Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  As I step inside, I smile as I notice the large vases of flowers throughout, soft music on the stereo, and glass doors wide open to bring the spectacular view of the city inside. I’ve always loved the feeling in their home.

  Her studio is a large room with high ceilings located on the bottom level of the home. Like most of the house, the studio has a wall of glass that faces the view and is equipped with blackout blinds she can draw if needed.

  Already draped behind the stool where I’ll sit is the background for the shot, a huge sheet of canvas that’s been washed repeatedly with shades of translucent gray paint, creating a rich layered depth. Facing the stool are lights on stands that have softboxes of translucent white attached. When she turns them on, the light is milky soft.

  She leads me to the stool and talks me through particulars such as sitting up straight, flattering angles of the face, and the best way to lean into the posing stand. She then takes a brush and moves it through my long hair, sweeping some forward and pushing some back before brushing her fingers along my cheek.

  “You’re so lovely, Ava. I’m sure I can’t take a bad picture of you.”

  I grin, grateful to be in such good hands.

  Once she starts shooting, we try different expressions and poses. Katherine doesn’t so much direct me, but shows me, and her comments while she works make me smile. She also takes plenty of pictures when I’m not expecting her to, such as when I’m laughing or just staring off to the side thinking she’s changing film. By the time she finishes shooting three or four dozen pictures, I’m confident there’ll be at least one that’ll work for the book.

  She made me feel relaxed and beautiful, which is part of her talent and why people travel great distances to work with her.

  As she shuts down the studio, I ask how she got into photography. The conversation leads to her experience with Adam in college.

  “Was it love at first sight?”

  “Not exactly, but close. You probably remember hearing that we met at art school.”

  “Yes, Art Center in Pasadena. Brian took me to a show there once and told me you two met there as students.”

  “I was a photography major and dating one of my classmates. We were always buried in the labs or shooting in the studios and rarely came out to see the light of day.”

  “How did you meet Adam then?”

  “He was in the fine art program, but he also worked in the student store part time to help pay for his supplies. When I’d stumble out of the labs or the studio to buy film or printing paper, he’d often help me, and I thought he was both good looking and charming. He later told me he usually couldn’t stand the photographers because they were always stressed out and in a bad mood, but I was always kind.”

  “Kind?”

  “Well, yes. He said he thought I was sexy and beautiful too, but I left that part out.”

  “Don’t leave out the good parts!” I tease her.

  “I had an assignment during my fifth quarter to shoot a portrait of an artist in their environment, and I thought about him. I’d seen his work in the student gallery, and I really liked it. Of course, he was handsome and charismatic, so I knew he’d be a great subject. I asked him one evening when I was buying supplies, and he agreed, as long as I agreed to pose for a painting.

  “Mitchell, my poor boyfriend, didn’t stand a chance. If only I’d known I was setting off on a course that would change my life.”

  I smile and lean in closer.

  She sighs happily. “I’ll never forget the day I went to his place for our session. He was renting a large room at the top of this grand old house. He called it the tree house because huge, old oak trees surrounded it. There were windows on all sides that let in the most beautiful light.

  “We dragged all of my equipment up three flights of stairs, and he showed me all the canvases he was working on. I swear, Ava, I could feel myself falling for him as he talked about his work. He was so passionate and sure of himself.

  “And, as we talked, we lost all sense of time. Before I knew it, the light had faded and it was too late to shoot. So we just kept talking until I realized I was late for a get-together with Mitchell and some of our friends.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I left, but we agreed to keep my equipment there, and I’d come back the next day.”

  “Did the same thing happen the next day?”

  “No, I was very serious about my work. It was my last chance to get his portrait done and turn the assignment in on time. As soon as I got there, I set up and did the session. He was very present and giving as a subject, and each shot we set up seemed better than the last. One part of the assignment was to shoot the artist at work. It was the last setup we did, and he took off his shirt, because that’s how he liked to paint.”

  She fans herself and smiles. “Let me tell you, I could barely focus my camera. He gave me looks that would’ve melted the coldest heart.”

  “After I packed up my equipment, he opened a bottle of wine, and we sat on the floor and talked and talked. I was scared because the attraction and tension between us were incredible. He finally put his cards on the table and asked if I had a boyfriend.

  “I told him about Mitchell. We’d been together for three years . . . even before Art Center. He was my first serious boyfriend. Once Adam heard that, he shut down, and I thought it was probably for the best. For as much as I liked him, I didn’t need a lot of drama in my life.

  “But when I said good-bye at the end of the evening, he gave me this hug . . . It was like really being held for the first time. And before he pulled away, he told me he wanted to kiss me more than anything, but he couldn’t because of Mitchell.

  “After that, I avoided the student store. But when Mitchell saw the prints after I brought my graded boards home, he was jealous. We had a huge fight about it, even though I hadn’t done anything with Adam that crossed a line. But Mitchell must’ve operated on instincts—like an animal sensing the presence of another male—and he was threatened. There was always a lot of drama, not just with us, but with all our friends.”

