Model Position

by Kitsy Clare

  “You like?” Dave asks as we stand in front of the first painting, more a visual nightmare, really.

  Focusing in, I decide the art is worse than I suspected—like someone dropped five gallons of clashing colored paints on the canvas by mistake and then smeared off parts of it with a rag. Don’t be so judgmental; give it another go. Okay, it might be good, but it’s so, so not my style. My tummy clenches. How can I show here, and what can I possibly say that’s complimentary? “It’s…big!” I remark. “I wonder how the artist carries those big canvases around.”

  Dave laughs. He has a hearty laugh. “They don’t. Professional artist movers do all of that.”

  Of course, expensive professionals. What was I thinking? I can’t imagine being that well off. No way I’m ever going to paint a canvas larger than one I can strap to the roof of my Nissan Versa.

  Dave takes my arm and leads me to the back room. I start to sweat because I know that the back room of any gallery is the private sanctum where the real action happens—the decisive phone calls, the interviews, the sales, and the important meetings of every stripe.

  A woman with flowing salt-and-pepper hair, grape-colored nails, an impeccably fitted purple dress, and patent heels steps forward. “Dave,” she chirps, and he pecks her on either cheek like they do on Beverly Hills Housewives. “How’s grad school?” she asks him, as if it’s beneath her, and him too.

  “Grad school’s soon to be over, thankfully.” He pauses dramatically as he turns to me. “Aunt Lydia, I want you to meet someone very special. Sienna Karr, artist and girlfriend extraordinaire.” He runs his hand over me as if I’m some fancy new product he’s advertising. Really?

  I don’t know whether to be flattered or appalled by his insinuation that we are already a real couple, and dating hot and heavy.

  But I won’t screw up this chance at getting a show. If Dave’s my ticket in, I need to play along. How many other chances does a poor grad student with no real connections in the Big Apple get? And there must be more to Dave. Maybe his bravado’s just a front. I just need to get to know him better. I shake her hand and pull off a sort of modified curtsy. It feels right to do this—I mean, she’s artist royalty, right? “I love your gallery!” I gush. “And the exhibition you have up is…” I search for a positive term to describe this painting series, “very passionate!”

  “We try to always keep it expressive.” Her cool gaze moves to her nephew. “So, Dave, what brings you here?”

  “Well, I’m wondering if you’d like to see this lovely lady’s work?” His tone is hesitant, and I realize that she must intimidate even Dave. He must’ve been bumbling back there when he introduced us as a couple. I guess even slick, sophisticated guys can be off their game. Yeah, that was it.

  “Oh!” Lydia Hightower makes a slight adjustment to her narrow dress belt. “Well, I could consider it.” She smoothes down the only stray hair on her coiffed head. “Perhaps after this show. You know I’m very busy placing the work in foreign museums.” She grants me a thin grin.

  “That would be greatly appreciated, Miss Hightower,” I say, thinking to hand her a card I made up recently with my email address and website on it.

  “You’ll give her a call soon?” Dave persists.

  Lydia Hightower sniffs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  ***

  I’m trembling in the elevator down. “Lydia Hightower has to be the most unapproachable person I’ve ever encountered,” I admit. Dave seems to relish this opportunity to slip a protective arm around me and pull me toward him. I don’t resist because I’m pretty shaky.

  “She only seems scary.” He laughs, and I manage to laugh with him.

  “Thanks, Dave. I mean it!” I give him a quick hug and then shift away, because I suddenly remember that he told his aunt I was already his girlfriend. That’s moving too fast for someone I hardly know yet. I don’t want him to assume he can pay his way into my heart.

  “Let me wine you and dine you,” he suggests. “What’s your preference? Asian fusion at Buddakan? Italian at Il Mulino? Sirloin at the Standard Grill?”

  Oh. My. God. My resistance to him paying his way to my good graces falters. Any one of those gourmet eateries would obliterate my weekly photo-retouching paycheck. Harper and Merry will be completely jealous because when we go out, we mostly scarf down burgers at the twenty-four-hour Greek diner. But what the heck! “Asian fusion sounds grand,” I decide aloud. No doubt he’ll show me his better side when he relaxes over dinner.

