Fearless by Annie Jocoby

long tendril of flaming-red hair draped over one of her breasts, and she cocked her head ever so slightly. “How is this?” she asked.
    I suppressed a smile and said nothing. And then I got behind my canvas, and started to lightly sketch her outline. I would fill in with broad brush-strokes after I composed her basic form. That would be the easy part. More difficult would be the minute details. That is the part that would take months. And, to really get to her essence, which was important if the portrait was to accurately portray her, I would have to get to know her. Her passions, her thoughts, her feelings, her sense of humor. That would come with time, of course. For now, for this session, I wanted to get a quick assessment of her form, which would come from my sketching her and also shooting her with my camera.
    She saw my camera, which was sitting on a table next to me. “Are you going to shoot me, too?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “I try to get a quick sketching down first, though. I know, it seems ass-backwards, but that’s how I roll.”
    “I know that I should have asked this of Nottingham when he called me this morning,” she said. “But I might assume that this is going to be an on-going project. How long will I have to be here, and for how many hours a day?”
    “I would say around two hours a day, and the project is due in three months. I hope that isn’t a problem.”
    “Not at all,” she said. “But, of course, I’m going to have to renegotiate my fee with Nottingham. He’s only paying me for today, I presume. But, then again, perhaps I am being presumptuous. At any rate, that isn’t your concern. Carry on.”
    I smiled, and then started to concentrate on getting her form exactly correct. I had little self-doubt when it came to my artistic abilities. I knew that I was good. That was why it was so frustrating for me to have to struggle so much, while lesser talents managed to win commissions and showings. To think that I was thisclose to becoming a street artist. Not that being a street artist was necessarily a bad thing, but it was beneath me.
    I sketched and brush stroked her broad form for about two hours, and I could tell that she was becoming a little bit uncomfortable. I expected that. Frankly, I couldn’t imagine having to lie still for hours on end. I think that I would get antsy after having to lie in the same position for a half hour.
    “You look like you could use a break,” I said. “I’m sorry that I didn’t offer you this earlier, but would you like a bottled water?”
    “I’m dying for one,” she said.
    I went to the little fridge that I had for my bottled waters and pops. It was a mini-fridge, like one would have in a dorm roo m. I got a bottled water out and gave it to her. She sucked it down in record time and asked for another one.
    “Looks like you’re thirsty,” I observed, stating the obvious.
    “Dehydrated, actually,” she said, but didn’t elaborate on why she was dehydrated. “How much longer do you think you might need me?”
    “About an hour more. When can you come back?” I hoped that I didn’t say that in an I really want you to come back because I’m dying to get to know you better way. In other words, I hoped that my tone did not belie my extreme eagerness to see her again, under any pretense possible.
    “I’ll have to check my calendar and get back with you,” she said. “Let me get your card. I assume that your email address is on there?”
    “You assume correctly.”
    “Good. I’m ready to pose some more, if you’re ready.”
    “Good to go,” I said, and sat down and painted some more. I wouldn’t start on the details until later. As I said, I had to get to know her, in order for her essence to imbue the work.
    After about an hour, I stretched and let he r know that I was done with my sketching and painting, so I needed to take some photographs of her.
    I took about fifteen photographs in rapid fashion, and let her know that she could get