  I nodded, eager to hear more.

  “Anyway, Mitchell was never one to be upstaged, so he slept with our neighbor. After I found out, he begged me to forgive him, but I was done. And since I couldn’t stop thinking about Adam, I wondered how committed I was to Mitchell in my heart.

  “After the dust had settled a couple of weeks later, I went to the student store and took Adam his prints from the shoot. He took a break, and we went to the cafeteria, got coffee and looked at the work. He loved the images, and we talked like not a moment had passed since we’d been together. I didn’t tell him about Mitchell then, but he asked me if I was ready to pose for him, and we agreed I would come the following Saturday.

  She looks at her watch. “Oh, this story’s going on way too long, isn’t it?”

  “No! I want to hear the rest!”

  Her eyes light up as she continues. “That whole week, I was a bundle of anticipation, and when Saturday arrived, I could barely drive my car to his place. There was no way he could miss how nervous I was, and he gave me some wine while he prepared his easel and paints. Of course he wasn’t wearing his shirt, making the wine even more of a necessity.”

  I laugh and feel all the nervous tension they must’ve gone through.

  “We’d agreed ahead of time that I’d be nude, but only if I could hide my breasts. He arranged it so I could stretch across some pillows with only my derrière showing. He turned away when I took off my robe and positioned myself, but when he came over to arrange my hair fanning across the pillow, I almost passed out.”

  “Wait, that’s the painting hanging in your bedroom, isn’t it?”

  She gives me a big smile. “Yes, that’s the one. When he worked, he was completely into it. He didn’t speak for a long time, but as we both grew more comfortable, we started to talk and share stories about school. Finally, he asked about Mitchell, and I told him about our break-up.”
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  “What’d he say?”

  “Nothing, he was silent, but when I looked up, he was gripping the sides of the canvas. I asked him what was wrong. And you know what he said? ‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Then he lifted his chin, gave me the biggest smile and said, ‘For the first time in a long time, everything feels completely right.’”

  “I held my breath as he walked over, sat on the floor next to my pillows and stroked my cheek. And that was it . . . that was the moment my entire life changed. I sat up, not even caring that I was naked, and he pulled me into his lap and gave me the kiss I’d dreamed of.”

  I hold my breath because her description’s so vivid that I can feel their passion running through me. They had each found their soul mate.

  “That was it. I stayed over that night and never left. Here it is, thirty years later, and I’m still by his side.”

  “That’s the best story . . . the perfect love.”

  “Oh no, not perfect, Ava. Nothing’s perfect. We’ve had plenty of fights and near breakups over the years. We’re both passionate people, and we fight as passionately as we make love.”

  “Did you ever really almost break up?”

  “Well, the closest we probably came was when Adam finally gave up trying to make it as an artist and decided go into the gallery-publisher side of things. He was tormented about that, but he wanted us to be together and have a family, and we weren’t surviving financially by selling his art. He was miserable all the time. I finally got tired of it. That’s when he realized he was going to lose me, and he figured out a way to make peace with his decision.”

  “Do you think he ever regrets it?”

  “Regret . . . no. But I do think he misses the idea of being an artist. But he always tells me he wouldn’t change it if he could go back and do it all again. It’s very hard to make a living through your art.”

  I hadn’t really considered that before, but she’s right.

  “You know, Ava, in the end, the success you have in your career can only provide a certain kind of happiness and satisfaction. What really matters are your relationships and the love you have in your life. Nothing will ever be perfect, but I’m lucky we never gave up on each other. The moments I’ve had with Adam are the bright light I’ll always carry in my heart.”

  As I drive home, I reflect on Katherine’s story. I’d always held Adam and Katherine in my mind as the perfect couple, so it was comforting to hear that even their relationship didn’t have a smooth start. The powerful pull they have for each other reminds me of how I’ve felt about Max since the first time I saw him at the art show in New York.

  Despite all we’ve gone through, could we eventually have a happy ending too?

  When I get home, I go through the mail and find a thick envelope addressed to me. My heart starts to pound. I’m almost certain it’s from Max. I tear it open and unfold a handwritten letter on drawing paper. His signature is at the bottom. My hands are shaking as I settle on the couch and start to read.

  Dear Ava,

  The look in your eyes the moment you broke away from me has haunted my every waking moment. All I wanted was to prove myself good enough to deserve your attention, but my actions only showed how unworthy I really am. Now I’ll always know I let you down, and I’ll forever regret it. All I can hope is that one day you’ll give me another chance to prove myself.

  Our connection has come to mean the world to me, and I can’t accept that it’s gone. You are vibrant color, poetry and light. Your presence soothes me . . . lighting up my darkness, your whispers quieting the noise in my head. I want to be the man who inspires you too, that doesn’t just put you on a pedestal to admire your beauty, but encourages you to chase your dreams.

  I’ve always believed we shared a destiny, so how do I walk through this life without you on my arm?

  I’ve taken some time away to sort things out. My head hasn’t been in a good place for a long time, and I want to change that. But I need to right my wrongs and let the people who are important in my life know how I feel.

