Open to Interpretation
by Karen Jones
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A story inspired by J D Fergusson's Torso of A Woman, written when I first saw it several years ago at Kelvingrove Galleries. (Here is a link to the painting: http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/yourpaintings/paintings/torse-de-femme-83948)
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The Tutor
He stood in front of the painting, never happier than when instructing students on how to analyse, how to see things as he saw them.
“There’s an implicit trust displayed here. The model sits naked, her arms draped across the sofa, completely open to the artist. Nothing masked, nothing reserved, except the tilt of her head to the left, eyes looking up from under a fringe of thick brown hair, not meeting his gaze.
“Of course, we could extrapolate an elaborate back story from that one tilt of the head, but it’s unlikely to signify anything more than the artist’s desire to highlight her torso, rather than her face.”
The Student
She hesitated to speak out. His favourite in more ways than one, her cheeks burned as she asked: “But what about the slash of red under her breast? I know The Colourists used bold shading, but it’s so deliberately placed, so brutal.”
She lowered her eyes under his glower
The Model
He knew every inch of me. I let him manipulate my body and mind – even my voice – into something more refined because I was so pleased to have been chosen. So happy to be his model, his muse and, eventually, his lover.
At first he adored me. He’d tell me to stand proud – of what, I wondered? I was nothing – nothing without him – only given true worth in what he created.
He painted, but I knew he longed to touch, to be more than just my saviour. He found me on the streets, knew what I was. He knew there were things I could teach him, but much more he could teach me.
It was up to me to invite intimacy; he would never cross that boundary. One day, as he helped me with my coat before I left, I reached up, seeking my collar, and let my fingers brush against his. The tremble from his body surged through mine and I knew I had him – he wouldn’t be able to stop until he tasted me.
I let him kiss me, let his lips travel down and graze my neck, let him bury his face in my hair and inhale. Then I stood back, lowered my eyes, whispered goodnight and left him. I felt his gaze burn through my clothes as I walked downstairs, knew that he’d move to the window so his hunger could follow the sway of my hips as I walked across the cobbles. But for all my experience, I had felt honest passion, genuine shyness when I touched his hand. It seemed he was still the teacher.
Months of passion, posing, painting passed. I started cleaning, cooking, making myself useful. He still paid me, even increased my wage when I added lover and housekeeper to my role. I didn’t want the money, didn’t need it since he paid for everything. All I wanted was him. But I didn’t stop him. I was naïve in the ways of such things and assumed that when he asked me to live with him – I never counted on marriage – the money would stop, naturally.
But soon his eyes began to drift, as if he knew me so well, he no longer had to look at me to capture me.
Then he asked me to pose naked, arms draped along the back of the sofa, head bowed, not quite meeting his gaze. He opened me up to the world, gave me to his public; body, soul – and scarred close to my heart, yet so far away from his.
The Artist
She has etherised my senses. The falsehood of her love, her passion, was there for me to see, but I missed it. Or did I simply choose not to see?
I saved her, taught her; I made her what she is today. And I despise what she is today. Spontaneity was her gift; I never knew what she would say, do, feel – it was all new to me. But after that first taste of her, she moulded herself to what she thought I expected. She even speaks like me, mimics my mannerisms. She became the woman she thought I wanted – the woman I thought I wanted – and I lost the woman I adored, piece by piece, week by week.
She took my money, left me with a plum-coloured kiss burning my cheek like a betrayal. So she warmed my bed, so she cleaned, so she cooked – so what? I never asked for any of those things, but, had they been freely given, proffered through honest feeling rather than greed, I might have asked her to stay. But no, she sold herself to me, and once purchased, once owned, she became as functional as the furniture she dusted.
And now she sits, arms draped across the sofa, lies open to the world, and I am done. I can no longer see perfection, only this mockery – my fool’s gold. I want to mark her as she has marked me, so I scar her, under her breast, close to her heart, where I once thought I would always reside.
The Tutor
He wrinkled his brow, surprised at the source of the question. Was he losing her?
“That red dash is bold, but trust me, it has no great significance. Simply an artist experimenting with his form. However, if you see something I don’t, so be it. Shall we move on to the next gallery?”
He led the class away before she could respond.
The Student
He had taught her the importance of seeing what wasn’t there, but now treated her vision as defiance. She knew it would be costly, and not just in final marks, but she had to write what she saw.
Notes on a painting: When he painted her, he scarred her, a wound just under her right breast, close to her heart. He made her perfect; or rather he caught her perfection, rendered it timeless, then chose to mar it. She couldn’t meet his gaze, as though she felt unworthy, as though she knew he could scar her and no one would ever know or care.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A story inspired by J D Fergusson's Torso of A Woman, written when I first saw it several years ago at Kelvingrove Galleries. (Here is a link to the painting: http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/yourpaintings/paintings/torse-de-femme-83948)
_____________________________________________________________________
The Tutor
He stood in front of the painting, never happier than when instructing students on how to analyse, how to see things as he saw them.
