June 1968

      Dressed in blue, the brunette stands amongst the late summer sunflowers, her lover photographing her from a distance. The gleam on the sun cascades in highlights on her face, a frame around her features. She holds her chin up with a relaxed expression, figure still as she holds for each camera shutter. Each shift in movement is familiar and practiced, graceful and poised.
      Sun in her eyes and feet gritty with dirt. She can feel the pollen of the flowers tickling her nose. Irritated with a returning fly, she lifts her hand to repeatedly to waft it away. He finally sighs and lowers his lens. 
      “My love, these are all blurry. You need to stand still for me.”
      She straightens up and relaxes her arms at her side, posture rehearsed and performed.
      He pauses and tilts his head, eyes examining the scene. “Why the stiff lip?” he smiles softly, camera by his heart. 
      She rolls her eyes affectionately as a soft smile graces her lips.
      He matches the expression with a speck of light in his eye. “There she is, prettier than Leighton’s Flaming June.”
      She didn’t know who Leighton was, and she’s never seen the Flaming June, but she felt warm at his compliment. To be compared to art was an honor, to be art was to be venerated and adored. 
      She is his model, his muse, his art.
      She smiles and embraces the attention. Chin up and smile gleaming towards the sun.

 

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August 1968

      His voice carries throughout the apartment, chipper and bright. His fingers curl around the dial phone as his feet pace on the wooden tile. Words are exchanged through the wires, electric messages of possibility and opportunity, promises of success and praise.
      She sits in the living room overlooking the several framed images. Classic photography with unique angles, cherished in his signature blue frame. Some vibrate in tone while others monotoned in shades alone, each with the recurring presence of her.
      Pretty enough to hang on the wall.
      She smiles softly to herself before standing. She approaches the kitchen, leaning against the counter as her lover continues to talk. There’s an electricity to him, a sense of contentment only his own artwork seems to bring out.
      He concludes the business call and retreats back to the living room, passing her by. She follows. Her lover picks up each framed image into a stack before carrying them out with him.
      “No dinner tonight?” She pipes up as he opens the door.
      He turns to face her, his hands securing the frames through the motion. His familiar smile graces his expression, softer now as if on the verge of guilt yet still charming. 
      “I’ve got to get these to Albert. Part of the whole distribution process. Trying to get my work out there, you know how it is.” He smiles one last time. “I’ll be back before you know it, beautiful."
      He exits the apartment leaving her alone.
      She opens her mouth to question but decides against it. She glances around, taking in her solitude. She sits on the worn-down sofa, sinking into the overused cushions that still smells of paint fumes. She sighs and picks up the novel that had been pressed under his photos, paperback edges folded from the weight. She sighs and chooses to ignore the dent. Another dream pushed under his own. But she holds no resentment. No place for that when it came to a lover like him, someone who saw her as exciting instead of as another woman to shy to speak, as worthy of his film, of his time, of his eyes.
      Monet saw boundless artistry in flowers, Van Gogh painted worlds out of landscapes, he saw endless beauty in her alone. And that seemed to suffice for her longing soul.
      She adored being his model, his muse, his art.

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October 1968

      The pictures weren’t enough. Some street man with a mouth to big for his own good ridiculed his artwork as it hung in a bar. He titled it boring and outdated. “Warhol is bringing a new meaning to art, any intelligent man would know better than to try to sell this classic crap.”
      The shift towards striking colors and abstract perspective was quick and strong. Audiences didn’t want another Horst P. Horst, classic gradients and elegant silhouettes reminiscent of the 40’s. They yearned for the rebellious and experimental prints the decade welcomed as a new era.
      Her lover struggled to accept his art was anything but astounding, that she was anything but astounding. So with his camera around his neck he tried again.
      “Criticism is meant to make an artist grow. It would be unnatural to succeed so easily,” her lover explains as his camera shutters. 
      She sits propped up on a stone wall, legs crossed with dainty blue heels to match her new dress. “Shouldn’t you try something different then? You love photography, but it doesn’t seem to be making much of a splash with the crowds.”
      He doesn’t lower the lens. “Maybe mixed media then.” 
      “Maybe.”
      She shivers but tries to stay still. The air is becoming colder, the stone on her thighs like ice. Her nose and cheeks growing red with the chill.
    He glances up. “Just a few more, I promise. You just look so lovely in blue and the way it contrasts against the wall…. Just wait beautiful, you’ll love these.”
      His tone carries promise and thrill, interrupted by the clicking of his camera. She straightens up, holds herself together for a bit longer.
      She needs to be his model, his muse, his art.
      He depends on her, is anchored on her. And as his lover she would be what he needed.