  I’m sorry, but it’s hard to accept the idea that I’ve lost you. With each passing day, instead of a healing, the pain just grows. I miss you desperately, Ava, and despite everything, I hope that some small part of you misses me too.

  Max

  My heart is heavy and tender as I slowly read his letter twice more. I feel an entire range of emotions. It pains me to know he’s suffering. Part of me wants to wrap my arms around him and not let go. I miss him . . . especially when I remember the good times we’ve had together. A lingering anger still burns over the scene with Sheila. But I’m also nervous, thinking of the signs of his obsession with me and wondering if his sentiments in the letter are a reflection of that.

  Despite our moment of passion at the print studio, we were just friends and didn’t owe each other anything beyond that. He still thinks I rejected him that night and doesn’t understand how much I’ve always wanted him. As upsetting as the scene with Sheila was, it’s not as if he was cheating on me. My situation was complicated too because of Jonathan. How judgmental can I be?

  I have a sudden urge to explain all of this, to clear the air and untangle the crossed wires and misunderstandings. Hopefully, we can communicate and both heal and move toward whatever our destiny is meant to be.

  I call Jess to get the mailing address for his aunt in Ojai.

  When I crawl in bed that night, I perch a pad of paper on my lap to compose my response.

  Dear Max,

  About ten minutes pass, and despite the grip I have on my pen, no thoughts flow onto the paper. I’m a writer without words. There’s so much emotion to sort through in my heart and head that I could write a novel and still not explain the tango he’s danced with my heart.

  I read his letter one more time and press it over my heart before setting it back on my night table and turning off the light. I toss and turn for a while before finally falling into a deep sleep.

  In a foggy haze, I try to figure out where I am as I wander through an empty house. It’s a series of different-sized rooms with hardwood floors, intricate crown moldings, and oddly shaped picture windows. I find the quiet atmosphere appealing. Is it from the past or the future, or does it balance on a dime’s edge somewhere in between?

  Despite my trepidations, I keep exploring. Some of the rooms are on different levels with little staircases leading up to them, and after a while, I have no sense of where I am in the house. Am I in an Escher drawing?

  At the end of the hallway, I walk into a room with a large white couch that faces a picture window. A stained glass pattern skirts the edges of the window and casts shapes of vibrant colors throughout the room. I focus on the couch and the back of a man’s head as he sits quietly. It’s Max.

  I go to him, but he’s in that unresponsive state . . . just looking straight ahead with no expression or movement. I say his name over and over, but he doesn’t respond, even when I stroke his face and try to turn his head toward me.

  My frustration builds, as does my determination to get his attention. Inexplicably, I dramatically remove all my clothes. Again, there’s no response from Max, so I climb onto his lap, straddling him, and run my hands over his face. He finally starts to come to life.

  My desire builds just being close to him, and I kiss him. His lips part for me as I unbutton his shirt and rake my nails up and down his chest. We kiss again as I undo his pants, slide my hand inside and hold him. He’s hot in my grip, and I’m pleased when he starts to grow, pushing my fingers apart, until he’s hard and throbbing in my hand. His hands press tightly over my hips as his breaths get ragged.

  Inspired by his passion, I stroke him with one hand while pushing his pants further open with the other.

  Now as I kiss him, I whisper words of longing . . . telling him I need him inside me, that I want him desperately. Finally, I lift my hips, as he pushes against me. He watches with hooded eyes as I lower myself down until he’s completely inside of me. My moan’s long and mel
odic. I don’t recall anything ever feeling this good.

  Suddenly, it all speeds up, as if his dial has been turned up. He’s electrified and moves with great intensity under me. Although he still doesn’t speak, there’s fire in his eyes and expression. His hands caress my back and slide down to my ass. He lifts and lowers me over him as he showers me with kisses up my neck and along my jaw. His mouth finally opens with mine and he kisses me deeply.

  I rock and tighten over him, arching my back so that my breasts are within reach and he skims his lips down to them. When he slides his hand between us and strokes me, my rocking speeds up. I lace my fingers into his hair and tilt his face up so I can look into his eyes as I tumble over the edge toward climax.

  My world explodes and in a single flash. I see in his expression all the desire and passion that’s always burned for me that I never understood before now. I revel in his passion as his jaw clenches and his eyes roll back in ecstasy. We’re hurling through space and time together.

  As I’m trembling and calling out his name, I’m aware that, although I’ve climaxed before in my dreams, I’ve never started the exquisite sensation of freefalling through wave after wave of pleasure without hitting a crescendo and eventually stopping.

  But the ecstasy just keeps building, the tremors continue until my heart thunders and I can’t catch my breath. The desire is indefinable. My fingers grasp at whatever part of him I can hold onto and my muscles seize. If this doesn’t stop, I could very well die from the force of it. And just as soon as I accept that I’m willing to trade it all for this ultimate feeling of bliss, I’m hurled out of my dream. I wake up twisted in my sheets, gasping for air.