Paint the Wind, page 6
Given the timely arrival of the trolley, it was well before three when I let myself into the studio. Andreas had given me a key after I had suggested the eminent practicality of my possessing one. I had enumerated on my fingers how useful I could be—shopping for art supplies, stopping at the market for coffee and bread, or picking up his newspaper and cigarettes when I got off the trolley. I had clearly caught him in an amenable mood. He had laughed, threaded the key on a silk ribbon, and slipped it over my head like a necklace.
I heard the voices as I closed the door behind me and set my satchel on the table. Men’s voices, praising, negotiating, strategizing. I held back, not wishing to interrupt but also eager to listen. It took me only a few moments to recognize the topic—the canvases Andreas had painted of me. The men were discussing exhibiting them at the Secession Building.
I hadn’t thought they were ready. Andreas had spent hours working on them, moving from one to the next, but always turning away in frustration. Perhaps in the few days I’d been gone, he had finally realized their completion. Why else would he have called in the men now standing in judgment?
With no intention of remaining in plain sight when they turned away from the portraits, I quietly slipped out of the studio. The lift was no longer up, so I descended the stairs as quickly as I could. I left the building and took refuge in the coffeehouse across the street, sitting back from the windows but still able to see when the men finally departed. I sipped my coffee with unsettled emotions. An exhibition at the Secession was the prize Andreas had burned for, and I had known with certainty when he painted that first nude—stripping away my mask of bravado and revealing such palpable longing—that it was the defining work of his career, the painting that would launch him into the circle of luminaries to which he craved to belong. It was my daring, not my beauty, which had provoked him. I had been consumed with igniting his talent as well as his passion for me. Now that I had succeeded, I pondered what that success meant not only for Andreas but for me. The paintings would no longer reside propped against the wall in the studio. Vienna was about to see them.
I felt as naïve as the fifteen-year-old girl who had once followed Andreas across Vienna, playing with the illusion that my modeling would remain as private an encounter as our lovemaking.
I saw a flurry of movement across the street as the Secession men emerged from the building, buttoning coats and wrapping scarves around their necks. As they moved off, I rose from my table, paid for my coffee, and stiffened my spine. If I thought the loss of my precious virginity had been a milestone in my life, I wondered what the loss of my reputation, my very identity, would mean for me.
It’s a little late for that, isn’t it? I asked myself. As the lift rose, I knew that I was stepping off into an entirely new life.
Andreas was pacing by the canvases as I entered the studio. The expression on his face as he turned toward me was at once victorious and childlike—wonder and disbelief that a dream had come true, mingled with absolute conviction that he deserved the accolades he had just received.
We celebrated at the bistro, where he could share the news with his colleagues, the same artists who had mocked him for his society portraits. I sat back, nursing my glass of Sekt and saying nothing. None of them had seen the paintings yet, so my role in their creation was still unknown. I knew that wouldn’t last, but I wanted to savor my anonymity for as long as I could. The exhibition wouldn’t be mounted until the end of December. By then, I would be well done with my exams and far from any lecture hall where a professor might connect the face in the portraits with the nearly invisible woman sitting attentively in his class.
For the remainder of my exam schedule, I did not return to the studio. It hadn’t taken much to assuage Andreas’s demands for my presence when I phrased my intention to stay away as serving his need to focus on preparing the paintings without distraction.
My parents appreciated my daily company at dinner, fussed over how diligently I was studying, and even found the words to commend me for not giving up, despite their bewilderment at my commitment to obtaining a university degree. It was the calm before the storm.
Chapter Seven
On the night of my last exam, my parents surprised me with the gift of two weeks in Bad Ischl. I accepted it as a reprieve and an opportunity to armor myself before the Secession exhibition opened.
I wrote to Andreas and told him I would be traveling with my mother and would see him on my return. He did not reply.
I spent my time in Bad Ischl soaking away the stiffness in my body and calming the agitation in my mind. The hours spent posing for Andreas, combined with an almost equal number of hours spent over my sketchbook at the Kunsthistorisches Museum or studying the monographs of my professors at the university library, had taken their toll on my muscles. At the same time, the recent developments involving Andreas’s portraits had caused me much consternation. The warmth of the baths and the sulfurous air wafting over the water helped to dispel my sense memories of the studio. Allowing my thoughts to drift as I floated was a necessary emptying of the turmoil that had confronted me since I had overheard the Secession artists discussing the images of me.
I believed fiercely that I needed to free myself of any anxiety I had about the revelation of those images in order to prepare myself for what I expected would be an avalanche of notoriety.
I leaned back against the stone rim of the bath. Had I ever felt shame? The nuns at Notre Dame de Sion had certainly tried their best to instill in us a deep sense of mortification as daughters of Eve. As strong as I had been intellectually as a student, I had not met Reverend Mother’s expectation for my behavior. My rebellion had been subtle, more a refusal within my own mind to embrace the ideal of womanhood presented to us in the classroom and the chapel. I had learned early in my education that by going through the outward motions of piety and obedience, I could slip unobserved into my own reverie about what I wanted in my life. I became quite adept at fingering my rosary beads and moving my lips while imagining a world beyond the walls of Notre Dame, in which I was free to be the Maya of my own definition. So no, shame was a foreign emotion to me.