  We stop by my apartment so I can freshen up and drop off my art supplies. Dave waits in my living room watching Sports TV while I don a pretty crimson dress. My thoughts keep straying to Erik. I imagine what he’d think of me in the dress and what he’d think of my computer art that’s pinned up around the room. Somehow it seems wrong for Studio Hightower. Too organized, too digitally mathematic, not messy and “expressive” enough.

  I don’t apply perfume, because if I decide I don’t like Dave after all, I don’t want to encourage him. A model is only a model, I keep chanting as I put on red lipstick and dashes of eyeliner and force myself to banish all thoughts of my tall, blond, sexy new muse.

  ***

  Buddakan is spectacular. It’s a Pan-Asian palace with gargantuan, shiny, meditative Buddhas beaming down at the well-heeled clientele. Neatly organized arrays of bright ceramic vases line the walls. Everyone is dressed to the nines, and I swear, at one table I see a glimmer of Gwyneth Paltrow. Or is that Michelle Williams? Wowee! Rubbing elbows with the glitterati isn’t so bad. I could get used to this.

  We’re seated at a long table under glittering chandeliers and poured a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine—I peeked at the price.

  Dave holds up his glass. He looks the part—king of the Manhattan art scene—with his raven-haired, chiseled features and sharp brown eyes. “Here’s to ruling the art world!”

  If he’s the art king and I stick with him, I could possibly become the art queen. It does have a nice ring. We clink glasses. “Here’s to getting out of grad school and landing a great job.”

  “Sienna, if you get a one-woman show at Hightower, you won’t need to get a good job. You’ll sell out and have enough money to pay for canvases and paints and clothes and whatever until your next sell-out show.”

  I tingle with excitement before the fact. Everything about Dave seems to be “before the fact”. But maybe he’s right. Maybe my work will meet the approval of sniffy Lydia Hightower. Maybe my paintings will sell for thousands each. Maybe Dave will end up being my handsome, rich boyfriend.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe not, my gut tells me as I unexpectedly flash on Erik’s soulful eyes for the umpteenth time.

  In the meantime, there’s some seriously great food we can consume. We inhale lobster egg rolls, Pacific hijiki salad, and a palate cleanser of lemongrass sorbet. Then we start in on a course of jade shrimp dumplings. I’m way too full for dessert, but Dave piles down warm chocolate ganache with caramel ice cream.

  It’s clear to me; I’m not eating the way I would if I was interested in someone—all dainty bites while filling up on lovelorn gazes. I am eating like a stuffed hog! And my flirty mind keeps helplessly wandering to Erik. “Do you think that guy is a good model?” I blurt out before I realize it’s rude to bring up another guy on a date.

  Dave brushes his napkin across his mouth and plunks it down next to his plate. “Who? Suede Tarzan?”

  “Yeah, I mean, he’s just the model, but um, he’s better than Court Jester.”

  “I suppose, but I’m better than all of them. You can paint me.” Dave leans in for an uninvited kiss. It’s a soft, sly kiss on my cheek that sneaks over to my lips. And he smells nice too—some classic cologne like Polo or Gucci. For a moment, I get into it, kissing back as I fantasize us restaurant-hopping and going to the theater and to openings at MOMA, him in a dashing tux and me in a sparkly gown.

  That in itself renders the kiss mysterious and elegant, an inside glimpse into the easy l
ife. But when it’s over, I don’t feel anything much. It’s like one of those high-school kisses when you’re expecting fireworks but all you feel afterward is the itch of the guy’s stubble.

  I ignore Dave’s invitation to model for me and swerve into a different subject. “So, what have you learned in grad school that you’ll take with you to the real world?”

  He snorts. “Not much that I didn’t already know. The teachers are mostly frustrated artists who tanked in their own careers. I already know the game,” Dave brags. “Stick with me.”

  “What is the game, Dave?”

  He shrugs. “Networking, pulling strings, marketing up the wazoo. Wining and dining the critics.”

  The critics. Now that’s gotten my attention. We all need good reviews to launch our careers. “Do you personally know any writers for ArtNews?”

  “Honey, I know the critics from ArtNews, Art in America, Art & Auction, you name it. They’ve been coming around to my house with Aunt Lydia since I was five years old, and they called me Davey Crockett. Most of them will do anything for a tasty meal. They get paid shit wages for reviews.”

