She intrigues him

descending the staircase

into the studio.

He imagines her,

having breakfast on the grass -

as he admires her arse . . . .

 

His studio is chill and damp.

Dark maps of humidity grace the walls

and the floorboards creak.

There’s a grimy kettle on the hob,

the grainy window panes are cracked

and in the centre of the room -

a bed. . . . .

 

It’s just a mattress really, stained,

but there’s a gaudy throw

to take away the sting

of usedness.

She wears an old kimono, loosely tied.

She doesn’t look at anyone. . . . .

 

Without a thought

she drops the robe

upon the floor.

She’s in the zone once more . . . .

 

She takes her place

lying on the rotten mattress.

He looks, sizing her up,

taking his pencil,

holding it like a crucifix before him.

Reading her dimensions,

trying to be accurate.

And yet . . . .

 

Her eyes no longer focus, she’s not here.

Her body ought to tempt,

but it’s her face he can’t ignore.

Is she sad?

What is she thinking of?

Her life! Life model!

 

Is she poor?

He can imagine her, worrying,

her mind preoccupied with shopping lists

and bills to pay.

A fine tracery of silver lines upon her hips -

she has born children. . . .  .

 

Perhaps she is alone, and struggling.

She sits for him to buy her children food.

He likes to see tragedy within her.

Imagines his role - as her protector!

But - what does the artist know!

 

For she is obsessed with -  paint! 

With canvas! Colour, texture, tone.

She’s an artist too.

She only sits for him

so she can afford the paint.

To paint!

That’s all she wants to do.

 

Just paint!