Niceandbrutal
Yes, but-
- Joined
- Aug 27, 2013
- Posts
- 2,816
Paris, June 3rd, 1923.
Lawrence Masters sighed. He was attending the opening of an exposition of his latest paintings. Unlike the expressionists whimsical yet demanding technique that were all the rage, Lawrence's paintings had the strict technique of the late 19th century impressionist masters. Everything was to be as true to life as possible. That in itself was hard enough, and people sometimes asked him why he bothered now that photography was becoming more and more popular and slowly developing into an artform all its own. Lawrence had a ready reply for that: photographies captured moments, while a good painting could capture the essence of a whole situation, all the emotions, the perfect expressions to convey those emotions. Unless a photographer was masterful at staging or extremely lucky, that was an elusive goal for him or her.
He looked around the gallery. It was the usual crowd: connoiseurs of art, fake and real, some of his friends from the artist's collective for moral support, young american women from wealthy families here to get "educated" (i.e. screw around), artist groupies, and members of the general public. Lawrence always tried to keep a low profile on these events. He'd had some expos before, and he'd more often than not been bombarded with inane questions about his paintings: WHY was the eyebrow on the man raised the way it was? WHY did he choose to paint THOSE clothes on his subjects? It was a barrage of 'whys' he couldn't satisfactorily answer because he didn't always know the answer to those questions himself.
He painted on instinct and intuition and raw emotions, and he'd yet to come up with a satisfying response that could explain his approach to his art. But he could wake up in the middle of the night after a vivid dream and know that he HAD to paint the essence of that dream. That's why he always had a sketchpad and pencils on his nightstand, lest he forget the images that had moved him so. Other times, his inspiration could be a snippet of a song or a headline or a poem or novel. In other words, his inspiration was unpredictable at best and it worried him just a little. What if he one day lost it, lost that spark that drove him to paint? The thought was blasphemous to him and yet it was his deepest fear.
A well nourished american from a moderately wealthy family, Lawrence stood taller than most people in the gallery with his 6 feet muscular frame. He had thick brown curly hair of moderate length and he'd grown a beard so as not to be as easily recognised by the reporters and fans of his work. He had piercing light blue eyes that some found disconcerting. He'd been told that people felt that he looked right through them when he looked at them. It was true that he often could perceive people's personalities and mannerisms after a quick study, a useful trait when he needed to convey a person's essence on canvas.
He had sold enough of his art to live in a good apartment in the latin quarter of Paris where he often entertained some of the more famous expatriates of Paris. He'd wined and dined Josephine Baker, Ernest Hemingway, Anaïs Nin, and Henry Miller amongst others. Paris was THE place for young aspiring artists of all disciplines and they naturally sought together to compare notes, to brag, to drink, to critique, and to love. They often invited the aforementioned american art groupies and french girls on the lookout for someone to marry or at least to get impregnated by. The Great War had taken its toll on the male populace of France.
Lawrence sighed. The owner of the gallery had insisted he at least BE at the opening and Lawrence had reluctantly agreed, on the condition that he didn't have to speak or talk to the press. He longed for his favourite pastimes. He loved long hikes and had dabbled with mountaineering and kayaking, as well as boxing. He had little patience with artists that sat around and did nothing but talk about and express in their art their own inner turmoil or lack thereof. To say something profound about life you had to experience it, Lawrence felt. Otherwise all you did was produce navelgazing fluff.
The gallery owner apparently had let slip that Lawrence would be there. There was an abundance of reporters and art groupies around engaging in their favourite game of 'find the artist'. Lawrence was confident that his beard and hair would throw them off his scent. For added anonymity, he'd jammed a sixpence on his head and dressed in a simple white tunic covered by a dark cheap suit and dark leather shoes. One of the guests was different, though. A small bespectacled man in his fifties in a white suit whit black stripes, and brown shoes was slowly and steadily walking around the room, not even glancing at the paintings. No, he was studying the faces of all males present intently. He wore a pince-nez on his broad, pale and freckled face. A bushy ginger moustache completed the impression of a british citizen abroad.
