This blog is Copyright ©1995~2018 by Karl Denton

Monday, November 6, 2006

Whats in a rose?

“Dad, dad, are you all right”… I heard… when I opened my eye my daughter was leaning over me with one of her friends standing next to her looking around in a puzzled fashion.  Having a working studio in my home had its advantages, I could spend days at a time on projects undisturbed and my family was used to me focused on projects that I would get lost in them sometimes for long periods of time.   This time around was different however, I had been in my studio for five and half weeks before my daughter came down to check on me.  She was always the concerned on as my wife had lost interest in all of my art and photographic skill a very long time ago, she had her own interests and rarely did the two of ours ever combine.

My daughter on the other hand was just as talented as I am if not more so she would use the studio when she was not distracted with boys, or the bothersome things in life like homework.  But because I would spend so much time, long stints of it on projects and I had a potentially crippling disease my wife installed a closed circuit video monitoring system.  This done because of the persistence of my daughters concern, despite my never ending re-assurances. “Why the hell spend money when we could use the computer camera and the World-link?  Oh wait that’s right I forgot your father has to be different, has to be against…”  “MOM! He needs privacy” my daughter would argue… she was persistent and my wife disgruntled and bitter had a system installed that I would only allow on when I was sure it was not tied to the world link.  Only after a switch was installed so I could turn it off when I needed to.

“Dad!  Snap out of it~” my daughter snipped… “What happened down here?  Where did that rose come from?  Come on sit up here lets get you something to eat” She continued.

As I slowly gained a bit of consciousness I looked around my studio, I could barley recognize it.  Canvas drawings every where, paintings in process, drawing pads filled with sketches all of the same woman, her eyes, mouth, nose body limbs there were thousands of sketches, paintings some complete some in process… I don’t remember, I don’t remember vary much of any of it… I remember a woman coming over for me to photograph her… and at that moment I realized my left hand was in pain, intense pain!  Looking down I was holding a single red rose, so tight it’s thorns had pierced my skin and were buried deep into the palm of my hand and two of my fingers.  My daughters attempt to remove the rose from my hand was successful but the thorns were dug in so deep that they broke off the stem and remain pierced in the flesh of my hand.  “You stay here I am going to get something” my daughter spoke to her friend… When she returned she took my hand and forced my palm to open only to find the thorns had gone and the wounds they created completely healed. 

“Dad, what has happened down here what is going on?” she asked with a tone of seriousness and fright in her voice. 

“She was just here, she was just in the studio!  Breathe in you can still smell her perfume” I blurted.   “Can’t you hear that beat going on, she came in the studio, seems like a long time now, but can’t you hear it? She was just here… this rose, this rose—“I stopped in mid sentence because the rose had fallen onto a canvas that was laying on the floor and when we looked down at it, the rose the deep red rose I had “just” been holding was not now dried and deep black the color had gone from it just as my memory had.  “I can smell some perfume” my daughter’s friend chimed in.  “It smells really good” she finished.   “Don’t worry about that for now lets just get my dad cleaned up I am getting worried about him!”  She went on wiping my face with a wet cloth while her friend walked about looking at all of the work that had been created during the last several weeks.   “This one looks like—would you please just go up stairs and get my dads lunch” my daughter interrupted.  Clearly she was concerned and while I wanted to reassure her that I was ok all I could do was observe her actions as she walked about, fussing with my cloths, wiping paint off of my face, rubbing oil into my chapped hands.

I could hear her talking asking questions, I could sense her frustration with the fact that the only reaction was my eyes following her every move, never taking them off of her.  I could hear the beat in my head, my heart pounding faster and the intensity if the scent tat filled my studio gaining strength with every passing second.  I motioned to my daughter to move the canvas with the rose to a near by table, she knows that when I see something and want to preserve it for a future project to do as I ask without question.  She carefully picked up the canvas moving in slow deliberate fashion to a nearby table being careful not to disturb the rose’s position.  Turning back to me I could see her moving her lips, talking mouthing the words “dad, I am worried about you… I love you” but I could hear nothing but the continued beat of Ginger playing my head.  I tried to respond, I tried to force the voice in me to respond… “I am fine, and I love you too” but nothing came out just my eyes looking back at my daughter, her eyes looking deep into mine.  I had eaten and felt a bit stronger; I slowing got to my feet and gave my daughter a hug as if this would help re-assure her that I was ok.

Before anymore could be said I walked my daughter to the door of the studio gave her a gentle squeeze on her hand and I think, though I am not sure, I smiled at her as I walked back to a canvas where I could breath in the scent, the incredibly captivating aroma that directed me to the canvas I must work on next…

I heard my daughter tell her friend “we need to leave him to finish this work; I am worried I have never seen him this deep into a subject before, we have to check on him often”.  Her voice getting quieter and quieter standing in front of a canvas nearly as tall as I am the image of Ginger looking at that rose… no more voices in my studio I glance up and I am in her presence. The window, the rose on the ledge she is standing in front of me, perfect, still…

“Welcome back I’ve missed you, shall we finish this painting?” she said as she stood in the candle lit room perfectly still, the light shimmering off her smooth skin, the curves of her body visible only when the candle would flicker with a breeze.  Palette and brush in hand I spent what seemed like a life time on this canvas, studying her in every possible way with my eyes, every detail, every inch of exposed skin…

Breathing in deep breaths, realizing that the beat in my head was the gentle whisper of her voice repeating, something though I could not make out the words, it was comforting to finally know that it her voice causing the sound that I could identify it…

Breathing in deep breaths with every brush stroke, the curve of her back as she turned away from me, the hint of a breast she covered with one hand, her hair hanging down in front of her face leaving soft shadows across her neck and shoulder, I was frantic to study every square inch of her for the fear I would look up again and she would be gone, I would be back in my studio…

Breathing deep breaths, as I watched her body move in unison with mine as I breathed in she would as well. As I exhaled she did, as if we were one single point of energy… taking in deep breaths, her scent so mesmerizing, so intensely seductive, her perfect form and the motion of her body with every breath, in unison with the beat playing in my head…

What was she saying?

Breathing in deep breaths…. The candle light flickering my hands moving paint on a canvas, taking in deep breaths in unison with Ginger, in unison with her beat playing in my head, breathing her in deep into my lungs.  My hands painting the perfect woman while the rest of mind and body had been entirely consumed by her scent… by her beauty by her perfectly formed body while we both took in deep breaths, the motion of our lungs were one in the same, her beat playing in my head…

What was she saying?