you’ll begin today?”
“Yes.”
Weaver wanted her, to be sure, but he would forgo any physical contact if it was the only way she would pose for him. If he had to choose between her being available to his sight or his touch, he would choose, as always, his eyes and his art. If he were patient, however, if he did nothing to offend, frighten, or anger her, he might one day have her for both. Therefore, on that first day, Weaver would not even allow her inside his studio. He made her wait outside while he gathered his pencils and a sketch pad.
He led her a half mile away to a hollow between two hills, a tree-ringed grassy area not much larger than a small room. The spot was so secluded that Weaver always felt, as he pushed aside the branches of a stunted birch and stepped forward, that a curtain closed behind him. The grass was soft enough to sit or lie in, and a fallen tree gave him a place to arrange his materials. Only at high noon did light flood this space; at every other hour, the sun shone fitfully through the leaves, shadows blinking first from one direction, then another.
It was in this little vale that Weaver fucked the sharp-faced slattern he’d picked up in the Lakeside Tavern. He had scarcely asked her if she would be willing to pose in the nude and she was stripping off her clothes. On that autumn day he had her lie on her back in a pile of fallen leaves. In the painting, he wanted to make it seem as if she had risen up through the earth, but right from the start he had trouble making reality match his vision. He could not find the right arrangement of leaves on her naked body, and her expressions were wrong—either she looked blank, so it seemed as if she were a corpse partially buried, or she looked coy, a stripper working on a new outdoor-themed routine. When Weaver tried to brush the leaves from her small hard breasts, she misinterpreted his action and reached for his fly. Soon Weaver was thrusting into her, and as he did the leaves under her crackled and the smell of tannin and leaf mold rose to his nostrils. She did not model for him again.
Today, however, he asked Sonja House to do nothing more than lean back against a tree and tilt her head up as though she were searching for a bird whose song she heard in the highest branches.
He made two sketches, and when he stepped back, he said, “You can relax. Move around if you like.” Weaver had marked by eye a knot on the tree so he could duplicate the pose exactly.
She knelt in the grass.
“You know, don’t you, that the day will come when I’ll ask you to disrobe?”
“Yes.”
“I have to make certain you understand what you’ve agreed to.”
“I understand.”
When he asked her to resume her pose, Weaver did not have to align her with the knot on the tree. Without direction, she posed precisely as before.
Weaver was accustomed to working quickly, and he had not yet learned of Sonja’s ability to hold a pose, so he sketched rapidly that first day, concentrating on the lines and proportions—the distance between her eyes, the height of her cheekbones, the width of her jaw, the length of her neck, the asymmetry of her lips—that he would have to get right if he was ever going to reveal her character and her beauty and still convey the mystery of both. As soon as he set his pencil down, the question that always troubled him and his art came back to him: Must one understand an enigma in order to portray it to others?
Weeks later they
were in his studio, and the thin steady rain made it seem as though a veil had dropped over the building, and Weaver decided that would be the day he would ask her to undress.
First he posed her, fully clothed, in an old wooden office chair that he sometimes worked from when he did not stand at his easel. The chair squeaked when it swiveled and clattered when its heavy casters rolled over the floor’s uneven planks, but of course she sat so still the chair made no noise. Weaver had her turned slightly
“Yes.”
Weaver wanted her, to be sure, but he would forgo any physical contact if it was the only way she would pose for him. If he had to choose between her being available to his sight or his touch, he would choose, as always, his eyes and his art. If he were patient, however, if he did nothing to offend, frighten, or anger her, he might one day have her for both. Therefore, on that first day, Weaver would not even allow her inside his studio. He made her wait outside while he gathered his pencils and a sketch pad.
He led her a half mile away to a hollow between two hills, a tree-ringed grassy area not much larger than a small room. The spot was so secluded that Weaver always felt, as he pushed aside the branches of a stunted birch and stepped forward, that a curtain closed behind him. The grass was soft enough to sit or lie in, and a fallen tree gave him a place to arrange his materials. Only at high noon did light flood this space; at every other hour, the sun shone fitfully through the leaves, shadows blinking first from one direction, then another.
It was in this little vale that Weaver fucked the sharp-faced slattern he’d picked up in the Lakeside Tavern. He had scarcely asked her if she would be willing to pose in the nude and she was stripping off her clothes. On that autumn day he had her lie on her back in a pile of fallen leaves. In the painting, he wanted to make it seem as if she had risen up through the earth, but right from the start he had trouble making reality match his vision. He could not find the right arrangement of leaves on her naked body, and her expressions were wrong—either she looked blank, so it seemed as if she were a corpse partially buried, or she looked coy, a stripper working on a new outdoor-themed routine. When Weaver tried to brush the leaves from her small hard breasts, she misinterpreted his action and reached for his fly. Soon Weaver was thrusting into her, and as he did the leaves under her crackled and the smell of tannin and leaf mold rose to his nostrils. She did not model for him again.
Today, however, he asked Sonja House to do nothing more than lean back against a tree and tilt her head up as though she were searching for a bird whose song she heard in the highest branches.
He made two sketches, and when he stepped back, he said, “You can relax. Move around if you like.” Weaver had marked by eye a knot on the tree so he could duplicate the pose exactly.
She knelt in the grass.
“You know, don’t you, that the day will come when I’ll ask you to disrobe?”
“Yes.”
“I have to make certain you understand what you’ve agreed to.”
“I understand.”
When he asked her to resume her pose, Weaver did not have to align her with the knot on the tree. Without direction, she posed precisely as before.
Weaver was accustomed to working quickly, and he had not yet learned of Sonja’s ability to hold a pose, so he sketched rapidly that first day, concentrating on the lines and proportions—the distance between her eyes, the height of her cheekbones, the width of her jaw, the length of her neck, the asymmetry of her lips—that he would have to get right if he was ever going to reveal her character and her beauty and still convey the mystery of both. As soon as he set his pencil down, the question that always troubled him and his art came back to him: Must one understand an enigma in order to portray it to others?
Weeks later they
were in his studio, and the thin steady rain made it seem as though a veil had dropped over the building, and Weaver decided that would be the day he would ask her to undress.
First he posed her, fully clothed, in an old wooden office chair that he sometimes worked from when he did not stand at his easel. The chair squeaked when it swiveled and clattered when its heavy casters rolled over the floor’s uneven planks, but of course she sat so still the chair made no noise. Weaver had her turned slightly
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