  I nod and look at my Jade shrimp. I always did hate being called honey. “You say that you’d rather own the gallery than show. Then how come you want to show in Shanghai?”

  “Anything for notoriety.” He laughs at my obviously horrified expression. “Come on, Sienna, I’d like my art to be appreciated as much as anyone, and I know it’s not that great. I know that my aunt’s contacts help.”

  “Your art has a…blue flair,” I say, recalling the atmospheric shadows on his painting.

  “You’re the real talent,” he admits. “Even that silly model guy saw it.”

  Ack, just when I’m warming up to Dave for his first humble admissions. I sigh. “You can’t assume that guy is silly. You don’t even know him.”

  Now it’s Dave’s turn to sigh. He hands the waiter his credit card as he passes by with the bill. “Look, Sienna, I like you, okay? And I know that I’m not as hot as that stud that’s posing in class for us. But I’m offering you a lot. And that guy?” He snorts. “Don’t even think about it. He’s way below your pay grade.”

  Ouch. My neck heats up in a surge of anger. Who made Dave an authority? What gives him the right to already be territorial? But, maybe Dave’s right. How can I realistically entertain the thought of getting to know Adonis? He likely never made it past high school. I saw his rough, calloused hands. He probably works as a plumber. Now who’s the judge? Glorified and glorious Tarzan, hah!

  “Besides,” Dave continues now that he’s gotten my attention, “that guy probably uses his I-love-to-paint-beautiful-women-like-you line on all of the female students.”

  That worry has already occurred to me. Erik is such a sex-bomb; he probably beds as many art students as he can. The prettiest artists like Taffy are probably lined up outside his apartment in their flowing skirts and skimpy, frothy tops. I feel myself blushing. I wasn’t prepared for more of Dave’s honesty after so much prideful bragging. He’s just trying to help me be realistic. “Dave, you’re a good-looking guy; you are. And I so appreciate you introducing me to your aunt. I just need time to get to know you. Can you understand?”

  “Sure,” he says, “but don’t wait too long to get to know me or show my aunt your work, because time rushes on.”

  What’s that, a threat? Talk about pressure. But even with this, he’s kind of right. I need this meeting with Lydia. I need important contacts. That’s what builds a lucrative art career. I can’t just follow my emotions and random, carnal desires if I want to make it here. This city is too vast, too unforgiving, waaay too competitive. Grow up, Sienna, I chide silently.

  Dave helps me into my coat, and I walk out in a daze, looking forward to the shelter of my own apartment and the clarity of painting class tomorrow. Somehow, the act of creating art always helps me understand my mind and my heart.

  Oh, and even if I never speak to Erik again, I definitely need more long glimpses of him! A model is a model is a model. Except, an unexpected, wayward voice inside me whispers, when he just might be a lot more than a model.

  3 CHAPTER THREE

  I get to the studio early so I can set up my easel exactly where it was last time: close up, center stage. I’m hoping that Erik will also get there early, before Dave saunters in. Hopefully Dave won’t bring me another cappuccino that will make me feel even more beholden to him. I’ll be friendly with him to get to Lydia, but I’m not going to fall in love. It’s business. He doesn’t really seem to like me all that much either. It’s almost as if he’s dating me to impress his aunt. If he can play, I’ll play the game a little longer too. Not too palatable, but isn’t that what most ambitious people do?

  I’ve dressed with particular care in a fuzzy lavender sweater and tight gray suede pants to be in harmony with Erik’s affinity with suede. I’ve applied real French perfume and washed my hair with a shampoo that compliments it in a sensual infusion of woodland flowers.

  I felt so out of control yesterday trying to get comfortable around Lydia Hightower that it’s reassuring to line up my brushes and then my paints in perfectly straight lines on my palette. Though I know that in the process of painting, they’ll end up in multi-hued blobs. I wonder if I’ll feel compelled, as I usually do, to keep realigning them.

  A few people filter in, and we say hi. Still no Erik. Then I see him. Be still, my heart! He’s even better looking in his street clothes. Is that even possible? He has on worn jeans and aviator glasses, a grass-green sweater that matches his eyes, and brown boots. Dave, in his Chelsea art-district-business mode, would not approve of the scuffs on Erik’s boots or his wild windblown hair, but I sure do. It’s funny that I do, considering my affection for order. Normally I’d be mentally combing Erik’s hair into place. Oh, wow. He’s waving and heading over my way!

