“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?
