flap in the breeze. On the tips are little feathers that will quiver in the air.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“The three of us are going to fly it once it’s done,” Z.G. announces.
It isn’t an invitation, just a statement of fact. I think, if it doesn’t bother him that I made a fool of myself, then I can’t let it bother me either. I have to be tough to bear my deeper feelings, which threaten to overwhelm me.
“I’d love to do that,” I say. “May and I both would.”
They smile at each other, clearly relieved. “Great,” Z.G. says, rubbing his hands together. “Now let’s get to work.”
May steps behind a screen and changes into red shorts and a cropped yellow top that ties behind her neck. Z.G. puts a scarf over her hair and ties it beneath her chin. I slip into a red bathing suit decorated with butterflies. It has a little skirt and a belt cinched at the waist. Z.G. pins a red and white bow in my hair. May gets onto a bicycle, one foot on a pedal, the other balancing on the floor. I place one hand over hers on the handlebar. My other hand steadies the bike on the back of May’s seat. She glances over her shoulder at me, and I stare at her. When Z.G. says, “That’s perfect. Hold it,” not once am I tempted to look at him. I stay focused on May, smile, and pretend that I couldn’t be happier than to push my sister’s bike along a grassy hill overlooking the ocean to promote Earth fly and mosquito spray.
Z.G. recognizes that holding this particular pose is difficult, so after a while he lets us have a break. He works on the background for a time, painting a sailboat on the waves, and then he asks, “May, shall we show Pearl what we’ve been working on?”
While May goes behind the screen to change, Z.G. puts away the bike, rolls up the backdrop, and then pulls a low chaise to the middle of the room. May returns, wearing a light robe, which she drops when she gets to the chaise. I don’t know what’s more startling—that she’s naked or that she seems utterly at ease. She lies on her side, her elbow bent and her head resting on her hand. Z.G. drapes a piece of diaphanous silk over her hips and so lightly across her breasts that I can see her nipples. He disappears for a minute and returns with some pink peonies. He snips the stems and carefully places the blossoms around May. He then unveils the painting, which has been hidden under a cloth on an easel.
It’s almost finished, and it’s exquisite. The soft texture of the peony petals echoes that of May’s flesh. He’s used the rub-and-paint technique, working carbon powder over May’s image and then applying watercolors to create a rosy complexion on her cheeks, arms, and thighs. In the painting, she looks as though she’s just stepped from a warm bath. Our new diet of more rice and less meat and her paleness from the events of the past days give her an air of languorous lassitude. Z.G. has already dotted the eyes with dark lacquer so they seem to follow the viewer, beckoning, luring, and responding. What’s May selling? Watson’s lotion for prickly heat, Jazz hair pomade, Two Baby cigarettes? I don’t know, but looking from my sister to the painting, I see that Z.G. has achieved the effect of hua chin i tsai— a finished painting with lingering emotions—that only the great masters of the past realized in their work.
But I’m shocked, deeply shocked. I may have done the husband-wife thing with Sam, but this seems far more intimate. Yet again, it shows just how far May and I have fallen. I suppose this is just an inevitable part of our journey. When we first sat for artists, we were encouraged to cross our legs and hold sprays of flowers in our laps. This pose was a wordless reminder of courtesans from feudal times whose bouquets had been between their legs. Later we were asked to clasp our hands behind our heads and expose our armpits, a pose used since the beginning of photography to capture the allure and sensuous
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“The three of us are going to fly it once it’s done,” Z.G. announces.
It isn’t an invitation, just a statement of fact. I think, if it doesn’t bother him that I made a fool of myself, then I can’t let it bother me either. I have to be tough to bear my deeper feelings, which threaten to overwhelm me.
“I’d love to do that,” I say. “May and I both would.”
They smile at each other, clearly relieved. “Great,” Z.G. says, rubbing his hands together. “Now let’s get to work.”
May steps behind a screen and changes into red shorts and a cropped yellow top that ties behind her neck. Z.G. puts a scarf over her hair and ties it beneath her chin. I slip into a red bathing suit decorated with butterflies. It has a little skirt and a belt cinched at the waist. Z.G. pins a red and white bow in my hair. May gets onto a bicycle, one foot on a pedal, the other balancing on the floor. I place one hand over hers on the handlebar. My other hand steadies the bike on the back of May’s seat. She glances over her shoulder at me, and I stare at her. When Z.G. says, “That’s perfect. Hold it,” not once am I tempted to look at him. I stay focused on May, smile, and pretend that I couldn’t be happier than to push my sister’s bike along a grassy hill overlooking the ocean to promote Earth fly and mosquito spray.
Z.G. recognizes that holding this particular pose is difficult, so after a while he lets us have a break. He works on the background for a time, painting a sailboat on the waves, and then he asks, “May, shall we show Pearl what we’ve been working on?”
While May goes behind the screen to change, Z.G. puts away the bike, rolls up the backdrop, and then pulls a low chaise to the middle of the room. May returns, wearing a light robe, which she drops when she gets to the chaise. I don’t know what’s more startling—that she’s naked or that she seems utterly at ease. She lies on her side, her elbow bent and her head resting on her hand. Z.G. drapes a piece of diaphanous silk over her hips and so lightly across her breasts that I can see her nipples. He disappears for a minute and returns with some pink peonies. He snips the stems and carefully places the blossoms around May. He then unveils the painting, which has been hidden under a cloth on an easel.
It’s almost finished, and it’s exquisite. The soft texture of the peony petals echoes that of May’s flesh. He’s used the rub-and-paint technique, working carbon powder over May’s image and then applying watercolors to create a rosy complexion on her cheeks, arms, and thighs. In the painting, she looks as though she’s just stepped from a warm bath. Our new diet of more rice and less meat and her paleness from the events of the past days give her an air of languorous lassitude. Z.G. has already dotted the eyes with dark lacquer so they seem to follow the viewer, beckoning, luring, and responding. What’s May selling? Watson’s lotion for prickly heat, Jazz hair pomade, Two Baby cigarettes? I don’t know, but looking from my sister to the painting, I see that Z.G. has achieved the effect of hua chin i tsai— a finished painting with lingering emotions—that only the great masters of the past realized in their work.
But I’m shocked, deeply shocked. I may have done the husband-wife thing with Sam, but this seems far more intimate. Yet again, it shows just how far May and I have fallen. I suppose this is just an inevitable part of our journey. When we first sat for artists, we were encouraged to cross our legs and hold sprays of flowers in our laps. This pose was a wordless reminder of courtesans from feudal times whose bouquets had been between their legs. Later we were asked to clasp our hands behind our heads and expose our armpits, a pose used since the beginning of photography to capture the allure and sensuous
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