Lawrence watched the man as he slowly worked his way around the room. Damn it all, he'd promised he'd stay there until the gallery closed, But this man was... yes, he was brandishing an old photography of Lawrence none too subtly as he came ever closer to his prey. At long last he stood before Lawrence. Lawrence steeled himself while pretending to be preoccupied with a conversation right next to him. For the longest time, the brit stared at Lawrence before a sly smile spread across his face. Putting the photo away, he sidled up to Lawrence and said in a whisper in an unmistakeable english upper class accent: "My employer wants to comission you to paint a portrait of his daughter. He is adamant it has to be you, mister Masters. He is prepared to pay you handsomely for your work and you'll of course be a guest at his manor for the duration."
This was not at all what Lawrence had expected, and he was dumbfounded. At first he rejected the idea. Leave for England to paint a portrait of an upper class spoilt brat? Why the hell would he do that? As it was, he would earn enough from his new paintings to live comfortably for the next couple of years. And he would paint new pictures during that time to keep earning- the rotund british man whispered a sum, and Lawrence's jaw dropped. A couple of months' work and he could live comfortably for the next ten years! His resolve was wavering, and then the british man delivered his coup de grace. He produced a photo and handed it to Lawrence. He looked at it, and his heart skipped a beat.
He HAD to paint her portrait. He looked at the photo again. A young woman smiled back at him, her eyes thoughtful and seemingly miles away. For a minute he was reminded of Da Vinci's La Gioconda. She had the same enigmatic smile, although her expression was subtly different. He looked up at the brit: "When do we leave?" he asked of him. "As soon as you're ready," came the smug reply.
The rest of the evening snailed by. Lawrence had kept the photo and he looked at it all through the evening, almost obsessing over her fine features and that smile. He'd heard the expression "english rose" uttered about pretty english girls, but he'd never met a woman worthy of that title before. This woman though...
He went home right after the gallery closed, turning down offers of drink and dinner to everyone's surprise. He went straight home and had the concierge help him pack his trunk. The night was spent in fevered dreams as he saw this young beauty as vividly as she was standing before him, all blushing cheeks, light summer dresses and that faraway look in her eyes as she addressed him with a shy smile. Come morning, and Lawrence was already infatuated.
He rushed to the train station to meet with Mr. Porter (his employees' representative) and to journey to Calais. The trip was boring and uneventful, and they arrived at Calais ahead of schedule. The steamer that brought them across the channel chugged along at a merry pace as France grew smaller and smaller and Dover grew bigger and bigger. They spent the night in Dover and journeyed on by train the morning after.
The manor was situated some miles north of London, and after a change of train in Britain's capital they were soon nearing their destination. A Rolls Royce Phantom was waiting for them as they they stepped off the train in a quaint old village, and Lawrence at once fell in love with the surroundings. The village, all timber framed white cottages with wooden slates or even thatched roofs, would inspire his work further, he knew. A valet took care of his trunks, and they were soon whisked off to the manor. Driving through the village, Lawrence felt transported back in time. Some cobblestone were to be seen, but most streets (and that was a generous description) were packed earth that would dissolve into mud come the heavy rainfalls. They drove through the village square where livestock was sold and vendors hawked their goods to all and sundry. Lawrence noted that all got out of the way for the car, and some bowed or tipped their hat in his direction.
Mr Porter leaned on his cane and watched Lawrence watching the surroundings. "You will find that the Duke of Chelmsford commands a fair amount of respect. Now, when you meet him you will address him as 'your grace', as will you address all of his family as 'your grace', 'my lord', or 'my lady'. One expects you present at every meal, formal wear is required at dinner."
Driving up an avenue of sturdy oaks, the Rolls Royce turned right and drove past a lavish gate connected to a tall wall. A brass sign heralded this place to be Chelmsford Manor. The grounds were impressive and vast. Manicured lawns and trimmed hedges as well as a pond with ducks and a promenade path adorned the estate. Further away was a small copse of woods. Lawrence almost made a fool of himself as they drove past a large building. The smell and sight of horses saved him from the embarassment of faultily complimenting on the Duke's manor. The manor proper hove into view, and Lawrence couldn't suppress a gasp. It was huge!
