead?

SOPHIA: Assuming I can get the flight I need, yes. I'll text if I can't book it, otherwise, expect me at your studio at five.

I did not hear back from her.

Wednesday, I did some finishing work on other pieces, and started crating up stuff to load for the show the next week in Louisville. At lunchtime, I went out, had a bite, and stopped in at Whole Foods to pick up some crudité and charcuterie. I wasn't a gallery, but you needed hors d'oeuvres for an unveiling, right? Especially one this anticipated, apparently.

On a whim, I paused in the wine section and popped for a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet. I love the stuff, and I seemed to remember having told Sophia that I felt it was the only white wine worth drinking. It was a line I stole from a cafe owner in Paris. In reality, I had three bottles of screw-top Chilean sauvignon blanc habitually in my fridge. I know and love great wines, but I am not a snob.

*

The bell rang, and I went to the door. Opening it, I saw Sophia in the hall.

She had looked almost formal in just yoga pants and a workout top when I first met her. In an obviously hand-tailored, quite possibly bespoke, business suit, she looked like a million hand-selected bucks. It was a pantsuit in a conservative style, but expertly fitted to leave not one single doubt about the dynamite figure within. Her hair looked even better.

"I came here straight from the flight," she said, touching her hair. "I'm sorry if I look a fright."

Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Sophia, I thought. She did not have any luggage with her, so she had clearly already gone to her hotel, and had just as clearly freshened up there. Not that I minded one iota.

I showed her in to my living room. I had the door to my bedroom closed, and the door to my studio open, the opposite of the usual when I have guests. I had tidied the studio for once, and the bedroom was not on the agenda.

The portrait was on a hardwood display easel, a much more elegant model than the lightweight one where it had been birthed. It was hidden by a painter's drape that I had once bought, spattered paint on, washed, painted, then washed over and over again until it looked just right. Every work I unveiled for a client over the last three years had been covered by that worn, apparently used, throw-away drape.

"Is that it?" Sophia asked excitedly, stepping toward the portrait.

"It is, but be patient," I laughed. "I get to make a little bit of a production out of this, don't I? I've been living with your visage for two weeks, and I'd like to remind myself of the real thing!"

She threw me that sensational raised eyebrow look, but decided to be patient. I had already opened and tasted the wine, so I poured us each a glass.

"White?" Sophia asked in amusement. "You said..."

I extended the bottle to her, label up.

"Nice," she acknowledged. She took the glass and tasted. "I, for one, like whites anyway, but yeah, this one is kinda smashing."

"Relax," I instructed, sitting instead of returning to the easel. "Have a bite. You must be starving from the flight." The truth was, I was starving. I twisted the wooden cutting board I'd transferred the meats and cheeses to around to face Sophia. I was relieved when she actually picked a few pieces to sample, so I could do the same.

She draped her suit jacket over the back of my couch. The garment probably cost twice what its resting place did... and I had thought that couch had been an extravagance when I had bought it.

I was unable to restrain myself from hogging the Serrano on the tray, while we made chit-chat about her business here in town. I was hungrier than I had realized, and was glad for her willingness to talk. For her part, she betrayed a taste for bleu cheeses. I cheered my sudden apparent psychic abilities that had led me to select two different ones when assembling the board.

But throughout our conversation, her gaze kept glancing over to the shrouded easel.

I finally had mercy on her.

"Well, you've done me a solid favor, helping me empty my fridge here," I said briskly, grabbing a slice of Soppresatta to top up my tummy. "I should relent in return, and let you see what you are paying me all this money for!"

"Please!" Sophia said, suddenly excited. She almost bounced up and down on the couch like a little girl. But she also grabbed for herself another slice of the same salami I had just devoured. She had just gotten off a flight all the way from New York, after all. Even in first class, they would not have fed her very well. She practically gobbled the slice down, dabbed her lips, then forced herself to relax back on the couch, turning slightly to stare directly at the easel. She took a languid sip of wine, and said, "I have been dying in anticipation." Her tone was carefully bland, as if she were exaggerating. The tension in her body language told me that she was not.

I stood, and moved to the portrait. Carefully, I lifted the drape, then tossed it up and over the back in a practiced motion.

Honestly, I thought it was a good work. A true representation, with good color, and a great subject. But I hardly thought it was special. I was a little nervous about that. Would it still be as good as she had obviously thought it had been at the beginning?

My worries evaporated.

Sophia slowly rose, almost without thought, her eyes locked onto her image. She slowly approached the piece as in a trance. She moved in a straight line, and I swiftly stepped forward to use my personal space to deflect her course, or she would have smacked her thighs into my sharp-edged dining table.

"Robert... It is fabulous," she breathed. Her hand went to her solar plexus, pressing the blouse against herself. To her, I'm sure it was an unconscious gesture to calm her breathing. To me it just made her blouse even more wonderfully fitting.

She stood there, gazing for what seemed like five minutes. It might have been longer. At last, she flushed, and favored me with the prettiest smile she had shown me yet. "Worth every dime, and more," she said simply.

"Thank you," I said, sitting back down to let her examine it some more.

But she also sat again. And had more charcuterie. I'm always starving after a flight as well...

We chatted a bit more about things other than her portrait, but her eyes kept coming back to it.

Her glass was getting low, and I was pleasantly surprised that she accepted a refill. "Even though it is a school night," she grinned as I poured. She let me fill the glass nearly to the top.

As she took an appreciative sip, her eyes went to the large, buckskin portfolio on the coffee table. "Your work?" she asked, indicating it.

"Some of my best work, yes."

"Not all of it?" Sophia smirked.

"I'm 'prolific', remember?" I smiled archly. "And even if it was all my best stuff, which it is not, I'd not admit it, would I?"

She smiled as she opened the portfolio and began to page through the photos from beginning to end. She liked most of its contents, though she tended to slow down for portraits and other figures, often letting her eyes dart back to the portrait on the easel happily.

"How'd I get so lucky as to bump into you in the park?" she exclaimed as she briskly shut the portfolio.

"My banker says I'm the lucky one," I said, modestly deflecting her enthusiasm.

She took another sip, then I discovered how good her eyesight was. "Is that a second collection?" she asked, pointing across the room to the black leather portfolio, smaller than my main one, that I had unfortunately not hidden sufficiently. "May I see it too?"

"Ah..." I said, but she was already on her feet and heading toward the armoire it was supposed to be hidden behind. "That is more of my work, but..."

"Not your best at all?" Sophia asked merrily as she bent for it.

"Some of my best are in there," I was unable to keep from admitting. "But, really, it's not, um... I, I mean, there are no landscapes in that one, and..."

Sophia had already slid it free and picked it up. "I do like your portraits best, obviously, Robert." She paused, sensing my discomfort. "What's the matter?" she asked, clueless.

I am certain that I blushed. "Those are my... ahem. They're my nudes," I admitted quickly, with no way out.

Her expression was shocked for about half a second before flashing into wicked glee. She realized why she had me so embarrassed, and she reveled in it. Unfortunately, she still wanted to see them. She almost danced back to the couch, folding herself elegantly upon it and opened the cover.

I sat there, on the armless chair beside the couch, stewing in my juices instantly.

Can you stew instantly? That seems like a contradiction in terms...

I wasn't worried, mind you. She obviously wasn't the type to be offended. And some pieces in there were indeed among my best product. But, that was a large selection of very naked women in there--along with a few very naked men, actually. The men's checks cashed just like the women. Most of the people in the portfolio were not professional models. At least, I had not been the one paying them. As I said, I haven't paid many models over my career. The majority of my nude subjects have been trophy wives or girlfriends (and a couple of boyfriends).