“There’s an implicit trust displayed here. The model sits naked, her arms draped across the sofa, completely open to the artist. Nothing masked, nothing reserved, except the tilt of her head to the left, eyes looking up from under a fringe of thick brown hair, not meeting his gaze.
“Of course, we could extrapolate an elaborate back story from that one tilt of the head, but it’s unlikely to signify anything more than the artist’s desire to highlight her torso, rather than her face.”
The Student
She hesitated to speak out. His favourite in more ways than one, her cheeks burned as she asked: “But what about the slash of red under her breast? I know The Colourists used bold shading, but it’s so deliberately placed, so brutal.”
She lowered her eyes under his glower
The Model
He knew every inch of me. I let him manipulate my body and mind – even my voice – into something more refined because I was so pleased to have been chosen. So happy to be his model, his muse and, eventually, his lover.
At first he adored me. He’d tell me to stand proud – of what, I wondered? I was nothing – nothing without him – only given true worth in what he created.
He painted, but I knew he longed to touch, to be more than just my saviour. He found me on the streets, knew what I was. He knew there were things I could teach him, but much more he could teach me.
It was up to me to invite intimacy; he would never cross that boundary. One day, as he helped me with my coat before I left, I reached up, seeking my collar, and let my fingers brush against his. The tremble from his body surged through mine and I knew I had him – he wouldn’t be able to stop until he tasted me.
I let him kiss me, let his lips travel down and graze my neck, let him bury his face in my hair and inhale. Then I stood back, lowered my eyes, whispered goodnight and left him. I felt his gaze burn through my clothes as I walked downstairs, knew that he’d move to the window so his hunger could follow the sway of my hips as I walked across the cobbles. But for all my experience, I had felt honest passion, genuine shyness when I touched his hand. It seemed he was still the teacher.
Months of passion, posing, painting passed. I started cleaning, cooking, making myself useful. He still paid me, even increased my wage when I added lover and housekeeper to my role. I didn’t want the money, didn’t need it since he paid for everything. All I wanted was him. But I didn’t stop him. I was naïve in the ways of such things and assumed that when he asked me to live with him – I never counted on marriage – the money would stop, naturally.
But soon his eyes began to drift, as if he knew me so well, he no longer had to look at me to capture me.
Then he asked me to pose naked, arms draped along the back of the sofa, head bowed, not quite meeting his gaze. He opened me up to the world, gave me to his public; body, soul – and scarred close to my heart, yet so far away from his.
The Artist
She has etherised my senses. The falsehood of her love, her passion, was there for me to see, but I missed it. Or did I simply choose not to see?
I saved her, taught her; I made her what she is today. And I despise what she is today. Spontaneity was her gift; I never knew what she would say, do, feel – it was all new to me. But after that first taste of her, she moulded herself to what she thought I expected. She even speaks like me, mimics my mannerisms. She became the woman she thought I wanted – the woman I thought I wanted – and I lost the woman I adored, piece by piece, week by week.
She took my money, left me with a plum-coloured kiss burning my cheek like a betrayal. So she warmed my bed, so she cleaned, so she cooked – so what? I never asked for any of those things, but, had they been freely given, proffered through honest feeling rather than greed, I might have asked her to stay. But no, she sold herself to me, and once purchased, once owned, she became as functional as the furniture she dusted.
And now she sits, arms draped across the sofa, lies open to the world, and I am done. I can no longer see perfection, only this mockery – my fool’s gold. I want to mark her as she has marked me, so I scar her, under her breast, close to her heart, where I once thought I would always reside.
The Tutor
He wrinkled his brow, surprised at the source of the question. Was he losing her?
“That red dash is bold, but trust me, it has no great significance. Simply an artist experimenting with his form. However, if you see something I don’t, so be it. Shall we move on to the next gallery?”
He led the class away before she could respond.
The Student
He had taught her the importance of seeing what wasn’t there, but now treated her vision as defiance. She knew it would be costly, and not just in final marks, but she had to write what she saw.
Notes on a painting: When he painted her, he scarred her, a wound just under her right breast, close to her heart. He made her perfect; or rather he caught her perfection, rendered it timeless, then chose to mar it. She couldn’t meet his gaze, as though she felt unworthy, as though she knew he could scar her and no one would ever know or care.
About the Author
Karen Jones is from Glasgow. Her stories have appeared in numerous
magazines and anthologies. She is
addicted to short story competitions and has been successful in Mslexia, Flash 500, Spilling Ink, The New Writer, Writers Forum and Words With
Jam. She is also addicted to zumba
and yoga, which are far healthier and stress-free.
Karen’s short story collection, The Upside-Down Jesus and other stories, is available from Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Upside-Down-Jesus-other-stories/dp/1291771557
Karen’s short story collection, The Upside-Down Jesus and other stories, is available from Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Upside-Down-Jesus-other-stories/dp/1291771557