They pulled up at the entrance, and a small phalanx of servants walked briskly to the car to whisk away Lawrence's posessions. "They will unpack your clothes and leave the rest of your belongings untouched," Mr Porter assured him as Lawrence was about to tell them to be careful with his art supplies. A tall distinguished gentleman, impeccably dressed and groomed, approached and gave a curt bow. "I am Percy, and I have the honour of being the Duke of Chelmsford's butler. If you would follow me please, sir?" The entrance hall was vast. Wood paneled walls adorned with several large portraits greeted him, and he at once asked Percy to wait. "I need to know what is expected of me if I want to do a good job." Percy nodded and followed two steps behind as Lawrence studied the portraits. Most were done in a competent realistic style, but they all had one thing in common: They were thunderously dull.
Lords and ladies in their best suits, gowns, or parade uniforms stared down at all visitors with dull dead eyes. There was no life, no personality in these portraits. Lawrence decided there and then that his would be different. He nodded to Percy to signal he was done studying the paintings and with a softly spoken 'if you would follow me, sir', they were off again. Lawrence hated to admit it, but after ascending the staircase he was lost. He just hoped the staff were friendly enough to help him if he should need it.
He was shown into a large study with persian rugs, a large oaken desk, and several book cupboards with glass doors. Behind the desk sat a robust-looking man in his fifties. He was bald, he had sharp blue eyes, a neatly trimmed moustache and a healthy complection. Dressed in gray tweed with white shirt and maroon tie, he was the picture of an english gentleman. Percy spoke, no announced: "Lawrence Masters, my lord." The Duke of Chelmsford rose and walked around his desk to shake Lawrence's hand. "It is a great honour, your Grace," Lawrence said politely. "You are too kind, the honour is all mine, I'm sure," came the measured and polite response.
Lawrence was about to launch into a onesided rant about how he wanted to make the portrair he was to paint different from the museum exhibits in the entrance hall when there was a low knock on the door. "Come!" the duke called, and Lawrence heard the study door open and close behind him. A soft and gentle voice spoke: "You wanted to see me, papa?" Lawrence whirled around, the voice touching something deep within him. And there she was, the woman he'd seen in the photography. Moving as if on clouds, he approached her and gently took the hand offered to him. It was a slender and fine hand with soft cool skin, and he raised it to his lips and gently kissed it.
"My lady, painting your portrait will indeed be an honour," he said quietly.
Lawrence Masters sighed. He was attending the opening of an exposition of his latest paintings. Unlike the expressionists whimsical yet demanding technique that were all the rage, Lawrence's paintings had the strict technique of the late 19th century impressionist masters. Everything was to be as true to life as possible. That in itself was hard enough, and people sometimes asked him why he bothered now that photography was becoming more and more popular and slowly developing into an artform all its own. Lawrence had a ready reply for that: photographies captured moments, while a good painting could capture the essence of a whole situation, all the emotions, the perfect expressions to convey those emotions. Unless a photographer was masterful at staging or extremely lucky, that was an elusive goal for him or her.
He looked around the gallery. It was the usual crowd: connoiseurs of art, fake and real, some of his friends from the artist's collective for moral support, young american women from wealthy families here to get "educated" (i.e. screw around), artist groupies, and members of the general public. Lawrence always tried to keep a low profile on these events. He'd had some expos before, and he'd more often than not been bombarded with inane questions about his paintings: WHY was the eyebrow on the man raised the way it was? WHY did he choose to paint THOSE clothes on his subjects? It was a barrage of 'whys' he couldn't satisfactorily answer because he didn't always know the answer to those questions himself.
He painted on instinct and intuition and raw emotions, and he'd yet to come up with a satisfying response that could explain his approach to his art. But he could wake up in the middle of the night after a vivid dream and know that he HAD to paint the essence of that dream. That's why he always had a sketchpad and pencils on his nightstand, lest he forget the images that had moved him so. Other times, his inspiration could be a snippet of a song or a headline or a poem or novel. In other words, his inspiration was unpredictable at best and it worried him just a little. What if he one day lost it, lost that spark that drove him to paint? The thought was blasphemous to him and yet it was his deepest fear.
A well nourished american from a moderately wealthy family, Lawrence stood taller than most people in the gallery with his 6 feet muscular frame. He had thick brown curly hair of moderate length and he'd grown a beard so as not to be as easily recognised by the reporters and fans of his work. He had piercing light blue eyes that some found disconcerting. He'd been told that people felt that he looked right through them when he looked at them. It was true that he often could perceive people's personalities and mannerisms after a quick study, a useful trait when he needed to convey a person's essence on canvas.
