The Painter's Model

There's something monotonous about every atelier. They're always well lit, windows overlooking the skyline of Paris. The light reflects in rainbows off of glass jars of paint and oil that cover the space haphazardly. The room always smells of linseed oil and dust, making the space toe the line between frequented and abandoned. At the heart of the studio, there is always a set. A perfectly decorated facade designed to look like the parlor of a chateau.

An echo reverberated around the room each time Clemence's heels hit the floor. While the door was open, there was no sign of any person being in the room recently. Paint-splattered cloths were strewn across the floor along with crumpled sheets of paper. Half finished canvases were leaned against the walls depicting women in various poses.

Clemence made her way to the desk on one end of the room. The surface was plastered with sketches. Some were of faces in different expressions, others were drawings of isolated body parts. Most commonly, though, were sketches of women in various stages of undress. Clemence traced her fingers over one of the forms. Despite it being a sketch, the lines were crisp, the body proportional, as if it was mathematically created.

Clemence heard the thud of a crate hitting the floor and turned around. A man who looked to be in his mid thirties was shifting boxes around an easel. He was well dressed for an artist. His suit free of any paint or ink stains. His hair was coiffed and mustache sharp, making him look older than he actually was.

"Mademoiselle," He breathed, slightly winded, "Bienvenue, please, please, sit down," he gestured to the set.

At the heart of the set was a velvet chaise lounge for her to lie on. At its side sat an end table decorated with a lace doily and delicate flowers. Behind the chaise was a faux window, painted to seem like it was looking out on a vast garden. The set itself was in pastel colors that almost seemed to blend into each other.

Clemence took a seat on the chaise, waiting for the artist to direct her.

The artist went to stand beside her, "Yes, now lean back against the chaise."

Clemence obeyed, draping her body across the chaise lounge. She rested her left arm on the arm rest and went to lean against it. Her right arm was placed across her stomach, to give the air of relaxation. She let a light smile grace her features.

The artist tutted. "Don't smile," he said gently, "You're too clever to smile. Let the world see you through your eyes."

Clemence felt a tug at her eyebrows, but she obeyed the order.

"There, that's it. I'd like you to play with the flowers on the table, s'il vous plaît," He instructed, "They are delicate, just as you are."

Clemence ran her fingers across the soft petals of one of the roses. She let the baby's breath spring through her fingers, dappling them like snow.

The artist nodded approvingly. His hand hovered over her shoulder, never quite touching. "You are perfect as you are," he muttered, "don't move. I don't want to lose it."

The artist walked back to the easel and fell into his seat. He lifted a pencil and began to sketch her form loosely.

Clemence let her mind wander. As far as artists go, this one was quite silent about himself. Most men in Montmartre fancied themselves intellectual bohemians. They'd talk her ear off about the art they were making before she'd even sat down, describing the novel techniques and complexities they employed. They'd rave about the great Claude Monet, not so subtly drawing comparisons between his work and their own. This man, on the other hand, was quiet in his delusions.

Clemence could feel his eyes burning into her, drawing her from her thoughts. The artist's eyes flitted about her face as if he was tracing it in his mind.