The Colour Black

by Maia Walczak

  I looked at his face just as I was about to draw it and I realised that it had such a non-descript expression. He was just gazing at the sky in what seemed a very absent-minded way. There was no frown, no tension, no sign of worry. It was like he was sleeping with his eyes open. Could this be why I was feeling so good? Was there something in that relaxed face that was rubbing off on me? Who knew? But in any case I found myself smiling again.

  After a few more poses and a few more sketches I asked him if he could put his clothes back on again.

  ‘I just want to do some sketches in clothes as well,’ I said.

  I didn’t always just draw naked people. The truth is I wanted to draw his face, because it fascinated me a little. It inspired me. Of course, I didn’t tell him any of this because I was scared that if I did he’d suddenly become self-conscious and his expression would change.

  People react differently to being naked in front of other people. Some people feel more comfortable with clothes on. I didn’t know if he was that type. It was his first time after all. Though generally the people who decided to pose naked didn’t seem to have a problem with it, and could be just as relaxed with or without their clothes. Some even seemed more relaxed in front of me when they were naked. I absolutely loved being naked. My human body was one of my greatest joys. I loved seeing it naked, feeling the smoothness and the curves. I loved it when my hair brushed my naked back. And I loved being naked with men, because I loved seeing the thing that I loved so much – my body – being enjoyed by others.

  My body was the one thing I could share with others to bring them some kind of joy, which is why I loved and cherished it so much and why I had always shared it so freely. My mind was full of locked doors, but they couldn’t stop me sharing my humanness in other ways. I still wanted to give some kind of joy to the world, and my body was one way I could do this. A direct portal to joy.

  Jack put his clothes back on calmly, like he was the master of his own time; unfazed, in his own world. I watched him from the corner of my eye, whilst wiping charcoal off my hands. I asked him to sit himself on the chair and to get into a comfortable position.

  The next hour was bliss. The rare moment came. The sun drifted in through the windows. Rays of light hit the room and the objects in it. Dust particles glistened like fairy dust. Everything was transformed and alive, and I became completely absorbed in the large white piece of paper that floated, totally alive, in front of my eyes. I made my markings on the page and breathed a new world – a new reality – onto it. I created. And yet, once again, just like in such previous moments, it felt as though it wasn’t me who was drawing anymore. Drawing was simply happening. Those rare freeing moments of clarity and bliss that I experienced during the creative process were so powerful that, in an instant, they wiped away all the things I thought made me who I was. Flow.

  I don’t think I’d ever before succeeded in drawing such a satisfying portrait. The two hours were over. I made us tea. He wanted to see the drawings. I hesitated, but only out of habit, for I was more than happy to show this new model. I turned the easel towards him as he walked towards it. He stared at it and was silent for a while.

  ‘Woah. That’s incredible.’

  He looked overwhelmed. Either he really was or he was good at faking it.

  ‘Wow,’ he said.

  He was looking at me now and grinning.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘That’s amazing. Not to say I didn’t expect it to be, but I just didn’t know…’

  I laughed. I didn’t know whether to say it, as I thought he might think I was trying to make him feel special or something, but I said it anyway: ‘Thanks, I think this may be one of my favourite pieces.’

  ‘Can I see any of your other work?’

  I hesitated, again out of habit. I mean, I suppose there was nothing to actually stop me from showing him. Why shouldn’t I? I didn’t have any secrets when it came to my art; I guess I just never showed many people, unless I was exhibiting of course.

  ‘I used to draw when I was younger,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yeah? How come you stopped?’

  He shrugged. ‘Time, I guess.’ He paused, and then he laughed. ‘Whatever time is.’

  I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I didn’t ask.

  ‘I write sometimes though,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yeah? What kind of stuff?’

  ‘Oh, well. I guess some people might call it poetry, but I don’t know… there’s usually no real structure to it. And I also dabble a bit with photography – especially underwater photography. But then, who isn’t a photographer these days, right?’ he said, and then, after a pause, he added, ‘but in any case, it’s nice to meet creative types.’

  He looked at me and smiled. It seemed a warm thing to say, as though he was showing in some way that he liked me.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘how did you find your first life drawing session?’

  ‘It’s funny,’ he said, ‘sitting and lying around like that for such a long time with nothing to do gives you a lot of time to think about a lot of things that you don’t usually get a chance to think about.’

  ‘Oh really? That’s strange, you looked like you weren’t thinking about anything at all.’

  ‘Really? Maybe because I was trying to meditate a bit as well,’ he said, laughing – as though he was judging himself for it.

  ‘Meditating?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m using the term loosely though.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Hmm. Not really. Maybe a little. I don’t know,’ he paused, looking out the window. ‘All I know is that I know nothing,’ he mumbled. Then he looked at me again. ‘Man, my mind’s frazzled. Sorry, I forgot what I was saying.’

  ‘Meditation.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I have mixed feelings about it. But I don’t quite know why I’m talking about that anyway,’ he said, trying to brush it all off. ‘This tea’s lovely by the way, thank you.’

