Homage
A Vignette
By Maryanne Peters

The work was called “Femme Allongée” or in English “Reclining Woman”, and it was by the lesser known impressionist Claude Mesurier. He was perhaps less than famous because he was less of an impressionist than others, and later in time by a decade or so. Some aspects of the painting were more realism than impressionism, and yet there was a mystery in the face of the woman, looking out at the artist, or the admirer of the work.

Whatever it was that drew Harrison Drake to it, the pull was strong. He had seen a print of the work in some art store and had bought it after staring at it for a good period. He hung it in the studio his father was paying for, alongside the large mirror with the ornate frame which sat on the floor. The mirror was installed to bring in more light, which might explain why Harry was not the artist he thought he was – the light from two directions only confused the shading.

It occurred to him one day that he might paint the same scene as “Femme Allongée” – not a copy, but more an homage. Then, by chance he saw a chaise longue almost identical to the one in the painting in a junk store as he was looking for material for a still life. He bought it and had it delivered to the studio. He sat it down opposite the mirror and sat himself down on it.

Her garment also intrigued him. It was patterned dress -long perhaps but drawn up to show her naked legs. It had long loose sleeves and a button front that was open to show the curve of her lower breast, but not much more. He found himself looking for that dress in secondhand clothing stores. He bought some items that seemed similar. Nothing was exactly it, but some were close.

It seemed that all he needed was the model. But who was she? She had soft brown hair worn in a cottage loaf style that was common in that era. She was beautiful, that was clear, but the artist had conveyed that beauty with limited brushstrokes as if parading his skill. It made her hard to describe. It made her beauty somehow ethereal.

He sat on the chaise and looked at the painting as he seemed to do for the better part of the day, and he looked in the mirror and saw his reflection. He lay down a took her pose, to see whether the light was right for the moment that would position everything for the model he had yet to find. She was not there, but the scene looked right.

He decided that he would see whether one of the dresses might fit him. He was a little surprised to discover that they all did, even as if purchased with him in mind. He stripped down to his boxers and slipped into the garment most like the one she wore in the painting and lay down to adopt the pose.

He was concerned that the legs and hands were not right, and of course, he could do nothing about the head. He decided that he would need to shave his legs, and so he did that and removed a little hair from the back of his hands. He played with positions. Even though the crotch was not visible in the painting, he tucked his man parts back between his legs, and he hid a small cushion under himself to give his hip a more feminine curve. It worked – his waist cut the deep valley as in the painting

He could see the lines, and he could see more of her shape. He realized that he really did have very attractive legs – womanly legs. He had the body in the painting just right. What did that mean? She was broad across the shoulders – could the artist have used a man to pose for the painting? The idea intrigued Harry.

There was a suggestion that Claude Mesurier may have been gay. He died in early middle age, a bachelor, but then many artists lived to paint and avoided relationships that limited them. And Mesurier painted women – beautiful women.

Harry started sketching – just the body. For the face he would need to find that elusive model. But he could not resist sketching the face too. At least a dozen sketches fell from his pad into a pile on the floor, with just the face. Of course, when he looked at them in isolation, he could see his own face looking back, or a female version of it. But he realized that the face in the painting could be him, or the female version of him.

Harry’s hair was long simply because he was too busy to get a haircut. It was certainly long enough to gather it up loosely as in the painting. But of course, the color was wrong, and no amount of squinting could fade out the light beard. Still, he had a workable model if he could get rid of the beard and add some color, length and volume to the hair.

Around the corner from the studio was a hair salon. He had no reason to visit the place, but he had seen the owner pass in and out of her store and he would occasionally nod a familiar greeting. He resolved that he would seek her help.

Rather than take the print around the corner, he took some images with his phone and took them into the salon when it appeared deserted, to discuss his idea.

“I am a painter,” he said to Kayla Harding, the hairdresser. “I want to paint something like this. I don’t have a model and I am toying with using myself … just for the figure and to get the pose and light just as I want it. Painters often leave the face until the end. I will get around to it in due course. It is just the hair. Could you replicate this style.”

“On you?: Kayla was doing her best not to laugh. But the fact is that this young artist was hardly the epitome of manhood. And business was slow.

“I will need to be rid of the whiskers too,” said Harry. “For as long as it takes to finish the work.”

“How long have you been working on it?” she asked.

For the first time Harry realized that he had been working on his homage to “Femme Allongée” for months, to the exclusion of other work. It had become a consuming passion … no, a need. He had to do it. And yes, if that meant that he was to be his own model, patient and understanding like no other model but him could be, then that was how this would get done.

“You’ll need more hair,” said Kayla. “And we will need to match that color. And yes, I know how to get rid of that beard - for a good while, anyway.”

