Still

Still

The air is filled with the sweat of others. Intensity of form within each brush stroke, guided by hand and heart.  Mixed colours forming connections in the real and the surreal.  No one particularly cares what the model feels. A thing of beauty but a thing all the same.


She holds her pose well, like a nude mannequin might, envying the artists their freedom of creation. Not for the first time she wonders what’s behind each easel.  Part of her there, but only the smallest part. She’s learned this about artists, a model is but a trigger for something so much more.

Outside the streets of Paris seem like another world, people aimlessly drinking coffee at the cafes below. Parisians have such a way about them, akin to their city,holding majesty of place and therefore majesty of thought.

That’s what she loved most about him, his utter belief in being who he was. Which was why in part, she knew he would not look for her today,why she would remain the painter’s model, and nothing more.

In the silent world of artists, a door opens,creaking as old as the lime washed studio walls. She chides herself, whispering not to be foolish, maintaining her stance, motionless, still.

The smell of paint grows strong as heads turn away from her, looking behind to the intruder.

‘Must not cry, must not cry’.

She recalls the two of them before the angry words, wrapped together, intensity of thought mixed with intensity of delight.

Hearing footsteps, she alone, is no longer the art to which the painters craze, and as her stillness breaks, he takes her gently by the hand.