PaintingJerusha"Thank you, Murka, set it down there," Claudio told the house demon, and gestured with his stick toward a low table with a cluster of chairs around it. The squat creature, whose myriad legs gave its motion a smooth, almost flowing quality, delivered the heavy tea tray to the indicated spot without even a clink of china. It favored Claudio with a wide, toothy grin before disappearing through a curtained doorway. Claudio carried on with adjusting the light for his portrait session with Jerusha Corrino. Opposite his easel he had a bench set up that was similar in shape, and most importantly of the same height, as the ones on the Papingo Terrace. Fixing his attention on the bench and the screen behind it, Claudio proceeded to think at the ceiling. The domed ceiling of his studio was something Claudio's sister Lovisa had found for him out in Shadow and transported to the Ways of Barimen. Made of psychosensitive material, it could shift its tint and polarization from complete transparency to opacity, or any stage in between, in response to mental commands. It was afternoon light Claudio wanted now, a golden quality just beginning to shade to orange... The touch of a Trump call on his mind broke his concentration -- which was all right. This would be Jerusha, and he couldn't really make the final adjustments till she got here anyway. Claudio opened his mind to the contact. "I'm ready, Claudio," Jerusha said. She looked calm and in control of herself. Claudio extended a hand to bring her through. "Welcome to my sanctum," he said, smiling. Under the domed ceiling, the studio was perfectly round -- at least, as far as one could tell, since the walls were completely covered with hangings of various colors and patterns. The floor, of a dull, neutral color with a finish that obviously had easy cleaning rather than aesthetics in mind, was similarly brightened with throw rugs of various sizes. Jerusha quickly let go of his hand and looked around. "Very artistic," she said with a faint smile. "Bohemian, even." Claudio laughed. "I've done my best. There had to be some sort of compromise between the necessity for a neutral background and utter boredom. And this way, it's easy to change it around when I feel like it." He went on to ask, "Would you prefer to start right away or would you like a cup of tea first?" He gestured first to the bench and then in the direction of the tea table. "Let's just start, please." She walked over to the bench and seated herself, as closely as she could remember to the pose of the other day. "Very well." Claudio accordingly seated himself behind his easel and began to daub colors on his palette while he talked Jerusha through making several small adjustments to her pose. Finally he said, "There! Perfect! Hold that!" It was several minutes before he came up for air long enough to ask, "And what have you been doing with yourself since we last met?" "The usual," she said. "Arms practice, sentry duty, a little socializing. I haven't got a new sword-dancing bout scheduled yet. Yourself?" "My mother and sisters held a reception a little while ago," Claudio replied, amusement in his voice. "I got to play subsidiary host. It was ... instructive. Certainly a contrast to the society of sword dancers." "It would be," she agreed. "But I'm told," she added with a wry twist to her lips, "that formal socializing is an important skill." "It is for me," Claudio said frankly, "or will be, if I intend to make portraiture and Trump Artistry my profession. Fortunately I don't find it too onerous. It's rather like a dance, in its own way." "Better you than me," was the reply. Claudio nodded and pointed out lightly, "I couldn't do what you do either... but I do love to watch. I've been keeping an eye on the tournament schedules and I'll probably be at your next match." "Why, thank you," she said, embarrassed again by his generosity. He grinned at her mischievously and remarked, "...not that you need another worshipful fanboy, I'm sure." "I haven't had a chance to see your work, of course," she forged on, a redness in her cheeks evidencing the effort that took. "I suppose most of it is here somewhere, since you're just starting out?" "A good bit of it, yes, here and there about the Ways ... though I have had a few commissions and given more as gifts. Here in the studio it's mostly works in progress, and my sketchbooks." "Practice," she said, stopping herself from nodding, and cast about for a useful topic. "What, umm, media do you most like to work in?" "I've concentrated most on drawing and painting ... pastels sometimes," he answered. "For portraits and Trumps I find I like oils best. I suppose I'm old-fashioned that way." Jerusha strained to remember her art appreciation lessons. "Don't they dry more slowly than, what is it, acrylics?" "Yes, they do, and they're more fussy to work with, but I like the results better. The finish, and the colors