Page 44 of The Velvet Hours
21.
Marthe
Paris 1898
The first thing she noticed when she entered his studio for the second time was not the scent of varnish and paint, nor the sight of his other paintings. It was the vase she had given him. Boldini had prominently displayed it on a pedestal table near his desk.
The vase shone with a beautiful intensity as the light streamed in through the tall windows behind it. It reminded her of one of those small Dutch paintings she had seen on her occasional trips to the Louvre.
He had been watching to see her reaction, and she could feel his eyes on her.
“How wonderful you’ve placed the vase in such a position of honor,” she said, turning to him.
“I wanted to be able to see it from every corner of the room... and the light there strikes it just perfectly.” He extended his arm toward the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.
She smiled. “I can see the effect immediately... the beauty in which the sunlight bathes it half in light, half in shadow.”
“Exactly.” He beamed.
As she moved through the room, Marthe caught sight of a small watercolor study on his desk. It was of the vase. Three small renderings were done on the same piece of paper. She could see how delicately he had applied the soft touches of pale blue and green to the sketches.
She walked over and touched the edge of the paper. “I’m so pleased to see it’s inspired you...”
“You didn’t see the other sheets, which ended up in the fire. It’s impossible to re-create that glaze! It’s pure madness to even try!”
She let out a small laugh. “I wasn’t intending to send you to the madhouse.”
“Then perhaps you should have worn another dress today...”
She laughed again. He was flirting with her, and it amused her.
“But I wore the dress for the portrait’s sake, not yours...”
This time, he laughed.
“Yes, Madame de Florian, I suppose you did. Then let’s get started for the portrait’s sake.”
***
In the corner that faced the settee where she had sat during her last visit, now stood a tall wooden easel with a canvas set on top. The canvas was primed, but not a single brushstroke had been applied to it. It was as blank as a new sheet of paper.
“But, monsieur, there’s nothing on it.” She could hardly hide her disappointment.
“Underneath that coat of gesso are about a hundred brushstrokes that couldn’t do justice to you. Just like that vase you sent me...” He shook his head. “It’s easy to recognize the surface of beauty. Tosee it with your two eyes. But the challenge to the artist is conveying the many layers underneath.”
She stood there bewitched by his words.
“If you only show one top layer of beauty, it remains flat and two-dimensional.” He walked toward the blank canvas and pinched the corner.
“With some models, I can work directly from my preliminary sketches... but with you, I simply cannot.”
He took her hand and ushered her to the love seat.
“I want to begin with you in front of me.”
She watched as he returned to his easel and took his bladders of paint pigment and applied them to his palette, blending them with a knife.
“Now, show me how you want to be seen for the next one hundred years,” he said when he had prepared his paints.
