The Color of Light

by Helen Maryles Shankman

  Pressed against the rough wooden wall, feverishly hiking up her skirt with both hands. Her soft red lips everywhere, as if I were a new continent they were eager to explore. The heat of her hands on my skin. The rhythmic clackety-clack, clackety-clack of the train calling the cadence for our lovemaking like a metronome. Isaiah, asleep in the corner in the bed I made for him with my coat.

  There was a tentative knock at the door. That would be Anastasia. He glanced at his watch. They had arranged to meet at ten, but this would be uncharacteristically early for her. Perhaps she had somewhere to go afterwards.

  “You’re early,” he said as he undid the deadbolt, pulled it open. “You must be really intrigued.”

  It was Tessa, her upturned face white in the lamplight under the portico. A black town car waited behind her. “You were amazing,” she said breathlessly. “That speech you gave earlier. It was like a manifesto. They should put it on the first page of the catalogue. I didn’t want to leave without telling you.”

  And then she stepped out of the warmth of his foyer, ran lightly down his front steps into the night.

  7

  Rachel—that was the model’s name—sat on a high stool in front of the classroom as students trickled in, dragged easels into a circle around the model stand, and mixed paint alongside their coffee and bagels.

  She was a beauty, with coltish legs, hips like a lyre. High round breasts, high Yankee cheekbones, aquiline nose, satiny brown hair.

  Tessa asked her to twist her torso so that the pose was more dynamic, directed her to put one hand on her thigh, the other on her hip. She clipped a reflector lamp onto a stand and aimed it so that it was lighting the model’s left side, throwing her right flank into dramatic shadow. She rearranged the long swath of fabric working as a backdrop so that it swagged farther down. She laid down masking tape where the model’s feet touched the stage so that she’d be able to recreate the pose after her breaks. Then she circled slowly around the set-up, checking to see that the pose was interesting from all angles.

  Not all models were this great looking; usually they ranged from average to downright scary. So it came as a surprise to find the entire male faction of the class whispering together in a corner of the room, very much not looking in her direction.

  Tessa went over to them, did her duty. “Uh, guys,” she said. “Beautiful naked girl over here. And get this—she’s naked.”

  Disregarding her, Clayton continued enthusiastically, “–and then he says, ‘yeah, but are you still the master of your domain?’” They broke into shrieks of laughter.

  Tessa went back to her easel, got down to work. She laid out her paint in an order that was rigid to the point of fanaticism, starting at the top left corner, where she left a pile of flake white. Next, she squeezed out yellow ochre, red ochre, burnt umber, raw umber, and stirred together a black and yellow puddle that stood in for green. Last on the palette was ivory black, a pigment made from burnt bones. Then she went around again, mixing a dab of each color with a dash of white. By the time she was finished, the edges of the palette were rimmed with two rows of color. She wiped her knife clean on a carefully folded pad of Bounty paper towels and waited for the teacher to arrive.

  Gracie dropped her things at a paint stand behind Tessa. “Hey,” she said, leaning forward and depositing a Ferrara’s bag in her lap. “Brought you a little present. Sorry I had to leave you with all that work last night.”

  Tessa reached into the bag, drew out a cannoli. “I should be thanking you,” she said earnestly. “Not for breakfast. For making me go to the party.”

  “What time did you get out of there?” She opened up her art box, dumped out her paints.

  “I was done by ten. However, there was an incident.” Waggishly, she brandished her bandaged wrist.

  Gracie gasped. “Ohmigod! What happened?” The golden eyes went big and round. “So it’s true?”

  The room hushed, went quiet. The boys in the corner, drifting back, gaped at Tessa’s hand. She felt herself blush, and her voice suddenly sounded very loud as she went on with her story. “No, no. I’m kidding. I was rounding up the last glasses, and I was looking at this little green sculpture next to the phone—”

  “Camille Claudel,” said Ben.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Sinclair. I didn’t even hear him come up behind me. When he spoke, I guess it kind of spooked me and I dropped a wineglass. I opened up my wrist on a piece of broken glass while I was cleaning it up.”