He had sold enough of his art to live in a good apartment in the latin quarter of Paris where he often entertained some of the more famous expatriates of Paris. He'd wined and dined Josephine Baker, Ernest Hemingway, Anaïs Nin, and Henry Miller amongst others. Paris was THE place for young aspiring artists of all disciplines and they naturally sought together to compare notes, to brag, to drink, to critique, and to love. They often invited the aforementioned american art groupies and french girls on the lookout for someone to marry or at least to get impregnated by. The Great War had taken its toll on the male populace of France.
Lawrence sighed. The owner of the gallery had insisted he at least BE at the opening and Lawrence had reluctantly agreed, on the condition that he didn't have to speak or talk to the press. He longed for his favourite pastimes. He loved long hikes and had dabbled with mountaineering and kayaking, as well as boxing. He had little patience with artists that sat around and did nothing but talk about and express in their art their own inner turmoil or lack thereof. To say something profound about life you had to experience it, Lawrence felt. Otherwise all you did was produce navelgazing fluff.
The gallery owner apparently had let slip that Lawrence would be there. There was an abundance of reporters and art groupies around engaging in their favourite game of 'find the artist'. Lawrence was confident that his beard and hair would throw them off his scent. For added anonymity, he'd jammed a sixpence on his head and dressed in a simple white tunic covered by a dark cheap suit and dark leather shoes. One of the guests was different, though. A small bespectacled man in his fifties in a white suit whit black stripes, and brown shoes was slowly and steadily walking around the room, not even glancing at the paintings. No, he was studying the faces of all males present intently. He wore a pince-nez on his broad, pale and freckled face. A bushy ginger moustache completed the impression of a british citizen abroad.
Lawrence watched the man as he slowly worked his way around the room. Damn it all, he'd promised he'd stay there until the gallery closed, But this man was... yes, he was brandishing an old photography of Lawrence none too subtly as he came ever closer to his prey. At long last he stood before Lawrence. Lawrence steeled himself while pretending to be preoccupied with a conversation right next to him. For the longest time, the brit stared at Lawrence before a sly smile spread across his face. Putting the photo away, he sidled up to Lawrence and said in a whisper in an unmistakeable english upper class accent: "My employer wants to comission you to paint a portrait of his daughter. He is adamant it has to be you, mister Masters. He is prepared to pay you handsomely for your work and you'll of course be a guest at his manor for the duration."
This was not at all what Lawrence had expected, and he was dumbfounded. At first he rejected the idea. Leave for England to paint a portrait of an upper class spoilt brat? Why the hell would he do that? As it was, he would earn enough from his new paintings to live comfortably for the next couple of years. And he would paint new pictures during that time to keep earning- the rotund british man whispered a sum, and Lawrence's jaw dropped. A couple of months' work and he could live comfortably for the next ten years! His resolve was wavering, and then the british man delivered his coup de grace. He produced a photo and handed it to Lawrence. He looked at it, and his heart skipped a beat.
He HAD to paint her portrait. He looked at the photo again. A young woman smiled back at him, her eyes thoughtful and seemingly miles away. For a minute he was reminded of Da Vinci's La Gioconda. She had the same enigmatic smile, although her expression was subtly different. He looked up at the brit: "When do we leave?" he asked of him. "As soon as you're ready," came the smug reply.
The rest of the evening snailed by. Lawrence had kept the photo and he looked at it all through the evening, almost obsessing over her fine features and that smile. He'd heard the expression "english rose" uttered about pretty english girls, but he'd never met a woman worthy of that title before. This woman though...
He went home right after the gallery closed, turning down offers of drink and dinner to everyone's surprise. He went straight home and had the concierge help him pack his trunk. The night was spent in fevered dreams as he saw this young beauty as vividly as she was standing before him, all blushing cheeks, light summer dresses and that faraway look in her eyes as she addressed him with a shy smile. Come morning, and Lawrence was already infatuated.