  I was intrigued. I felt such a huge desire to talk to him. Such a huge desire. I had never felt something quite like this before. I didn’t know whether it was to do with him, or me, or both of us. Fuck, it hurt so much. I wanted to cry. I would have given anything to be able to talk to him, and talk and talk and talk. Where had this sudden desire come from? I wanted to know his mind, more than I had ever wanted to know anyone else’s. But I couldn’t take without giving, could I?

  We were silent for a while. And then something happened that I never in my life thought possible. Suddenly I felt I was stepping into a world that was both dangerous and exhilarating. And I didn’t know how I felt about it, but I felt I was mad.

  ‘Sounds like you have a lot on your mind?’ I said.

  It was just a question. A normal question. More of a statement than a question, in fact. But I knew what that question meant. It meant opening up. It meant: you tell me about you, and I’ll tell you about me. It signified stepping into the unknown: a world that I didn’t have planned out, a world I knew nothing about and that could end in far more hurt and fear for me. It could end in violence. But in a moment of madness I found myself stepping into this world again, after seventeen long years. And suddenly it felt as though I was falling, tumbling through a chasm, utterly terrified and yet so incredibly alive. This was total madness. I had lost my mind, and yet I felt life pulsating in every bit of my body and telling me that this was exactly what I needed to do. Adrenaline. And then I saw stars; I heard a smash as my cup fell to the ground, the room went black and I fainted. All because of one trivial little question.

  Five minutes later I was lying on the sofa regaining consciousness.

  ‘Thank god,’ he said, letting go of my hand. ‘I honestly thought I’d have to call an ambulance.’ He smiled at me. ‘You took your time.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I sat up suddenly. ‘I’m so sorry, oh my god, how embarrassing.’

  ‘No, no, don’t say th
at, not at all, are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.’

  This was the perfect opportunity to creep back to my usual silence, my world of secrets. It was the perfect distraction; we could easily forget I ever asked the question.

  ‘Can I make you another tea?’ he asked.

  I glanced over to where my cup had fallen and smashed. He had cleared it all up.

  ‘Thank you, that’s really nice of you.’

  Surely another cup of tea was fine, so long as I kept my mouth shut.

  I watched him finding his way around the kitchen, answering when he asked where I kept the cups and the sugar. I wondered why he was still here. I mean perhaps it was obvious – after all I’d just fainted, maybe it would be rude of him to leave now. But still, the session had officially finished twenty minutes ago, and I’d already paid him. This was all very strange, and yet at the same time his presence felt so natural. He almost didn’t feel like a stranger.

  ‘Does that happen often?’ he said, snapping me out of my thoughts.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The fainting. Do you have low blood pressure or something?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, I hardly ever faint.’

  ‘I’ll put lots of sugar in this tea in any case,’ he laughed.

  It suddenly occurred to me, ‘You are making tea for yourself too, right? Please do. I mean only if you want to of course, but I don’t imagine you actually got to finish the last one. Sorry about that.’

  I tried to laugh and make it all sound very light-hearted.

  ‘Sure. I could have another tea. Thank you.’

  I waited in silence.

  ‘That’s an interesting scar you have on your hand,’ he said, pouring milk into the cups – not looking over at me.

  ‘Oh. Oh yes. An accident. I was taking down an exhibition and a glass frame shattered in my hands.’

  ‘Ouch. Sounds painful.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  He brought the cups over and put them on the coffee table. He sat down opposite me on the smaller sofa and took a sip. What was he doing here? He didn’t know me and I didn’t know him. Should this be strange? And yet it seemed to me as though he wanted to stay too, as though something was making him stay. Ah, I was being stupid, I was reading into things, making up a story in my head. After all, how could I possibly know what he was thinking? He was looking out of the window again. I looked out too. It was so clear, not a cloud.

  ‘So what do you see when you stare out of that window?’ I asked.

  He laughed.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, looking away from it, at me, and then at the cup in his hands.

  ‘No don’t be. I didn’t mean that. I actually seriously want to know.’

  ‘Ha! Really? What are you blind or something?’ he joked.

  ‘No. Colour-blind.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh sorry,’

  ‘Ha, don’t be.’

  ‘That’s interesting. Partially? Totally?’

  ‘Totally.’

  I was doing this. I was actually doing this. I was telling someone. God it felt good… and terrifying. So terrifying.

  ‘Black, white and shades of grey. That’s my life,’ I continued.

  ‘From birth?’

  My heart started pounding so fast it seemed it was about to explode. I shook my head.

  ‘No.’

  Silence.

  ‘Oh god,’ I said, registering the intrigue on his face, ‘I actually don’t feel too good after all.’ To add to my act I started fanning myself with a random bit of junk mail lying on the coffee table. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I think it’s probably best I get some sleep.’

  ‘Of course,’ he nodded, trying his best to replace his intrigue with concern. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help…’

  ‘No, no. But thank you.’

  ‘Well you should at least let a friend or family member know, have them check in on you, okay?’