  Gracie’s mouth fell open. Harker’s eyebrows shot up. David looked concerned. Suddenly Clayton was too close, leaning his wrestler’s bulk over Tessa’s chair.

  “Were you two alone?”

  “No. The caterer was still there. Somewhere. Loading up her stuff, I think. Oh, come on, Clayton.”

  “Okay, let me get this straight.” His blue eyes bored into her. “You, a beautiful girl, were alone with the vampire. In his lair. In the dark of night. During a full moon. Bleeding.”

  “Sorry, boys, you’ve got it all wrong.” She put her hands out, pushed Clayton back a few inches. “If anything, I think he’s a little freaked out by blood. He almost fainted when he saw me dripping all over his floor.”

  “So, nothing happened?” Portia wanted to make sure.

  Privately, Tessa remembered the shiver of emotion she had experienced when he took her hand. “Perfect gentleman. Bandaged it up for me. Used some very expensive-looking linen napkins, too. Linen, Clayton. None of your cheap polyester blends.” She held out her hand with a flourish. In the fluorescent light of the classroom, she noticed an embroidered monogram, R with an S twined through it.

  “So, are you, like, the evil dead now?” Harker was genuinely curious.

  “Did he lick the blood off the floor with his tongue?” said Gracie eagerly. There was a pause as they all turned to stare at her, appalled. “Over the line, huh?”

  Clayton spoke very slowly, enunciating carefully. “Tessa. Try to remember. Did he drink any of your blood? You know, maybe while you were looking the other way.” He dropped his voice, made it whispery, insinuating. “Now, this is very important. Did he turn you into one of his demon brides?” He looked to their classmates for affirmation. “You can tell us. We’re all friends here.”

  “I’m not your friend,” said Ben.

  “I don’t like either of you,” said David.

  “There was no exchange of fluids,” said Tessa, clearly uncomfortable with being the topic of conversation. “Fluids of any kind. Really. Now, can we talk about something else? Hey, look over there! A girl with no clothes on!”

  Portia moved forward, put herself between Tessa and the boys, waved her arms in a wide circle. “Remember that talk we had, Clayton. Personal space.”

  “Are you talking about Raphael Sinclair?” inquired a student Tessa barely knew, Graham McSomething—McKay? Macavoy?—in a bored Midwestern accent. Rumor had it that he’d been a professor of art history at some Ivy League college. Right now, he was leafing slowly through a newspaper. “I hate to be the one to break it to you people. Did you check out his suit? His beautifully manicured nails? The mathematical precision of his haircut? His cologne? If those things happened to escape you, perhaps you noticed his exquisite taste in Mission furniture. Trust me. He’s just a great big Mary.”

  “Show us your neck,” Clayton commanded.

  “I think there’s a sexual harassment issue here I could pursue,” said Tessa.

  “Oh, baby,” confirmed Portia.

  Tessa pushed back her heavy tresses to reveal her neck. The skin was unbroken, as smooth and white as a whale’s belly, protected from the rays of the sun by the sheer mass of her hair. “Vampire,” she snorted. “Even if it wasn’t totally idiotic, it would still be the least of my problems.” She released her hair, letting it fall around her face. “And what would you do if it was true? Drive a stake through his heart? What is it with you and vampires, anyway? He founded this whole damn
school. Aren’t you happy here?”

  Clayton sauntered back to his easel, started mixing paint. “I’m just messing with y’all,” he admitted genially. “Actually, I think it would be kinda cool. I mean, aren’t we all vampires, in a metaphorical kind of way?”

  “Um…qué?” queried Harker.

  “Half-human, half something else raw and primitive that the rest of the world doesn’t get. Artists are in touch with something out of the common man’s reach, something godly. And that scares people. Look at us sculptors. We create figures from the dust of the earth. The way God created Adam.”

  “That’s poetic, Clayton,” said Portia, surprised.

  Turner hurried into the room, carrying his clipboard. He reviewed his notes, scribbled something down. “As you know, I’ve been filling in until we found a new painting instructor. Starting today, April Huffman will be teaching your section of Studio Painting. As I told you last night, she’s a very successful figurative painter. You can all learn a lot from her. Enjoy, guys.”

