by Ella Steele
Cole laughs, “Oh my god! How many crazy women are living inside your brain? How do you manage with all of them in there telling you what to say? Does one tie the others up and randomly take over?”
“You’re such an ass,” I sigh, shaking my head at him. “You asked my opinion. Don’t ask if you don’t want to hear…”
“No, that was not your opinion. It was what you’ve heard, what you’ve learned. It isn’t what you think. Last week I saw it on your face during those shoots. This kind of photography—this kind of work—isn’t what you thought it was.”
I shake my head, “No it isn’t. None of this is what I thought it would be.”
“That makes two of us.”
CHAPTER 8
When we arrive at a tall building, it’s late. He pulls up in front, gets out and walks around to my door. Before I can move, he has it open and pulls me up to my feet. Cole tosses the keys to a valet and we walk inside.
The doorman nods, “Mr. Stevens.” Cole nods and passes him, his hand in mine tugging me along.
The elevator door opens before I know it and Cole leads me inside. When the doors close, my heart is pounding. I stare at him, remembering his hands on me… remembering the dream. I swallow hard.
Cole keeps his distance. I know where we’re going even though he doesn’t tell me. I figured it out somewhere on the highway back into the city. He is taking me to see those paintings, the ones he mentioned before. My stomach twists as he gazes at me. The elevator stops and the doors open. We’re in the penthouse. His home.
Cole steps through, but I can’t move. Fear snakes up my legs and binds me to the floor. Everything from the scent to the colors has my heart racing faster. It’s Cole. This place is his haven, his security blanket. I don’t belong here.
Before I can do something stupid, he sighs and walks back toward me. He holds out his hand, “Come on, Anna. I won’t bite.”
My eyes slide over his face and I put my hand in his. I don’t like this. Being in his home is demolishing the remaining ill conceptions I have of him like a buffalo in a china shop. Everything just shatters. There is no cold sterile modern furniture. Everything is plush and warm, decorated in deep blues, browns, and blacks. It’s not one of the museum homes of the wealthy, it’s Cole’s home and he lives here.
He flips on lights as we walk through. They illuminate the walls creating a subtle golden glow. Cole stops in the kitchen and goes to the cabinets, pulling out wine glasses. I don’t say anything. I feel nervous and I don’t know why. Part of me is scared that I’ll agree with him and change my mind. The other part senses something about him, about Cole, that makes me nervous.
He hands me a glass of wine. “I don’t know about you, but this is unusual for me.” I know what he means. This situation makes him nervous. Since I feel the same way, I take the glass.
I follow him into a room at the back of the apartment. When I see the bed, I realize it’s his bedroom and stop. It feels like I’m being strangled. My grip on the glass is so tight it could shatter. I raise the wine to my lips and sip, hoping it will calm whatever has me on edge. I enter the room behind Cole, but I don’t see the art he wants to show me. The walls are barren like he hasn’t decorated this part of the apartment. A large poster bed made from dark wood is in the center of the room. I look at it, thinking things about Cole that I shouldn’t. Tearing my gaze away from the bed, I look down at the dark wood floor and glance around. There is a row of windows and a balcony that overlooks a perfect skyline.
I’m not sure where he’s going, but Cole continues walking in front of me and crosses the room. My heart rate steadies, but there’s still something intimate about this. I inhale a little too deeply and notice it’s Cole’s cologne that I like after I’ve already done it. Guilt flames my cheeks and I pretend that I didn’t do it.
Cole passes straight through the room without comment, and pulls open the closet doors. A light pops on. It’s a huge walk-in with clothing lining both walls and a chair. Oak drawers and shelves line the lower part of the walls. The room smells like Cole. I don’t cross the threshold. I stop and watch him.
Cole crosses the wardrobe in three strides, and reaches for a knob at the back of the closet and pulls open a door. There’s a tiny darkened closet back there filled with large rectangle-shaped sheets. Those must be the paintings. I don’t understand why they are hidden in his closet if he values them.