  Is this against the model-student code of ethics? Heck, the teacher’s not here to give any disapproving looks, and I’m in my mid-twenties, not a high-school teen. Erik slips beside me and takes another look at my portrayal of him while I drink in his spicy lime aftershave and insanely sexy-guy vibe.

  “Do you still like it?” I ask uncertainly.

  “It’s gorgeous, but not as gorgeous as you.”

  If anyone else had just said this to me, I’d be way creeped out and respond with a cynical snicker, but somehow Erik gets away with it. “I hope I do you justice today with the second sitting.”

  “I’m sure you will,” he answers. “Yesterday I was looking at other people’s work, and by far, you have the most talent here with figures. Probably other things too,” he adds with a gleam in his eyes. Uh, yeah! That means he didn’t like Taffy’s work as much. I just hope he doesn’t like her boobs better than mine. Erik pulls out his cell. “Here’s a sampling of my work, since you asked about it yesterday.”

  I’m absolutely blown away when Erik slides the images on his phone past me. His figures are three-dimensional, soulful, and in flawless perspective. The clever layering of light and shadow brings the models to vivid life, as if they’re right here in this studio. Is this the work of a high-school dropout or a loser who can only use his body for work? Not likely. “They’re as good as DaVinci’s!” I gasp.

  He chuckles. “I don’t know about that.”

  “I’m not exaggerating.”

  “You flatter me.” He clicks his cell shut and pops it in his pants’ pocket. “I’m having a solo show soon. If you’d like to go, I’ll give you an invite when I get the cards.”

  “Solo, wow! Where’d you land that?”

  His face lights up. “Actually, how about if I surprise you?”

  Normally that, too, would be irritating. People like me don’t appreciate surprises. But Erik’s unadulterated enthusiasm is cute. And it raises my curiosity tenfold. People are filtering in now with their canvases and paint bags, including Harper and Merry. They wave. Merry sets up next to Sammy, and I catch them giving each other a hug and kiss. New roman
ce alert! She’ll have to dish on this development tonight when we get together for our weekly cook-off and gossip session at my place. Merry looks arty in skinny jeans and a shirt that’s covered in her own bright, graphic cartoons.

  Harper glides over on stylish leather pumps that showcase her shapely legs. She’s always pulled together. Today, she’s in a color-blocked shirtdress, and her long, black hair is swept up in a breezy ponytail. No doubt she’s itching to catch a glimpse of my muse up close and personal.

  “Erik, meet Harper, a good friend of mine,” I say, and the two shake hands.

  “You’re the first um, professional-looking model we’ve had so far, so keep up the worthy work!” Harper blurts. Awwwk-ward!

  Erik laughs it off. I shudder when from over his shoulder I see Dave walk in, steamy cappuccino in hand. Harper’s kind of sweet on Dave. Her dad’s a Wall Street trader, and she’s a sucker for a slick corporate dresser. At this point, I’m almost thinking she can have Dave, but I need to play this carefully, because I’m getting ready to show Lydia Hightower my work.

  “Dave, Erik, Erik, Dave,” I say as Dave glances from Erik to me. Confusion and annoyance are etched on Dave’s face as he hands me the cappuccino. I thank him and take it, feeling horribly guilty.

  Harper saves the day by giving Dave her signature dimpled smile and asking how he’s doing. He loves to talk about himself so he launches right in.

  “Hey,” Erik prompts while Dave’s busy with Harper, “want to go out to a museum tomorrow? The Met? The Whitney? We can talk about art and paintings. Or are you—” he cocks his head toward Dave’s back, “—spoken for?”

  This delicious guy hangs out in museums, really? I adore going to museums and gawking at all of the amazing paintings. I learn so much about art from the old masters. “No, I’m free,” I answer softly so Dave can’t overhear us. “Sure, I’d like that.”

  “Great!” His gorgeous face relaxes into a warm smile. Is it my imagination that Erik is relieved I’m not with Dave or only my secret hope? “What art style do you prefer?” he asks me. “You seem like a tight realist.”