  He scurried out again, not sticking around for a reaction. Had he looked up from his clipboard, he might have noticed Tessa blanch a whiter shade of pale.

  April made her much-ballyhooed entrance, wearing sunglasses, dressed in a white men’s shirt and slim black pants. She carried a huge pocketbook, a black leather jacket, a sheaf of papers, and a New York Times under her arm.

  “Hi, class.” Still wearing her sunglasses, she consulted the roster, surveyed their faces. Her gaze stopped on Tessa.

  “I know you. You’re Lucian’s assistant.” She smiled. “You’re my monitor, right? Give me a hand.”

  Reluctantly, Tessa set her coffee down next to her palette, rose out of her chair. April thrust her handbag and jacket into her arms. “Can you find a place for this that’s out of the way? I have to pose the model.”

  “I already took care of that.” Tessa carried April’s things to a safe corner of the room, far from paint and turpentine, deposited them on a clean chair.

  “Well, it’s atrocious. Too classical. Too pretty. I hate pretty. And what’s with all this drapery? Uch.” She was wrinkling her nose as if something smelled bad. She whipped the fabric off of the model stand, balled it up and stuffed it on a shelf behind her. “Do something more confrontational,” she instructed the model.

  “Like what?” Rachel said.

  “I don’t know.” She looked at her for a moment, her brow furrowed. “Open your legs wide. Wider, as far as you can. Yes, like that. Can you hold that for twenty minutes? Good. Hmmmm, that’s nice.” The men in the class stared, then looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. The model was no longer nude. She was exposed.

  April noticed, adapted. “Maybe it’s too out there for you guys.” She replaced the stool with a folding chair. “Okay. Slide your ass forward. Uh huh. Lean back. Now cross your legs. No, more open. More. More. Good. Hook your arms behind the chair. Great. Now let’s move the lamp over here.” She hung the lamp squarely over the model’s head, bathing her in flat, unflattering light.

  Tessa saw David looking at her. She averted her gaze, bent to her work, trying to decide what color to start with. She chose a sable brush, stirred it in turpentine to wet it, then dipped it in burnt umber.

  “Hey Tess,” April was standing behind her. “Would you get me a cup of coffee? Not that sludge in the office. Is Dean and Deluca’s too far? Okay, then. From the deli next door. No sugar, skim. Not too light. Also, a bagel with a shmear of low-fat cream cheese. Thanks.” She drew a hundred dollar bill from her Coach wallet. Tessa looked longingly at the other students already painting, took the money, and headed down the hallway.

  By the time she returned, something was different, a definite shift in the atmosphere. Something had happened while she was out getting April’s coffee.

  “Thanks, you can leave it right there. My change?” Tessa let it slide into her palm. April settled into a chair in a corner, unwrapped her breakfast, unfolded her Times.

  Tessa went back to her easel. Confronting the white canvas, she picked up her brush and squinted at the model, shutting out everything else. She began by sketching an outline of Rachel’s body in the center of the canvas. Swishing her brush clean in the can of turpentine, she contemplated the setup, analyzing the color of the light. On the far side of the room, April was commenting on someone’s piece. It was met with an edgy retort. Already steeped in her work, the disturbance took place somewhere far in the distance.

  She dipped her brush into a yellow-white, then into a pink-white. Too hot, she thought, too bright. She added a brush-tip of raw umber to tone it down. Now the combination of colors was just right; it looked exactly like morning sun falling on flesh. She covered the canvas with a transparent veil of burnt sienna and began massing in the lights.

  When the bell rang two hours later, it was almost a relief. There was commotion as fifteen artists rose as one, dropped their brushes in turpentine and brought their canvases to the stage. Standing back with their arms folded, they waited for her to speak.

  April took a moment to don her black Wayfarers, then paced slowly back and forth in front of the paintings. Halting at one, she peered closely at it, muttering to herself, before moving to the next. She repeated the performance, with killing suspense, in front of each canvas. Finally, she stopped, resolutely shaking her head.

