was glaring there, and my brush was racing over the details, all that craft rising up without the slightest conscious hindrance.
Her body of course could only be true to my memory of it, breasts a little large for her small frame, nipples small, light pink, scant pubic hair, truly the color of smoke, no more than a discreet little triangle. There were bound to be inaccuracies. But the face was the crux; the face held the character. The slope of her naked shoulders, the high curve of her calves, all that I re-envisioned, thinking about how it had felt to touch it. And kiss it.
It was working out all right.
AROUND twelve o'clock I had a near-complete giant canvas of her and the horse, and I was so elated that I couldn't paint for very long without stopping, just to drink coffee, light a cigarette, walk around. I filled in the last details at about two o'clock. The horse was as good as she was now. I'd got his carved mane, the flared nostrils, the bridle with the paste jewels and the gold paint peeling from it.
The thing was done, absolutely done. And it was as photographically real as anything I'd ever painted-her sitting there in a dim bronze Rembrandt light, hallucinatively vital, yet subtly stylized through the even attention to every detail.
I wouldn't have changed it then if she had come in and posed naked for me. It was all right. It was Belinda-the little girl who'd made love to me twice, apparently because she wanted to-just sitting there naked, staring at me, and asking what?
"Why do you feel so guilty for touching me?"
Because I am using you, my dear. Because an artist uses everything.
WHEN I got back from my drive through the Haight the next afternoon, there was a note from her in the mailbox. "Came, went-Belinda."
For the first time in my entire life I almost drove my fist through the wall. Immediately I put the keys to the house in an envelope, marked her name on it and put it in the box. She couldn't miss it. Somebody else might find it, of course, and loot the house. I didn't give a damn. There was a deadbolt on the attic studio, where all the paintings were, and another on the darkroom downstairs. As for the rest of it, dolls and all, they could have it.
WHEN she hadn't come by or called by nine o'clock, I started working again.
This time she was kneeling naked beside the dollhouse. I'd work on her for a while, then on the dollhouse. It took a lot of time, as it always did, to reproduce the shingled mansard roof, the gingerbread windows, lace curtains. But it was as important as she was. And then everything around her had to be done, until the entire background was there with the dusty toys, the edge of the velvet couch, the flowered wallpaper.
By the time the morning light came through the windows it was finished. I scratched the date into the wet oil paint with my palette knife, whispered, "Belinda," and fell asleep right there on the cot under the burning morning sun, too tired to do anything but cover my head with a pillow.
[4]
THE last important party of the booksellers convention was scheduled that evening at a picturesque old mountainside hotel in Sausalito. It was the official sit-down dinner for Alex Clementine to launch the autobiography he'd proudly written-on his own without a ghost-and I simply had to be there.
Alex was my oldest friend. He'd starred in the most successful films ever made from my mother's historical novels, Evelyn and Crimson Mardi Gras. We'd shared a great deal, both good and bad, over the years. And most recently I'd connected him with both my literary agent and my publisher for his new book. Weeks ago I'd offered to pick him up downtown at the Stanford Court Hotel and drive him across the bay to the Sausalito party.
Fortunately the warm clear weather held out, the New Yorkers were positively moaning over the dazzling view of San Francisco across the water, and Alex, white-haired, sun-bronzed, and impeccably dressed, overwhelmed us with California Gothic tales of
Her body of course could only be true to my memory of it, breasts a little large for her small frame, nipples small, light pink, scant pubic hair, truly the color of smoke, no more than a discreet little triangle. There were bound to be inaccuracies. But the face was the crux; the face held the character. The slope of her naked shoulders, the high curve of her calves, all that I re-envisioned, thinking about how it had felt to touch it. And kiss it.
It was working out all right.
AROUND twelve o'clock I had a near-complete giant canvas of her and the horse, and I was so elated that I couldn't paint for very long without stopping, just to drink coffee, light a cigarette, walk around. I filled in the last details at about two o'clock. The horse was as good as she was now. I'd got his carved mane, the flared nostrils, the bridle with the paste jewels and the gold paint peeling from it.
The thing was done, absolutely done. And it was as photographically real as anything I'd ever painted-her sitting there in a dim bronze Rembrandt light, hallucinatively vital, yet subtly stylized through the even attention to every detail.
I wouldn't have changed it then if she had come in and posed naked for me. It was all right. It was Belinda-the little girl who'd made love to me twice, apparently because she wanted to-just sitting there naked, staring at me, and asking what?
"Why do you feel so guilty for touching me?"
Because I am using you, my dear. Because an artist uses everything.
WHEN I got back from my drive through the Haight the next afternoon, there was a note from her in the mailbox. "Came, went-Belinda."
For the first time in my entire life I almost drove my fist through the wall. Immediately I put the keys to the house in an envelope, marked her name on it and put it in the box. She couldn't miss it. Somebody else might find it, of course, and loot the house. I didn't give a damn. There was a deadbolt on the attic studio, where all the paintings were, and another on the darkroom downstairs. As for the rest of it, dolls and all, they could have it.
WHEN she hadn't come by or called by nine o'clock, I started working again.
This time she was kneeling naked beside the dollhouse. I'd work on her for a while, then on the dollhouse. It took a lot of time, as it always did, to reproduce the shingled mansard roof, the gingerbread windows, lace curtains. But it was as important as she was. And then everything around her had to be done, until the entire background was there with the dusty toys, the edge of the velvet couch, the flowered wallpaper.
By the time the morning light came through the windows it was finished. I scratched the date into the wet oil paint with my palette knife, whispered, "Belinda," and fell asleep right there on the cot under the burning morning sun, too tired to do anything but cover my head with a pillow.
[4]
THE last important party of the booksellers convention was scheduled that evening at a picturesque old mountainside hotel in Sausalito. It was the official sit-down dinner for Alex Clementine to launch the autobiography he'd proudly written-on his own without a ghost-and I simply had to be there.
Alex was my oldest friend. He'd starred in the most successful films ever made from my mother's historical novels, Evelyn and Crimson Mardi Gras. We'd shared a great deal, both good and bad, over the years. And most recently I'd connected him with both my literary agent and my publisher for his new book. Weeks ago I'd offered to pick him up downtown at the Stanford Court Hotel and drive him across the bay to the Sausalito party.
Fortunately the warm clear weather held out, the New Yorkers were positively moaning over the dazzling view of San Francisco across the water, and Alex, white-haired, sun-bronzed, and impeccably dressed, overwhelmed us with California Gothic tales of
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