Nevertheless, I had no illusions that the spectators at the Secession exhibition would be marveling only at Andreas’s groundbreaking interpretation of human longing. The murmurs would start, of course, with those who recognized me—the artists and intellectuals who were willing to spar with me in an argument about art but who would jump at the opportunity to disparage me as “only a model” after all. Their dismissive comments would soon seep into the widening circles of those who considered themselves arbiters and connoisseurs of art. It would not take long for my name to surface in an offhand remark at a salon or the opera, or in a review of the exhibit in the latest issue of the Neues Wiener Tagblatt.
I needed to prepare myself, not only for the Vienna art scene to identify and vilify me but for word of my role to reach my parents. It chafed me enormously that Andreas would not have reached the pinnacle of the Secession without me; I had presented him with the body, rising like Botticelli’s Venus, as well as the spirit that informed my interactions with him. I believed intensely and wholeheartedly in Andreas’s genius, and that belief would have to sustain me as I faced the repercussions of my sacrifice to his art. I had stripped myself bare, not in removing my clothes but in revealing the raw vulnerability of a woman on the verge of discovery—the embodiment of Fear and Desire.
I slipped under the water, a baptism of sorts, sealing my conviction that I had done the right thing. My sureness in Andreas’s brilliance would be the armor I was seeking. Or, if not armor, at least a weapon with which I could defend myself. Merely taking refuge behind walls was not an option. I had been the instrument of Andreas’s achievement, and I would continue to be.
My mother remarked on my demeanor as we traveled back to Vienna after our fortnight of respite.
“It relieves me to see you so rested. Ever since we returned from Cousin Margarete’s, I was worried that you were exhausted, overwhelmed by your studies and your relentless drive to excel. Papa and I are proud of you, Schatz, but the cost seemed high in comparison to your health.”
“I’m well, Mama, and I’m grateful to you and Papa for both supporting me in my quest and offering me this opportunity to rejuvenate my body and my spirit.” I feel quite strong and ready to face whatever comes, I added silently.
I considered going back to the studio after our return; Andreas had not written while I was away. No gray envelopes awaited me in a neat pile in my room. Although he had been on my mind at Bad Ischl, it had only been in the context of how I would face the inevitable repercussions of the exhibition. I hadn’t longed for him as I had during the days when he had been painting me as well as making love to me. The obsession that had consumed us both seemed to have waned in the weeks I had been away.
The next few weeks at home were busy with preparations for Advent and Christmas. My new classes would not start until after the new year. I wandered through my days at home, occasionally meeting friends from Notre Dame for coffee, but I found those conversations unfulfilling. In the few months I’d spent studying and then caught up in my relationship with Andreas, Martina and Sigrid had fully entered society. Their lives focused on balls, gowns, and gossip. I listened to their chatter over slices of apfelstrudel and bit my tongue to keep from challenging them over the emptiness of their pursuits. They had been just as studious as I at Notre Dame. Our friendship had blossomed over philosophical discussions and deep critiques of the books we were reading. How had our lives diverged so radically? Perhaps because I was already an outlier, the dark-haired girl who spent her summers with her Greek grandparents, the daughter of a couple who had defied both cultures in choosing to marry. Both Martina and Sigrid were bright enough to continue studying, but neither had pushed her parents as I had. Neither had felt the urgency I had experienced, the hunger to learn. Neither had ached with the discontent that had spurred me. I always seemed to need more—more challenge, more inspiration, more danger. There appeared to be little of my life I could share with Martina and Sigrid that I thought they could understand. They seemed to still be children caught up in the whirlwind of Vienna society like Clara on Christmas Eve in The Nutcracker. They were filled with innocent dreams represented by a kiss on a hand, gloved in silk, while I had peeled away more than a glove. I could only imagine their reaction to the Secession exhibition, except they probably would never see it, held back by propriety from exposing their eyes to the scandalous work of an Expressionist artist probing the hidden emotions beneath the layers we present to the world. They would, however, hear about it.
I left the café feeling vastly more worldly and completely alone.
The next day, I went to the studio, lying to Mama that I was joining Martina for an excursion to Schoenbrun.
I used my key when I arrived, not even knocking. But the studio was deserted, the stove unlit. The paintings were gone, no doubt crated and transported already to the Secession Building.
Despite the emptiness, I felt none of the loneliness I’d experienced at the café the previous day. I felt, instead, at home. The slant of the light through the windows, the mingled odors of Andreas’s art and Andreas’s body, the casual disarray of the bed.
I sat on the mattress, pulled the down comforter to my nose, and inhaled its familiar scent. Without thinking, I slipped off my shoes, wrapped myself in the voluminous warmth, and laid back.
It was nearing dusk when I heard the key in the door and then the snap of a match being struck. I hadn’t left anything by the door, as I often did. I had no satchel that day. He wasn’t aware I was there. A small shiver of relief escaped my thoughts. He was alone. No Secession members this time, but also no woman. It occurred to me only then that while I’d been away, he might not have been alone.