He looks back at me. As if reading my mind, he says, “They’re hidden for a reason. What I’m showing you is rarely seen. I’m curious what you think—and terrified.” He swallows hard, his sapphire eyes on my face. He stands there for a moment, suspended like he can’t decide if he wants to show me or not.
My voice is small. I step toward him asking, “Why would it matter what I think? I’m nobody.” Condensation is beading on my glass. I wipe a trail through it with my thumb. I don’t look up at him. I don’t want to see his face when he answers.
There’s a pause before he says, “That’s where you’re entirely wrong.”
I lift my eyes and see him watching me. Cole’s blue gaze makes my stomach feel like it’s in a free fall. His lips part like he’s going to say more, but he doesn’t. I wish he would. I wish he felt comfortable saying his secrets to me, but I suppose this is a secret. The paintings are something he doesn’t show people and I’m standing here waiting to see them. A warm glow spreads through me until I remember the circumstances of my being here. It was to prove a point, and nothing more. I clutch my glass harder.
Instead of saying more, Cole reaches into the shadows and pulls out a large painting that’s draped with a white sheet. Moving closer, I walk into his dressing room holding my breath. Goosebumps line my arms. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I’m nervous. My stomach is twisting and I don’t know why.
Cole’s voice is too soft. He hands me the painting and says, “Here.” I take it from him.
“Cole,” I stand there frozen. For some reason this doesn’t feel like he’s just trying to prove a point. I can’t pull the sheet off. It feels like I’m seeing something forbidden.
After a moment, Cole glances at me, “Just look at it, Anna.”
I swallow hard and pull the sheet. The drape falls to the floor and I don’t understand what I’m seeing. I feel Cole behind me, but he’s silent. My eyes take in the piece of art in my hands. The stretched canvas is too big to hold for long, so I set it down. It has no frame, just a black edge. My gaze follows the blue lines across the painting. It’s the curves of a woman’s body, her neck, her arms, her waist, her breasts, but I can’t see her. She’s lost in shadow. It’s a sensual showcasing of her curves in shadow and light. I’m mute, staring at it. While the piece is stunning, that isn’t what rendered me speechless. I can’t admit why I’m drawn to it.
I swallow the lump in my throat as I stare. I move closer, trying to understand how it was created. It looks like a photograph printed on canvas that was painted, but the light is so unusual. It almost looks like watercolors, soft and pure.
I find my voice and ask, “How was this done? Why does your light source look like that?”
“I promise I’ll tell you,” Cole says, “But tell me what you think.”
I swallow hard. I feel the longing in this piece. I can’t stop staring at it. “It’s beautiful,” I breathe. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The light is so pale it looks like she’s been painted, but it’s not a painting—is it? It’s a photograph, or at least it started that way.” I reach out to touch it and stop myself.
“Go ahead,” he says, allowing me to commit a cardinal sin. My fingers slide across the smooth canvas. I can’t fathom how he made it. “What else?” I feel his gaze on the side of my face. Every time my heart beats, I feel it. I feel everything. It’s like I’m inside Cole’s body, touching his soul. It makes me shiver. I don’t have words for it.
Finally I say something. “She’s different from your Le Femme models. This woman is unedited, imperfect.” I noti
ce that first. The majority of my time at Le Femme has been spent editing away cellulite and smoothing skin. I stare at the unedited piece. “But that imperfection makes her real. It makes me wonder who she is and why she feels so lost. The way the light falls across her naked body, the way she was moving, reminds me of—” I bite my tongue. It was a silly thought, a memory from an old story.
“Reminds you of what?” his voice is too sweet, too fragile, to not answer. I look over my shoulder at him and then lower my lashes, not able to look him in the eye when I say it.
“It reminds me of Bathsheba bathing on the roof in the moonlight, unaware of her effect on the king. She has no idea how beautiful she is, what she does to him, how she makes him feel… It’s beautiful and tragic. Like this…” I turn and look up at him. Stubble lines his cheeks making his eyes appear bluer than this morning. I repress a shiver and turn back to the piece. “When did you make this?”
