Her portraits were reminiscent of Rembrandt’s in that they resembled greatly enlarged color photographs of faces and hands, that precisely depicted a subject’s varying skin colors, including blotches and scars. Eyelashes and eyebrows seemed to have been painted with single-hair brushes.
The most impressive of her works were her nudes. Having been unable to pay models for the long hours it took to paint so realistically, she had modeled for herself, standing before a tall mirror. In two of the paintings she was standing. In the third she was sitting on a wooden stool with her feet hooked behind the legs. This pose spread her legs, and her rendition of her intimate parts was as finely detailed as her paintings of stamens and pistils.
It was obvious to everyone in the gallery that the diffident young woman in gray tailored skirt and white silk blouse—clothes to which she was clearly unaccustomed—was not just the artist but the model. The painting of her spread open sold the first night of the show for $7,500.
Angelo met her on the second night of the show. He had flown in from Chicago too late to attend the opening. She was an attractive but certainly not ideally beautiful young woman. She made it apparent that she had better things to think about than how she looked. Her dark brown hair hung as it would. Her eyebrows were heavy. Her brown eyes were myopic behind a pair of little round gold-rimmed glasses—they, too, were meticulously reproduced in the paintings. Her mouth was wide and thin. Her figure was as her paintings showed her: ordinary. Apart from her eyes swimming behind thick lenses, the only really distinctive things about her were her hands, which were extraordinarily large, too large for the rest of her, like the hands of Michelangelo’s David.
“I owe Mrs. Perino a debt I’ll never be able to repay,” she said to Angelo. “This show is everything I ever wanted in my life. If I die tonight, my life has been fulfilled.”
Cindy had overheard and came up to embrace the girl. “Would you accept fifteen hundred for the violets?” sheasked. “And we’ve got a possible three thousand for the glads.”
“Oh, my God!”
“We’ve got a bid of four for one of the other nudes. I’m not accepting it yet.”
“My God…”
“Plan on spending the next six months starkers in front of that mirror of yours,” said Cindy, grinning.
Cindy was pregnant again, not yet heavily, but it was visible when she was unclothed. “Except for your condition, I’d commission her to paint you,” said Angelo.
“It’s a beautiful condition,” said Amanda with quiet simplicity.
Angelo stared at Cindy for a moment. “To be hung in a private room in our place,” he said. “Not here.”
So it was agreed. Beginning in July, Amanda moved into the Perino apartment. Cindy posed four hours a day, and Amanda painted six.
The result was a painting that Angelo thought was the most beautiful work of art he had ever seen in his life. Standing in profile so that her distended belly would be dramatized, Cindy was quietly proud. Her eyes were on it, staring as though she could see the life within her. One hand rested on her belly near her navel. The other rested on her hip. Posing on summer days, she gleamed faintly with sweat, and Amanda captured that, too, as she did every other detail of Cindy’s body, with the consummate skill of an artist, not an illustrator.
The portrait was in fact hung in Angelo and Cindy’s bedroom, but a few trusted friends were invited to see it. Dietz, of course, saw it. So did Mary Wilkerson.
Angelo paid Amanda $15,000 for the painting and commissioned her to do a portrait of him as soon as he could find the time to pose.
2
Number One took a swallow of the Canadian Club that was forbidden to him. He sat in his wheelchair on the lanai, looking vaguely out at the Atlantic. Loren the Third sat on a chaise longue. Roberta, now Mrs. Hardeman, sat ina wooden chair upholstered with vinyl
The most impressive of her works were her nudes. Having been unable to pay models for the long hours it took to paint so realistically, she had modeled for herself, standing before a tall mirror. In two of the paintings she was standing. In the third she was sitting on a wooden stool with her feet hooked behind the legs. This pose spread her legs, and her rendition of her intimate parts was as finely detailed as her paintings of stamens and pistils.
It was obvious to everyone in the gallery that the diffident young woman in gray tailored skirt and white silk blouse—clothes to which she was clearly unaccustomed—was not just the artist but the model. The painting of her spread open sold the first night of the show for $7,500.
Angelo met her on the second night of the show. He had flown in from Chicago too late to attend the opening. She was an attractive but certainly not ideally beautiful young woman. She made it apparent that she had better things to think about than how she looked. Her dark brown hair hung as it would. Her eyebrows were heavy. Her brown eyes were myopic behind a pair of little round gold-rimmed glasses—they, too, were meticulously reproduced in the paintings. Her mouth was wide and thin. Her figure was as her paintings showed her: ordinary. Apart from her eyes swimming behind thick lenses, the only really distinctive things about her were her hands, which were extraordinarily large, too large for the rest of her, like the hands of Michelangelo’s David.
“I owe Mrs. Perino a debt I’ll never be able to repay,” she said to Angelo. “This show is everything I ever wanted in my life. If I die tonight, my life has been fulfilled.”
Cindy had overheard and came up to embrace the girl. “Would you accept fifteen hundred for the violets?” sheasked. “And we’ve got a possible three thousand for the glads.”
“Oh, my God!”
“We’ve got a bid of four for one of the other nudes. I’m not accepting it yet.”
“My God…”
“Plan on spending the next six months starkers in front of that mirror of yours,” said Cindy, grinning.
Cindy was pregnant again, not yet heavily, but it was visible when she was unclothed. “Except for your condition, I’d commission her to paint you,” said Angelo.
“It’s a beautiful condition,” said Amanda with quiet simplicity.
Angelo stared at Cindy for a moment. “To be hung in a private room in our place,” he said. “Not here.”
So it was agreed. Beginning in July, Amanda moved into the Perino apartment. Cindy posed four hours a day, and Amanda painted six.
The result was a painting that Angelo thought was the most beautiful work of art he had ever seen in his life. Standing in profile so that her distended belly would be dramatized, Cindy was quietly proud. Her eyes were on it, staring as though she could see the life within her. One hand rested on her belly near her navel. The other rested on her hip. Posing on summer days, she gleamed faintly with sweat, and Amanda captured that, too, as she did every other detail of Cindy’s body, with the consummate skill of an artist, not an illustrator.
The portrait was in fact hung in Angelo and Cindy’s bedroom, but a few trusted friends were invited to see it. Dietz, of course, saw it. So did Mary Wilkerson.
Angelo paid Amanda $15,000 for the painting and commissioned her to do a portrait of him as soon as he could find the time to pose.
2
Number One took a swallow of the Canadian Club that was forbidden to him. He sat in his wheelchair on the lanai, looking vaguely out at the Atlantic. Loren the Third sat on a chaise longue. Roberta, now Mrs. Hardeman, sat ina wooden chair upholstered with vinyl
Similar Books