  “This is a disaster,” she announced. “A dis-as–ter.”

  In the blink of an eye, Tessa realized that the disaster under discussion belonged to Portia.

  “I’m sorry?” said Portia, not sure she understood correctly.

  “Your painting,” April repeated. “It’s a disaster. You’ve got this ghostly figure here, and this blue fog in the background. I don’t know what this is about. Where’s your composition? Where’s your structure?”

  She could tell Portia was taken aback by her choice of words. “I like to concentrate on the big relationships first, the big lights, the big darks.” Ever the diplomat, she was trying to explain her working philosophy.

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses. It’s not even drawn well. I taught at NYU. They’re undergrad, and let me tell you, every one of them is farther along than you are.”

  Tessa could almost hear her friend struggling with the situation. Perhaps the new teacher misunderstood. “This is figure painting,” Portia reminded her gently. “We kind of focus on the figure.”

  April’s voice rose sharply. “Don’t tell me what class I’m in,” she snapped. “I know exactly what class I’m in. I have a show opening at O.K. Solomon in a month. Do you? Stop questioning my methods or learn how to type, because if you keep painting like this, you’re going to need it.”

  There was an awkward, disbelieving silence.

  “So…when you say, ‘get the background in,’ you mean, you want us to include the junk on the shelves?” David said slowly. “The easels? Coffee cups? People’s coats? The garbage can?”

  “Or make something up, I don’t care. Just get something down.” She moved on.

  Tessa turned around to sympathize with Portia, but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, meet her gaze. She wore a dazed expression and her cheeks were highly colored, as if she had just been slapped.

  “Portia,” she whispered fiercely. “Don’t listen to her. She’s a monster.”

  She threw her brush down and walked quickly out of the room. Tessa looked to David, but he just lifted his hands into the air. I don’t know what to do either.

  Tessa followed her out to the hallway, but she had vanished. Reluctantly, she returned to class as if it were a prison sentence, waited for her turn to be pilloried.

  “All right, kids.” April was saying. Several of the students in their class were over thirty, but it seemed to be her favored expression for addressing them. “Now you know what I expect from you. I’m not going to continue critiquing today’s’ work, because as far as I can tell, it’s all one big brown mess. Let’s dethrone ‘The Figure.’ I don’t want you to treat the model any differently
than the walls, or the coat hooks, or a Snapple bottle, or the sink. Go look at the work of Edwin Dickinson to see what I mean. See you next week.”

  Class was dismissed. The shuffle of feet, chairs scraping the floor. The sound of knives scraping down palettes, turpentine cans snapped closed, rattle of brushes dropped in the sink for cleaning.

  April beckoned to Tessa in the far corner of the room where she had stowed her gear. “That was a little rough,” she conceded, stuffing her papers into her bag and slipping on her supple, expensive-looking jacket. “Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. Like an intervention. They might not appreciate it now, but in time it will make them better artists. You’ll see.” She gave her a bright smile, patted her shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re my monitor! I’m going to call Lucian right now to tell him.”

  Tessa managed a fake smile, nodded. Why didn’t she go already? She was still there, looking at her thoughtfully. “Are you working tonight? Because, if you’re not, I could really use your help. I’m always on the lookout for good assistants. And we’re going to a show uptown tonight, we wouldn’t even be in your way.”

  There was a sick feeling in her stomach. No, no, a thousand times no. She would starve first. “Sorry,” she said. “I have plans.”

  “Oh, well.” April said, throwing her pocketbook over her shoulder. “Another time. This is going to be so much fun!” And then she was gone, leaving a cloud of Calvin Klein’s Obsession in her wake.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “That is one crazy bitch,” stated Graham. “And I should know. I’ve dated a lot of crazy bitches.”

  “She’s not a teacher, she’s a bully,” said Harker, with a kind of awe. “She uses words the way other people use knives. How do you know her, Tess?”

  “Friend of my boss,” she replied grimly.

  “Did you find Portia?” said David.