“A lifetime ago.”
I press my lips together when I realize this piece fits my description of art. I don’t want to admit it, but he’s right. It is evocative. I close my eyes, realizing what I said, that I just proved his point for him. When I open my eyes I whisper, “I’m not a hypocrite. They can’t all be like this. Every image can’t portray emotions like that, Cole. It’s not possible.”
As I start speaking, he turns away and takes the next painting from the closet. He pulls the drape off and I gasp and turn away from it when I realize what I’m looking at. He sets the painting down and says, “You promised you’d look. Anna, this isn’t something you’ve never seen before. Look at it and tell me what you see… why you looked away.”
“Cole, she’s! That’s!” I’m sputtering like an idiot. The image was beautiful, but I feel my face growing hotter and hotter. I can’t look at it.
“It’s what? I don’t understand you,” he says, baffled. Cole steps in front of me and looks at the piece and back at my face. “How can you look at the first one and not this one?”
Suddenly, I don’t know. They should be the same. But they’re not. This one shows a woman with her back arched, her breasts thrust upward, her hand just below her navel. It’s sexy, all lines, and curves, and shadows. A pale light source defines her curves in a creamy violet. The rest of her body is lost in inky shadows.
Nervously, I look at it again, “Because they’re not the same.”
“They are. I made them the same way. How are they different? I don’t understand you. Is it evocative? Can you feel a strong emotion when you look at it?” His voice is soft. I remember that he doesn’t show these to anyone, but I still can’t hide my shock.
“That’s not the point,” my face is flushed and his eyes on me make it worse. Suddenly I feel like the room is too small and Cole is too close. I want to back out, but I can’t.
“Anna?” he asks, almost pleading with me.
Looking at him, my voice catches in my throat. He looks so vulnerable, like a single word could crush him. The expression in his eyes makes me answer, “The first one was beautiful and sensual. This one is too graphic, too bold. You can’t do that. You can’t take pictures of women doing that. It’s not right.”
He glances at the painting and back at me, “Doing what?” He’s serious. I look past him at the painting and blush. “Anna,” he says, “Is it possible that your mind is much dirtier than the images you’re seeing? Is there any chance that you think things happened there that didn’t?”
Maybe. I hesitate. “She’s not… touching herself?” I ask timidly. That’s what I thought when I looked at it. The arch of her back, the way her breasts are thrust upward, and I can’t see her other hand.
He laughs, “No. She was laying on a cold floor. It made her arch her back like that.” He’s watching me, his eyes study my face. He’s not arrogant now. Uncertainty sits well on him, if anything it makes him sexier. Seeing this confident man care about what I think makes me wonder why.
He interrupts my thoughts, “Anna, I wish you could see what I see.” The tone of Cole’s voice is soft, wistful.
I can’t be quiet. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “What do you see in that piece?” Now I want to know. If it’s not what I thought, then I want to know what he thinks it is. I force myself to look at the piece of art again. It makes my stomach twist. The way her body is laying, the arch of her back, the tension in her arms—she looks like she’s in ecstasy. I can’t ignore it. The evocative nature of the image is too powerful.
Shaking my head, I breathe, “No one has ever touched me so that my body moved like that.” Once the words are out, I wish they weren’t.
Cole steps closer to me. His eyes are on the side of my face, drinking it in like he can’t get enough. I can tell that he wants to say something—that he wants to answer me—but he doesn’t. My heart races as he watches me. I can’t breathe. He’s too close. This is too intimate. It feels like I’m coming unglued and I don’t know what to do, what to say. The effect he has on me is powerful, and I’m having trouble hiding it. If my heart pounds any harder, I swear to God, he’ll hear it.
Cole tucks his chin. He puts his glass of wine down somewhere. His arms fold over his chest. That beautiful dark shiny hair falls over his eyes, making it impossible to see them in the dim glow. I wish I could read his face, his eyes, the same way he reads mine. I wish I was inside his head when he made this painting. Did he really see something else? Was it really not a depiction of ecstasy? And if it was, was it wrong? Was it pornographic? At this very moment, I don’t feel like it is. It feels like sublime beauty, like the last canvas he showed me.