  Ha! Friends and family. What a joke. But I nodded. And I tried to smile to reassure him that I was okay, even though I wasn’t.

  ‘Thanks so much for filling in for Pete at such short notice, I’m so happy with how the drawings came out.’

  He smiled, nodded, but didn’t say anything. I made to get up but he stopped me and, after a short awkward exchange of goodbyes, he let himself out. And I was left lying on that sofa, watching steam rise from the two cups of tea on the coffee table, and wondering what the fuck had just happened.

  That evening I realised I could no longer keep the secrets.

  An Imagined Life

  I liked Balboa Park. It was the perfect mix. I could spend hours in the manicured gardens with their fresh green scent, and all those carefully placed trees, plants and flowers made me feel normal. A normal member of society. And, with all its art galleries and museums, Balboa Park was, above all, a place I came to for inspiration. Balboa had its wilder parts too. And I loved those parts the most. It was in those parts that I’d had some of my most interesting walks, often in states of deep reflection.

  Today would be a Balboa day. Really, you could spend a whole day there. I’d start off south by Inspiration Point lot – not the best entry point for where I was headed, but how fitting a name. I always started there. Call it superstition.

  I wouldn’t bother with the park’s tram; today was a day for walking and thinking, and I wasn’t in a rush. I’d follow the usual plan, starting at the Museum of the Living Artist, followed by the Museum of Man and the Museum of Art, then moving to the Timken Museum of Art, then the Museum of Photographic Arts and the Natural History Museum. Then I’d wind my way that little bit extra north for a stop off at the Spanish Village Art Centre. There was so much – almost too much – to see in this stretch of San Diego land. Once I had those done, if I wasn’t too exhausted, I had space for spontaneity. Sometimes this meant a visit to a random museum, but more often than not it meant having lunch or coffee in one of the cafés, and a rest in one of the botanical gardens to breathe in an intoxicating tangle of aromas. But I would always end my Balboa day with a walk.

  Staring at Monet’s ‘Haystacks at Chailly at Sunrise’, I found myself deep in thought. I thought about Norway – how much I still craved going there one day, even though that same thought made me feel sick to my stomach. I vividly remembered a photo my mother had showed me when I was little of a field of haystacks. I couldn’t remember which part of Norway it was and why she had that photo but I could remember them looking just like the haystacks in this painting. The lighting would have been pretty similar too. I remembered warm golden hues as the early morning sun reflected off every blade of hay. Of course, at that moment, those colours were only something I could imagine in Monet’s painting. What had he been thinking all those years back when he stood in front of his haystack muse? Awe at the warm burst of colour the rising sun was bringing to the landscape? Hope at the dawn of a new day? Of the stillness in the early hours of the morning? Or was he preoccupied with something totally unrelated? I had read once that he’d had some difficulty persuading the conservative Académie des Beaux-Arts to exhibit his work in the Salon de Paris, so maybe as he stared at those haystacks he was just pissed off about that. His mind could have been anywhere, I knew that. In fact, right then, was a perfect example. I had been standing there in front of that painting for at least fifteen minutes, absorbed in my thoughts, when I suddenly felt a presence next to me, and…

  ‘Silvia!’

  Shit, what was his name?

  ‘Oh my god, Jack, hello!’

  Of course I knew his name – my split-second memory lapse was just the result of snapping out of a daydream. Jack had certainly been on my mind.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

  He let out an embarrassed laugh. ‘I’ve just come from a date.’

  I glanced at my watch. An early date; that had ended early by the looks of it too.
It couldn’t have gone that well. Unless he’d spent last night with her.

  ‘Oh. That’s nice.’

  ‘And you? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh me, I come here often. Inspiration station and all that.’

  ‘Of course,’ he nodded and looked up at Monet’s piece. ‘And do you always stare at this one painting for so long?’

  Had he been watching me?

  ‘Er, no. I just got lost in thought.’

  ‘Well it’s good to see you’re better. I was actually waiting to hear back from Pete about you. I wanted to get your number to check up on you.’

  ‘Oh that’s real nice. I’m totally fine now, thank you.’ A small smile melted my nerves.

  ‘I was just about to go grab a coffee, if you’d like to join me?’

  Coffee meant conversation, and conversation was dangerous. But I spoke before reflecting on this.

  ‘Sure, why not.’

  It was okay, I’d just make sure that he was the one talking. And, if he asked about me, I’d stick to talking about art. It’s fine, said the voice in my head, but my quickened heartbeat seemed to indicate otherwise.

  I hated small talk, but it was the only thing I had access to, and this silence while we walked to the café was making my palms sweat.

  ‘So, how was the date?’

  There was his embarrassed laugh again.

  ‘Ah, it was okay, thank you. But I think we kind of clash.’

  ‘Oh, how come?’

  ‘Well, it might seem silly, but, for example, she works in fashion, and at heart, I’m just too much of a raging anti-consumerist for that.’

  I laughed and nodded. I was smiling. It was torture to find myself once again enjoying his company.