Backstory

I bought this painting for $20.00.

“Backstory”

Are you an old woman now? Did you know you were being immortalized then? Was it a formal sitting or a Thursday afternoon interlude of amorous foreplay? Let’s not be bashful. There are various flavors of foreplay. But this—your back to the artist—vulnerable, exposed, trusting. This was no stranger for whom you waited, poised for the mental taking. The Never-Ending Story of love. To have, but never to hold, to enlist the emotions of the onlooker in your struggle against anonymity. You are everyone and no one—all women combined—the archetype of sensuality. On your lap one envisions the work of poets. The page is open to a piece by Auden. You read “The Unknown Citizen.” A cold shudder runs up your spine. A mere twitch of the left shoulder—no one asks why—but you know. The gleaming of truth presents itself as you maintain proper posture. You are afraid to turn around. One day you will have to see yourself from a distance of years. You do not want to observe the changes. To see your face would make it unbearable. The façade of momentary perfection must persist—not only for you, the subject, but the one sketching from behind and yes, even now, me who asks—demands to know—who, why, and how?

Your image hangs on my wall. I want to resuscitate your soul. Spin you around and catch your tempered, sedate gaze. A dark depression attracts the eyes to your spinal column, a few vertebrae above the small of your back. It looks to be missing a silver key. A distinct little pocket to slip inside of and turn, turn, turn. An automaton, the artists’ worst nightmare or greatest pleasure—his creation no longer dependent upon his hands. Now you are a separate entity, free to think and do as you please. No longer a wind-up doll. The mouse-eared key has been stowed away, lost for good. Your tender wound smites the artist. Visually it can heal. Let down your hair and it will conceal the hurt, spare the onlooker. But no, you don’t wish to be alone in your pain. This is why you sit unafraid, beckoning. All your thoughts and more exist because I exist. We both know your face is a mirror and it is wise—best—never to look back. Only forward, onward.

The waiter brings your check while the sketch artist folds his notepad in anticipation of ravishing you with color. In private hours. Alone with his canvas.

I advance, having dined on bread and water. And hope. Feeling my presence, you awaken.

This is how the story goes.