are more ... mellow, somehow," said Claudio. "I have used acrylics sometimes, depending on the subject, and I know some painters prefer them. It's a matter of taste, and personal style." "Yes, of course." Having exhausted her store of small talk, she fell silent, watching the little of the young artist that she could see behind the easel. Claudio was content to paint in silence for a while and concentrate on the planes and angles of Jerusha's face. What she could see of him was mainly his feet and the upper portion of his face; from time to time his grey eyes would lift from the painting to her, with the same peculiarly intent gaze she had seen at their earlier session. The look was neither impersonal nor dispassionate, though at the same time oddly detached. It was as if his whole being, during those moments, was focused on perceiving her; it was himself he was distanced from. Time passed, and the light filtering through the roof began to dim. Claudio paused, and Jerusha saw him glance at the ceiling, a slight frown of concentration drawing his brows together. As he did so, the quality of the light shifted, becoming brighter and more golden ... almost as if time were reversing itself. Jerusha, who had fallen into that alertly meditative state so useful to sentries, now glanced upward as best she could without moving. "What is that?" "Fixing the light," Claudio replied absently; then, as her question registered more fully he went on to explain, "The ceiling is adjustable ... how much light it lets in, and what kind. My sister Lovisa found it for me, out in Shadow." He grinned. "After we're through here we can play with it a bit, if you'd like." "Play with it?" She was not sure how one would play with such a thing. "I'll show you later," Claudio promised. "Give you a light show. It can be quite fun." "All right," she said agreeably. Claudio went back to painting for a while, but in time the light coming from outside had dimmed so much that the ceiling couldn't compensate. Finally he sat back and said, "I think that's all we can do today." Jerusha stretched, sighing; despite her best efforts, holding still for so long had caused some stiffness. Then she got up and came over to the easel. "Can I see?" "Certainly," said Claudio. He had put down his brush and now laced his hands behind his neck, stretching to get the kinks out of his back and shoulders. The painting was still incomplete. Claudio had obviously been concentrating on Jerusha's face and figure while he had the model in front of him, so she was able to see her own image sharp and finished (though still glistening wetly in spots) against a background that was still sketchy. It was clear, however, that the background was to be neither the Papingo Terrace nor Claudio's own studio, but a view of the sword dancing grounds, with the great arch rising over it. Her expression, looking at it, could only be described as sad. "I suppose precision's more important with the subject than the background," she said, trying to sound normal. Claudio looked up at her keenly, trying to read her mood. "Well, yes, though of course I'll be doing more work on the background later." She was still looking at the painting. "I meant, you're not going to go off to the sword dancing grounds to finish it, are you?" she said absently. "I could," said Claudio, "but I shouldn't need to. I've been there often enough to do it from memory." "Ah." She backed up a step, then took the initiative of approaching the table with the tea things on it. "I'm sure he'll like it," she said, staring at the tray. "I hope so. He's the one who'll have to look at it," said Claudio, "unless he decides to stick it in a closet someplace. But I'd like you to be happy with it, too." "Oh, I am," she said, then looked chagrined at how unconvincing she sounded. "I just ... don't want him to think..." She trailed off, utterly unable to put her tangle of feelings into words. "Don't want him to think what? That a warrior is all that you are?" Claudio guessed. "No ... it's just that we don't get along very well." That seemed safe enough to say. "I know that from talking to Delluth," he said gently. "Not to say I understand it entirely. But I also know that you're still his daughter, and he loves you and is proud of you." "I know," she muttered, as if this were somehow frustrating. Then she delved into a pocket and produced a Trump. "I need to go ... it really is thoughtful of you to do this for him." "You put time and effort into it as well," Claudio pointed out. "Shall I tell him it's a gift from both of us? Or just from me?" She fiddled with the card. "From you, please. Good Turning, Claudio." "Very well," he acquiesced. "Good Turning, then, Jerusha -- and look for me at your next match!" "All right," she said, half-smiling. Then she focused on the card, and after the usual delay caused by non-expertise, appeared to step forward into a rainbow of light. |