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December 1968

      She drops the groceries onto the counter, fingers blue from the cold New York winter. The apartment reeks of paint and varnish. She unpacks each paper bag, the empty fridge slowly refilling. She makes a note of the messy kitchen, unwashed dishes in the sink and stains on the counter. She hangs up her blue coat and finds him in the living room hunched over his work.
      The sitting area compliments the kitchen, paint cans open and furniture rearranged, her painted red typewriter shoved to the corner, collecting dust now. His easel is propped with a canvas as he paints over a piece of his own work. Modern photography with a classic twist, as he’d describe it. His strokes so focused with dexterity he hardly looks up. He doesn’t look up. She watches over his shoulder, watching his self-proclaimed masterpiece come to life.
      “It’s beautiful,” his lover whispers in a tone loud enough to startle him.
      He flinches, paint brush moving with him. A hasty red mark cascading on the painting. He exhales stiffly. A sound of frustration suppressed yet still prominent. A sound becoming all too familiar.
      “Maybe its better you stay in the dining room,” he suggests with a strain to his attitude.
      She nods softly, slowly backing away. He turns back to his art piece, the strike of red staining the edge of the memory of her blue dress.
      She doesn’t take it personally. She doesn’t try to. He’s working. This is important. He still adored her. How couldn’t he? Her face was plastered on that very canvas.
      She was still his model, his muse, his art.
      This is temporary. They’d spend time together again. He’d take her to see a show or enjoy a night in the city. Though his camera may be there, too. Rightfully placed over his heart, dreadfully placed above her own.

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February 1969

      She stares at herself. It’s almost like a warped reflection. A stranger in her skin, in her clothes, in her frame.
      His artwork is hung up for a pop-up gallery. Something temporary, but he’s call it a defining moment. 
      “It’ll be the most important night of my life. Years into the future I’ll look back and pinpoint my my fulfillment to tonight,” he had told her.
      It’s beautiful, or so the critics think. The image of her propped up on the stone wall, dressed in that shade of blue he loves. Painted flowers surrounding her like a surreal dream.
      It was only a day. A date on the calendar with red hearts around it, so insignificant it didn’t feel personal, it wasn’t personal. Other couples had red roses, dinners, and chocolates. They’d slow dance to Sinatra and sneak kisses, but what they had was special. Only they had art galleries, photo sessions, and paint stains. Hours of prep and shooting, quality time. Yet it was these things she dreaded so. His lover glances at him as he talks up a buyer. Sweetened words leaving his lips, the same flavor he feeds her.
      She’s supposed to be his model, his muse, his art.
      Yet she feels like the canvas under the picture. Used and covered, only to be framed and hung up. She glances at him one more time before turning to the door, glass tinted red from the exit sign hung above. 

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April 1969

      She feels the water soak through her boots, rain coming down softly. Her face is wet but she can’t admit from what. She takes one last look at the window of the apartment building, the blue framing wood of the window darkened with the moisture of the rain. Her breath is heavy, pebble in her throat, stone on her heart.
      He comes down the stairs, feet fast as he takes each step at a time, eyes focused on his escaping lover. His camera bumps against his chest with each pace. She stands in the rain, red coat a stark contrast to the dreary scene, feet planted on the pavement as she waits. She’s not sure why but she does. He reaches the apartment doorway, and she sees him coming out the door.
      No, standing at the door. 
      Only standing. 
      Why is he standing?
      Then her eyes fall on the camera around his neck, mechanical and sensitive to the rain. A tool more valuable than a lover. Although lover felt like too strong of a word.
      She was his model, his muse, his art.
      Always had been but no longer would be.
      She faces away and walks across the street, her typewriter secured in the briefcase held tightly in her hands.