Finally, he answers my previous question and turns from me. His voice is deep, seductive, “I see shadows and light, curves and lines. Beauty mingled with power. Femininity and softness. I see desire. I see someone who doesn’t know if her body is good enough. The position of her hand makes me think that. It sits on her stomach as if she’s hiding something. As if she has secrets I’ll never know…”
Silence engulfs us and we both stare at his work, neither of us brave enough to speak. My body is covered in goose-bumps. I don’t know what to think. I’m caught in the middle. My mind registers things like this as trash, or they are supposed to be, but after seeing it—after hearing Cole speak about it—how can I think that? It was my mouth that said the requirement for something to be art was the ability to evoke emotion, and here I am stunned into silence by something I wouldn’t have considered art yesterday.
Damn. I’m a hypocrite. I don’t like it. It feels like I’ve been blindsided, but Cole doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let me catch my breath.
Instead, he takes another canvas from its resting place and pulls the sheet off. When the drape hits the floor my toes curl inside my shoes. I can’t breathe. It’s another nude, another woman bathed in golden light. Long dark hair falls to her hips in curls. Her arms are stretched over her head, thrusting her chest out. The light catches the curve of the bottom of her breast, the softness of her jaw, the fullness of her hips—and there are glittering jewels hanging from her nipples.
Staring at it, I’m hyperaware of every inch of my body. My eyes fixate on her breasts, on those dangling jewels. It feels like someone sucked all the air out of the room. Heat engulfs me. I shouldn’t be looking, but I can’t stop. This kind of thing is too sensual, and it’s too beautiful. I can’t look away. I can’t understand why I don’t feel offended, and realize that it’s because this is art that reflects Cole’s heart. I’m seeing part of him when I look at these pieces. This woman meant something to him. She had to.
Glancing at him, I wonder who she is—this faceless woman who is concealed in shadows and hidden at the back of his closet—locked away from the world. It’s part of a life he hides, a part of Cole Stevens that remains a secret.
“Who is she?” I ask finally.
Cole shakes his head once. Dark hair sways over downcast eyes. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t answer. I don’t know if he won’t or he can’t. This isn’t a random m
odel. The images feel too intense for that.
Trying to be less personal, I ask, “How did you make these? The light is so soft. So stunning. I can’t figure out how you did it—”
Cole unfolds his arms, resuming the role of teacher. The softness in his eyes seeps back to the place he hides it in his heart. “It’s painting with light. It uses the camera, but the exposure is much longer. The model sits in a pitch black room. I set the camera on the tripod and release the shutter. Then I literally paint the model with a colored light. I move the light over her and it’s kind of like a paintbrush, highlighting the areas I want and leaving the rest in darkness. It makes a soft color-wash over her skin.”
I blink twice and turn my head back toward the print. “But I don’t see you in these.” For that to happen, the exposure had to be pretty long—like minutes, not seconds. I’m astounded that he thought to do this. I’ve never seen it before. At least, I’ve never seen this concept with boudoir portraits. Cole is watching me as my mind races with questions. He knows I’ll latch onto the technical aspect and appears eager to discuss it with me.
“How long is the exposure?”
“Several minutes,” the toe of his shoe picks a spot on the floor. Arms folded over his chest, he says, “You won’t see me unless I stand still for a moment, but I’m there—moving through the shadows, spilling light across her body like rain pouring from the sky.”
Something occurs to me while he speaks. Turning to Cole, I say, “This is the kind of work you want me shooting, isn’t it? The Le Femme studio you’re putting out East isn’t like the one in the city. You want it to be something else—something like this.” I already know the answer, but it doesn’t stop the shock from spreading across my face. When he asked me to run the Long Island studio and said it was boudoir photography, I totally freaked out thinking he wanted something else.
But this. This intimidates the crap out of me. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to make powerful images like these.