He rushed to the train station to meet with Mr. Porter (his employees' representative) and to journey to Calais. The trip was boring and uneventful, and they arrived at Calais ahead of schedule. The steamer that brought them across the channel chugged along at a merry pace as France grew smaller and smaller and Dover grew bigger and bigger. They spent the night in Dover and journeyed on by train the morning after.
The manor was situated some miles north of London, and after a change of train in Britain's capital they were soon nearing their destination. A Rolls Royce Phantom was waiting for them as they they stepped off the train in a quaint old village, and Lawrence at once fell in love with the surroundings. The village, all timber framed white cottages with wooden slates or even thatched roofs, would inspire his work further, he knew. A valet took care of his trunks, and they were soon whisked off to the manor. Driving through the village, Lawrence felt transported back in time. Some cobblestone were to be seen, but most streets (and that was a generous description) were packed earth that would dissolve into mud come the heavy rainfalls. They drove through the village square where livestock was sold and vendors hawked their goods to all and sundry. Lawrence noted that all got out of the way for the car, and some bowed or tipped their hat in his direction.
Mr Porter leaned on his cane and watched Lawrence watching the surroundings. "You will find that the Duke of Chelmsford commands a fair amount of respect. Now, when you meet him you will address him as 'your grace', as will you address all of his family as 'your grace', 'my lord', or 'my lady'. One expects you present at every meal, formal wear is required at dinner."
Driving up an avenue of sturdy oaks, the Rolls Royce turned right and drove past a lavish gate connected to a tall wall. A brass sign heralded this place to be Chelmsford Manor. The grounds were impressive and vast. Manicured lawns and trimmed hedges as well as a pond with ducks and a promenade path adorned the estate. Further away was a small copse of woods. Lawrence almost made a fool of himself as they drove past a large building. The smell and sight of horses saved him from the embarassment of faultily complimenting on the Duke's manor. The manor proper hove into view, and Lawrence couldn't suppress a gasp. It was huge!
They pulled up at the entrance, and a small phalanx of servants walked briskly to the car to whisk away Lawrence's posessions. "They will unpack your clothes and leave the rest of your belongings untouched," Mr Porter assured him as Lawrence was about to tell them to be careful with his art supplies. A tall distinguished gentleman, impeccably dressed and groomed, approached and gave a curt bow. "I am Percy, and I have the honour of being the Duke of Chelmsford's butler. If you would follow me please, sir?" The entrance hall was vast. Wood paneled walls adorned with several large portraits greeted him, and he at once asked Percy to wait. "I need to know what is expected of me if I want to do a good job." Percy nodded and followed two steps behind as Lawrence studied the portraits. Most were done in a competent realistic style, but they all had one thing in common: They were thunderously dull.
Lords and ladies in their best suits, gowns, or parade uniforms stared down at all visitors with dull dead eyes. There was no life, no personality in these portraits. Lawrence decided there and then that his would be different. He nodded to Percy to signal he was done studying the paintings and with a softly spoken 'if you would follow me, sir', they were off again. Lawrence hated to admit it, but after ascending the staircase he was lost. He just hoped the staff were friendly enough to help him if he should need it.
He was shown into a large study with persian rugs, a large oaken desk, and several book cupboards with glass doors. Behind the desk sat a robust-looking man in his fifties. He was bald, he had sharp blue eyes, a neatly trimmed moustache and a healthy complection. Dressed in gray tweed with white shirt and maroon tie, he was the picture of an english gentleman. Percy spoke, no announced: "Lawrence Masters, my lord." The Duke of Chelmsford rose and walked around his desk to shake Lawrence's hand. "It is a great honour, your Grace," Lawrence said politely. "You are too kind, the honour is all mine, I'm sure," came the measured and polite response.
Lawrence was about to launch into a onesided rant about how he wanted to make the portrair he was to paint different from the museum exhibits in the entrance hall when there was a low knock on the door. "Come!" the duke called, and Lawrence heard the study door open and close behind him. A soft and gentle voice spoke: "You wanted to see me, papa?" Lawrence whirled around, the voice touching something deep within him. And there she was, the woman he'd seen in the photography. Moving as if on clouds, he approached her and gently took the hand offered to him. It was a slender and fine hand with soft cool skin, and he raised it to his lips and gently kissed it.
"My lady, painting your portrait will indeed be an honour," he said quietly.
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