I stirred and stretched in the bed rather than calling out his name. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned abruptly, grabbing his umbrella—to be used as a weapon, I supposed, against an intruder. But the umbrella clattered to the floor as soon as I spoke his name. With a few strides, he was at the bed, and then I was in his arms. The lull to my senses that my immersion in the waters at Bad Ischl had induced was disrupted as soon as I felt his breath on my neck, his voice uttering my name, his hand on my breast.
We did not take the time to undress completely, only enough for me to open to him and pull him in. In those few minutes, all my concerns were obliterated.
“I missed you,” he whispered when we collapsed side by side. “I missed this,” he added, stroking the bare skin of my thigh above my stockings, “and I missed recreating your image again and again.”
“Does the Secession want more paintings?”
“No, they are quite satisfied. It is I who am not satisfied. I could paint you for the rest of my life. Every time I look at you, you reveal something new—the vulnerability of your gaze; the defiance of your mouth as you turn your head over your shoulder; the pale, smooth skin of your inner arm as you reach your hands above you in a gesture of utter submission. How do you do it? I swear you have bewitched me.”
“You cede me too much power. It is your eye that sees these things, your hand that brings them to life on the canvas.” Although I believed that I did indeed have a certain power in the emotions I presented in my poses, I also believed that it served neither of us to reveal how pivotal I was to his creativity. He needed to trust his own genius. I was merely an instrument, like his brushes.
We lay sated for a brief time in silence, until I rose and began to smooth my rumpled skirt and find my underwear buried among the twisted sheets.
“You’re leaving, when you’ve only just arrived?”
“You’ve only just arrived. I’ve been here for hours. I am still expected at Elisabethstrasse. You’ve chosen a woman who is not free to come and go as she pleases. I still live under my father’s roof, subject to my father’s will.”
“Then come and live under my roof.”
His words stilled my hands, which until that moment had been lacing up my boots.
“Or are you only playing at a game, Maya? You light a match and then run away to safety when the conflagration you ignited throws off too much heat. How long before the expectation that you appear for dinner becomes the assumption you will entertain the attention of some rich, young son in your parents’ social circle, and then the demand that you give up the foolishness of your studies and marry within society?”
“That’s not fair. I have no intention of abandoning my studies and certainly not of renouncing you. How little do you know me to think that this is some daring adventure for me before I settle into a life that I consider stifling and empty?”
“How long do you think you can keep our liaison a secret from your family? How long do you intend to lead two lives? What do you think is going to happen when the exhibit opens at the Secession?”
“It will only be a matter of time before my parents learn of the paintings. I’m prepared. I’m not ashamed, Andreas, and I did not enter into our liaison, as you call it, unaware of the consequences.”
“Then why do you still take refuge behind the faҫade of dutiful daughter?”
“Because I have no financial independence, Andreas. I’m not an heiress, and this”—I waved my hands around the studio—“is still very new to me. The effect you have had on my life from the first moment you entered it has been extraordinary. But I’m still trying to reconcile the woman I have become within these walls with the daughter my parents love. I know I cannot continue to lie to them. I’ve been trying to determine how to tell them before my world collapses.”
“Then preempt the fallout from the exhibition and tell them now. I meant what I said: Live with me.”
The solitude and peace of Bad Ischl seemed to have lulled me into the illusion that I could master the looming crisis of the exhibition simply by believing in Andreas’s brilliance, that somehow all would be forgiven by my parents because of their belief in me.
“I am a fool, aren’t I?” For the first time, I also admitted to myself I was afraid, perhaps because I was finally confronting the reality of what I had so passionately and recklessly done. Was I not the strong, brave, defiant, nonconformist I believed myself to be? I recognized that Andreas was daring me to commit to that vision I had of myself.
“A brave fool. Believe in yourself the way you believe in me, Maya.” He kissed the top of my head as I pulled on my coat.
“I’ll be back. Not tonight, but soon. Before the opening.”
I left, still frightened of what the future would bring. As I rode the trolley back to Elisabethstrasse, I leaned my head against the cold window, trying to imagine the conversation with my parents and being unable to find the words.
I arrived home to find that dinner was delayed. Thank God, Papa had had a late meeting with a customer for some Persian rugs. I retreated to my room, distracted and unready to sit in the parlor with Mama, who undoubtedly was waiting for a recounting of the excursion she believed I had been on all afternoon. I glanced around at my surroundings, filled with the treasures my father had gathered from around the world, as well as my cherished books and the sketchbooks I’d filled since childhood. I ran my fingers over the spines and realized I was choosing what to take with me and what to bid farewell.
How was I going to accomplish this?
I imagined both the pain and the outrage my announcement would precipitate. My mother collapsing in tears, questioning, “Maya, how could you?” and my father physically stopping me from leaving, both responses equally effective in paralyzing me. If I were to do this—no, when—it would have to be in a public place with Andreas nearby, perhaps with a cab at the ready to take me out of reach, both physically and emotionally.
