They all wonder how he does it. The statues, so lifelike, with flowing hair and lovely curves, captured elegantly in the stone. But why must he only carve such horrible scenes? Why are those beautiful women always depicted in agonized poses, their faces frozen in horrible expressions from some unseen terror? They are screaming, and they look so alive that for a moment it seems some sound could escape their marble lips.
The model finishes undressing and stands naked on the raised platform in a windowless studio, resisting the urge to cover herself with her arms. Her nipples stiffen from the cold. She knew this would be part of the job—the advertisement made it abundantly clear—but the reality is far more intimidating. Taking a deep, hopefully calming breath, she sweeps the golden-brown hair from her face. If only her hands would stop trembling.
It is only nudity, after all. No different from at home, practicing in front of the mirror. This is why she spent all those hours sweating at the local gym. None of her friends look like she does, with their sagging breasts and stretch-marks. No, she is slim and sexy and in better shape now than twenty years ago, before marriage and kids and divorce and too many cigarettes. None of her friends would be brave enough to do this—not even for the amount she is being paid.
The artist is an interesting young man with the roguish charm so typical on this side of the river—a man seemingly in contempt of his own appearance. Splotches of paint and marble dust cover his shaggy hair and ill-fitting clothes, and his skin is pale from too many hours sequestered in his studio. Nevertheless, a man of such obvious talent can afford to be eccentric. The evidence of his skill surrounds him—paintings and statuary and chunks of marble with their rough forms only beginning to emerge.
He instructs the model to lie down—an odalisque reclining in some fanciful harem. Venus. Olympia. No, more explicit than that. Every millimeter on display. Every hair. Every freckle. Every fold.
The thought of it makes her blush. Would the artist really carve such a revealing pose?
The artist smiles, pleased by his latest model’s willingness. A few compliments and a little encouragement are all it took to get her to disrobe, to pose this way and that until she is just the way he likes. Just like this. He likes what he sees. A masterpiece.
As the minutes pass, the model begins to relax, even to enjoy the sensation of being so bold. Ignoring her flushed cheeks and pounding heartbeat, she embraces the thrill of the moment and changes her position slightly, letting her legs fall open a little wider.
The artist says nothing, only smiles.
Just then, the model notices something most peculiar in the painting opposite her. The portrait of the fat old man in a powdered wig, frock coat, and ruffled collar seems to blush and turn away, as though he is embarrassed to be afforded such an intimate view of the model’s private anatomy.
No. That is impossible. Paintings do not feel embarrassment.
The model is certain her mind is only playing tricks on her.
Nervousness. That is all.
The artist circles around the platform, sketching this and that. The naked model tries to keep still and resists her urge to peek at the sketchbook. Still, she cannot help but wonder what angles of her body are being so closely scrutinized by the artist’s analytical gaze.
Soon enough, she is told to stand in a new position. She rises to her feet, and in that moment, she is certain she sees the fruit in a still-life painting rot before her very eyes—the bowl becoming filled with mold and maggots. The model gasps and is quickly admonished to remain perfectly still while the artist sketches different angles and details.
The artist sits on a stool with the sketchbook in his lap, charcoal pencil scraping against the paper. “Let me tell you a story about my master,” he says, eyes flickering between the model’s naked body and his own sketches. “His skill, ah, you would not believe me if I told you. His paintings did more than simply depict a scene or an emotion. He seemed to impart in them the very essence of being, like God breathing life into clay. My master’s final work was one of the gorgon Medusa, whose grim visage and hair of snakes could turn a man into stone. The great artist, he poured his heart and soul into each brush stroke, so obsessed with its perfection that he died immediately upon its completion, paintbrush still in hand. It was a masterpiece, never to be surpassed.”
A sudden chill seems to overtake the room. Cold sweat beads on the model’s naked skin and the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. She suddenly sees him standing there—a statue among the statues—an older man with a horrified expression, paintbrush tightly gripped in his marble fingers.
Is the artist trying to scare the model with his story? The naked woman cannot help but think of all those other statues with their terrified eyes and screaming mouths. Is this how he elicits such visceral reactions?
The artist sets his sketchbook and pencil aside. He goes to the one object in the room covered by a heavy velvet blanket. An odd smile is etched across his face.
“Behold the final work of my master!” he exclaims.
He closes his bloodshot eyes and pulls away the heavy blanket. As the grotesque image on the painting appears, the woman realizes a moment too late what she is seeing and what is happening to her. She tries to turn, as if to run, but she cannot make her body move. She starts to scream and then—
Silence.
In a small studio, an eccentric artist posts a notice in the window, advertising a need for models. Nudity is required. A new statue is on display in his gallery. The price, like on all the others, is such that it seems the artist would rather not sell it. He smiles at the marble figure and lightly traces his fingertips over the smooth curves of its shapely breasts and trim stomach. The body, however, is not what excites him. What he most enjoys is the frozen expression of terrible realization.
And everybody who passes the studio stops to stare at the statues and admire the artist’s skill. His works seem to capture the very essence of life.
They all wonder how he does it.
THE END