Devon Hartford - Painless

My father nodded.

“He was helping you clean up and get your life back in order, wasn’t he?” I asked.

My father nodded as tears began dripping down his face.

“That’s why your portrait of him is so powerful,” I said.

My father rubbed the tears from his eyes with the side of his hand. “I put my heart into that painting. It’s a reflection of the love your grandfather has given me continuously since I was born. He has never stopped being my father. Even now, when I’m a big shot artist and a father in my own right, your grandfather is still there for me like I just fell off my tricycle and skinned my knee for the first time. I don’t think I could’ve cleaned myself up without his devotion. He has been there for me through all of it. When you have a child of your own someday, paidí mou, you’ll be able to understand how deeply I love you and how deeply your grandfather loves me.” My dad’s face knotted with emotion. His shoulders skipped in time with his restrained sobs.

I threw my arm around his neck and he leaned into me.

After awhile, he said, “I’m okay.” He faced me and a smile spread across his face. “Now you know why none of your paintings of Brandon’s models are working for you or Stanford Wentworth, don’t you?”

I nodded, “Samantha.”

“She was right in front of you the whole time,” he smiled. “I see how much you love that girl. I see it in the way you look at her. You’ve never had eyes like that for anyone. Well, maybe your mother, but that’s different. She was your mother.” He waved a hand, “You know what I mean. Anyway, your mother was a good woman. The best. I mean, is. Is a good woman.” My dad choked up when he said it.

I nodded.

“Look at that,” he chuckled and slapped my knee vigorously, trying to hold back more tears, “you answered your question yourself.”

I could tell that my dad was running away from the topic of my mom like it would kill him if he talked about it for one more second. I knew he still loved her like crazy. He’d never stopped, even after she left us.

I couldn’t blame him. If Samantha were ever to leave me, I’d be acting the same as my dad was right now. It would kill me for sure. Whoa, that was the last thing I wanted to think about.

I sniffed back some of my own tears and chuckled. “You just went all Platonic dialogue on my ass and made me figure things out myself, didn’t you?”

“Can you blame me? That Plato was one smart Greek. Am I right?” My dad was laughing as he said it.

I started laughing too.

“Come here, paidí mou.” My dad threw his arms around me and gave me a big hug.

When he released me, he squeezed my shoulders and looked me in the eyes. “Your heart has changed. You’re not a boy anymore. Your art needs to reflect that. Put the true love in your heart onto the canvas, and the whole world will appreciate it. It’s that simple.”

I nodded, “It is.”

“Now you know how to fix your paintings,” he grinned.

I did.

Art was all about heart.

SAMANTHA

A cool pool of light illuminated my drawing table and my sketchbook. I was sketching cartoon wombats with various drug and bowel problems when Christos walked up behind me the next evening.

He started massaging my neck and shoulders.

“Oh, that feels good,” I sighed, setting my pencil down. “I didn’t realize I’d been so tense.”

“When aren’t you,” he chuckled.

“Hey! I’ve been getting better. I’m not the anxious girl you met months and months ago.”

“No, you’re not. You’re turning into an amazing woman.”

I really liked the way he said that. “So, what’s up?” I asked.

I felt Christos’ hot breath caress my ear, “I need to paint you…in the nude.”

“Do you mean you’ll take all your clothes off while you paint a picture of me?” I grinned. “Sounds like fun to me, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to sit still.”

He chuckled softly. “I meant you in the nude. But if you like, I could be nude too.”

“Mmm, I like the sound of that. But do we need the painting part? Maybe we could just focus on the part where we both get naked,” I purred. It had been awhile since we’d made love and I felt a burning need for Christos.

“I like where you’re going with this,” Christos said, “but I’m serious about this. I want to paint a nude portrait of you.”

“What?!” I practically jumped out of my chair. Sitting nude for a portrait was fine when someone else was doing it, but I didn’t think I could. “Why?”

“I want to paint you nude for my upcoming solo show at Charboneau.”

“Nude?” I gulped. “As in fully?” I winced.

“Is there any other kind?”

“You mean nude nude? Not just bathing suit nude?”

“Nude nude. Fine art and bikinis don’t go together. Bikinis usually go on hot rod magazine covers.”

