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Authors: Isabel Wolff
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whole show.’
I bit my lip. ‘I don’t mean to be controlling,’ I replied quietly. ‘But the choice of outfit is very important because it affects the composition so much – I did explain that to your husband.’
‘Oh.’ Celine was rubbing her fingertips together, impatiently, as if sifting flour. ‘He forgot to tell me – he’s away this week.’ She stood up. ‘All right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘You’d better come.’
I followed her across the room and up the stairs into the master bedroom, the far wall of which was taken up by an enormous fitted wardrobe. Celine slid open the middle section then stood there, staring at the garments. ‘I don’t know what to wear.’
‘Could I look?’
She nodded. As I began to pull out a few things her mobile phone rang. She looked at the screen, answered in French, then left the room, talking rapidly in a confidential manner. It was more than ten minutes until she returned.
Struggling to hide my irritation, I showed her a pale-green linen suit. ‘This would look wonderful.’
Celine chewed on her lower lip. ‘I no longer wear that.’
‘ Would you – just for the portrait?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t like myself in it.’
‘O-kay, then… what about this?’ I showed her an oyster satin dress by Christian Dior.
Celine pursed her mouth. ‘It’s not a good fit.’ Now she began pulling things out herself: ‘Not that,’ she muttered. ‘No… not that either… this is horrible …that’s much too small… this is so uncomfortable…’ Why did she keep all these things if she didn’t even like them? She turned to me. ‘ Can’t I wear what I’m wearing?’
I began to count to ten in my head. ‘The belt will wreck the composition,’ I reiterated quietly. ‘It will draw all the attention away from your face. And it’s not really flattering,’ I added, then instantly regretted it.
Celine’s face had darkened. ‘Are you saying I look fat?’
‘No, no,’ I replied as she studied her reflection in the cheval mirror. ‘You’re very slim. And you’re really attractive,’ I added impotently. ‘Your husband said so and he was right.’
I’d hoped this last remark might mollify her, but to my surprise her expression hardened. ‘I adore this belt.It’s Prada,’ she added, as though I could have cared less whether she’d got it in Primark.
By now I was struggling to maintain my composure. ‘It won’t look… good,’ I tried again. ‘It’ll just be a big block of black.’
‘Well…’ Celine folded her arms. ‘I’m going to wear it and that’s all there is to it.’
I was about to pretend that I needed the loo so that I could take five minutes to calm myself down – or quite possibly cry – when Celine’s mobile phone rang again. She left the room and had another long, intense-sounding conversation which drifted across the landing in snatches.
‘ Oui, chéri… je veux te voir aussi… bientôt, chéri. ’
By now I’d decided to admit defeat and was just working out how best to minimise the monstrous belt when Celine returned. To my surprise her mood seemed to have lightened. Now she took out a simple linen shift in powder blue, then held it against her.
‘What about this?’
I could have wept with relief. ‘That will look great. ’
The next morning, as I waited for Mike Johns to arrive for his sitting I looked at Celine’s portrait – so far no more than a few preliminary marks in yellow ochre. She was the trickiest sitter I’d ever had – obstructive, unreasonable, and entirely lacking in enthusiasm.
Her attitude struck me as bizarre. Most people give themselves up to the sittings, recognising that to be painted is a rather special thing. But for Celine it was clearly something to be endured, not enjoyed. I wondered why this should be.
I once had to paint a successful businessman whosecompany had commissioned the portrait for their board-room. During the sittings he kept glancing at his
I bit my lip. ‘I don’t mean to be controlling,’ I replied quietly. ‘But the choice of outfit is very important because it affects the composition so much – I did explain that to your husband.’
‘Oh.’ Celine was rubbing her fingertips together, impatiently, as if sifting flour. ‘He forgot to tell me – he’s away this week.’ She stood up. ‘All right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘You’d better come.’
I followed her across the room and up the stairs into the master bedroom, the far wall of which was taken up by an enormous fitted wardrobe. Celine slid open the middle section then stood there, staring at the garments. ‘I don’t know what to wear.’
‘Could I look?’
She nodded. As I began to pull out a few things her mobile phone rang. She looked at the screen, answered in French, then left the room, talking rapidly in a confidential manner. It was more than ten minutes until she returned.
Struggling to hide my irritation, I showed her a pale-green linen suit. ‘This would look wonderful.’
Celine chewed on her lower lip. ‘I no longer wear that.’
‘ Would you – just for the portrait?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t like myself in it.’
‘O-kay, then… what about this?’ I showed her an oyster satin dress by Christian Dior.
Celine pursed her mouth. ‘It’s not a good fit.’ Now she began pulling things out herself: ‘Not that,’ she muttered. ‘No… not that either… this is horrible …that’s much too small… this is so uncomfortable…’ Why did she keep all these things if she didn’t even like them? She turned to me. ‘ Can’t I wear what I’m wearing?’
I began to count to ten in my head. ‘The belt will wreck the composition,’ I reiterated quietly. ‘It will draw all the attention away from your face. And it’s not really flattering,’ I added, then instantly regretted it.
Celine’s face had darkened. ‘Are you saying I look fat?’
‘No, no,’ I replied as she studied her reflection in the cheval mirror. ‘You’re very slim. And you’re really attractive,’ I added impotently. ‘Your husband said so and he was right.’
I’d hoped this last remark might mollify her, but to my surprise her expression hardened. ‘I adore this belt.It’s Prada,’ she added, as though I could have cared less whether she’d got it in Primark.
By now I was struggling to maintain my composure. ‘It won’t look… good,’ I tried again. ‘It’ll just be a big block of black.’
‘Well…’ Celine folded her arms. ‘I’m going to wear it and that’s all there is to it.’
I was about to pretend that I needed the loo so that I could take five minutes to calm myself down – or quite possibly cry – when Celine’s mobile phone rang again. She left the room and had another long, intense-sounding conversation which drifted across the landing in snatches.
‘ Oui, chéri… je veux te voir aussi… bientôt, chéri. ’
By now I’d decided to admit defeat and was just working out how best to minimise the monstrous belt when Celine returned. To my surprise her mood seemed to have lightened. Now she took out a simple linen shift in powder blue, then held it against her.
‘What about this?’
I could have wept with relief. ‘That will look great. ’
The next morning, as I waited for Mike Johns to arrive for his sitting I looked at Celine’s portrait – so far no more than a few preliminary marks in yellow ochre. She was the trickiest sitter I’d ever had – obstructive, unreasonable, and entirely lacking in enthusiasm.
Her attitude struck me as bizarre. Most people give themselves up to the sittings, recognising that to be painted is a rather special thing. But for Celine it was clearly something to be endured, not enjoyed. I wondered why this should be.
I once had to paint a successful businessman whosecompany had commissioned the portrait for their board-room. During the sittings he kept glancing at his
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