“I know you talked about doing things differently after hanging out with your dad the other night. But I was thinking maybe you meant finding different models or something.”

“I did,” he grinned his dimpled grin.

Nervously, I said, “I didn’t think you meant me.”

“You,” he murmured seductively.

I squeezed the neck of my T shirt together, as if it were hanging wide open like an unbuttoned shirt and I was braless. But I was covered. Why did I feel the desire to wrap myself in blankets or maybe step into a deep sea diving suit with one of those giant old fashioned diving helmets? Oh yeah, because Christos was suggesting not only that he paint me nude, but that he show off the painting in a public gallery where anyone could come in and see it. Worse, someone was likely to buy it and hang it over their mantelpiece.

How to break the bad news to Christos that his idea made me a tad uncomfortable? “Ahh…It’s awesome that you want to paint me. I’m totally flattered. But can’t we do it with me all dressed up? Like a regular portrait? Like your dad’s portrait of your grandad? He’s all dressed up.”

“I could do that, but I don’t think it would be the same.”

“Of course it wouldn’t,” I joked, “it would be a painting of me. Problem solved.”

He shook his head and smiled his dimpled grin. As always, it had panty dropping powers. But I wasn’t going to let it work its magic on me this time.

I shook my head defiantly.

“Here’s the thing,” he said confidently, “there’s a woman inside you that I’ve seen from day one. But usually, she only comes out when you’re backed into a corner. Most of the time, that woman you are meant to be is hidden from the world. You’ve spent so many years hiding that strong, confident side of you, you barely know she’s there. But I see it all the time. I want to paint that woman and share her with the world. I want everyone to know how amazing Samantha Smith is. Not can be, but is. You are amazing, agápi mou. And I want everyone to know it. I suspect that if you can find the courage to sit nude, your confidence will shine through in the portrait.”

“Can’t I be confident with my clothes on?” I asked nervously.

“You can, but it’ll be that much harder for your confidence to shine through,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because posing clothed doesn’t require the same courage as posing nude. If you’re gonna pose nude, you’re gonna have to dig deep and bring out your courage.”

“What if I end up being nervous while you’re painting me nude? Won’t that show up in the painting?”

“Yup. That’s why I’m asking you, not telling you. Feel free to say no. Because if you’re doing it because you feel obligated, that will show through too. You have to dig deep and find that intrinsic strength of yours and willingly bring it out so I can capture it in paint. You have to want me to paint you nude. Then we can show the world together how amazing Samantha Smith really is.”

“Wow,” I smiled, “I kind of like the sound of that! You know what would make me really look strong?”

“What?”

“If I wore a Viking helmet.”

“Huh?” he frowned.

“Like one of those Valkyries from Norse mythology? They’re totally badass. I would look awesome!”

He made a funny face. “Take a moment and picture a portrait of you, sitting in the nude, wearing a horned Viking helmet, and tell me that’s not ridiculous.”

My brows pinched together. “You were the one who suggested I look strong. Horns are cool.”

“Yeah, but nude? Maybe with a sword and chain mail armor and a big shield. But that would look like you were pretending to be strong. Strength doesn’t come from armor or weapons. It comes from inside, from your heart and your determination. That’s what I want to paint.”

“You have a point. But I still think nude with a Viking helmet could be awesome.”

He raised his eyebrows skeptically.

I frowned and folded my arms across my chest, “You’re the artist. Figure out a way to make me look awesome. It would be a first. I mean, you said it yourself, how many nude portraits of women wearing Viking helmets are there?”

“I’m guessing none,” Christos said.

“See? It’ll be a first!” I was totally into my idea now.

“I’ll have to think about it,” he said thoughtfully.

“Really?” I was kind of surprised.

“Really. Let me mull it over. It might actually work. But you’ll have to wear pigtails like Brunhilda.”

“What? I hate pigtails. They make me look five.”

“That’s the deal,” he grinned.

“Seriously?”

He shook his head. “Maybe not. Pigtails might be a bit much. But I’ll think about that helmet. So you’ll do it?”

“I guess?” I smiled nervously. “But no spread legged crotch shots, right?”