Harry agreed. He agreed to everything. Even when she suggested that she give him a Depo-Provera injection.

“I got this stuff from a friend for when I needed contraception while I was overseas,” she said. “If you want to soften the flesh in the chest area, this will work, but slowly.”

Somehow the feeling of it inside him made him feel more understanding of the reclining woman, and that seemed important. What was her story? What was the expression on her face. It seemed like looking at the print again, even in the image on his phone, she was slowly coming into focus. Did the injection do that? Was being male a barrier to understanding his subject? Did he need to get even closer to her before he reached for his oils?

“You know, looking at this image in the whole, I think that I have seen this painting,” said Kayla. “I think I have seen it recently.”

“It is not that well known,” said Harry. He was looking at himself in the mirror. It seemed to me that he looked exactly like the woman in the painting. The hair was perfect. It was an old fashioned style, but somehow contemporary in an avant-garde way. Kayla had added a little makeup to his plucked jaw and brows, and a touch of mascara and lipstick that did not seem to detract from the period.

“I remember now!” Kayla suddenly exclaimed. “It is at the Westside Gallery. An exhibition of obscure expressionist painters. I think it is still on. You should go and have a look, just as you are – the woman in the painting. What fun!

Harry was uncertain, but Kayla had checked her phone. The exhibition was in its final days. “Femme Allongée” was on loan from the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. It was a chance to see the original work.

“Just a couple of things,” Kayla suggested. “A pair of shoes – a lady styled as you are would not wear Crocs. And you will need a bag. And that voice will never do. What would happen if you needed to speak? The spell would be broken.”

Was it a spell? It almost seemed to Harry that it was. He was looking at the woman in the mirror. She was striking poses. She was crying out to be painted. She was his muse. At last he felt the urge to drag out one of those clean canvases and gesso it, and then the spirit of her would guide his hand. His first piece would be “Femme Allongée”, but after that … who knows?

“Can you help me find the shoes?” he said.

Kayla was happy to. She had already taken a healthy payment for her work, and there was nobody waiting or even due until lunchtime. She had time to help this newly created woman become the lady in the painting, because it seemed that was what she was.

So it was that lady who took a cab across town to the Westside Gallery, and walked gingerly but elegantly through the doors.

And there it was. “Femme Allongée”. It was like looking in a mirror. The very mirror that he had in the studio with its ornate frame. The woman in the painting was him. He could see it now. The print had somehow failed to reveal the face. It was his feminized face in the painting. It was almost as if had he opened his mouth, the woman in the painting would do the same.

“This must be an homage!” It was not his voice. It was another voice – deep and thick like hot molasses. A man was standing next to him, or should that be her – tall, dark and handsome. Harry cast a quick sideways glance but remained eyes fixed on the painting, and mouth shut.

“I mean the hairstyle and the dress,” the man said. “You are the woman in the painting. You must be a huge fan?”

Harry would have to say something in the voice that he had only practiced a little. He gulped a little before saying gently, almost wistfully – “This painting speaks to me”.

“Oliver Sitwell,” he said, introducing himself with a proffered hand. Harry took it as a woman might, or as the reclining woman might. It took a moment before he realized that he was expected to give his own name. He could not be Harry.

“Héloïse Canard.” It just came out. A French name, perhaps because she was French, at least in the painting she was. There was a female painter with the name Héloïse. Was “Canard” even a surname? It was just that “Drake” did not seem to fit.

“This is my gallery,” said Oliver. “I arranged this exhibition. I exhibit mainly local painters but every now and again I need to bring in something to remind art admirers that we are here. You are clearly an art admirer. Perhaps an artist too?”

“I wish I was,” said Héloïse. It seemed unclear whether this was a new voice, or just an honest one.

“I say that because your appearance is a work of art,” said Oliver. “I hope that you don’t think me too forward, but I just want to say that I find this look so very attractive, even alluring. Forgive me, I don’t normally approach women with words like this – you have disarmed me.

“That’s alright,” said Héloïse. “I can’t take all the credit for my appearance.”

“Since I have already made a fool of myself, I wonder if you would let me make good by taking you to lunch? There is a nice restaurant next door.”

There was a moment of misgiving, but it was surprisingly short. Héloïse felt firstly that here was a deceit with possible unpleasant consequences, but this man understood what art was, and that was what she was. She was a work of art. A work of art is an imitation of life, of nature or of raw emotion. Here was a man who could appreciate such things. It was the role of Héloïse to prolong his enjoyment of her art.

The other thought that passed fleetingly was how this relationship might benefit the artist within. A gallery owner might be useful to an artist. But as Héloïse had just told him, she was not an artist. So was Harrison Drake an artist? A studio full of blank canvases and boxes of paints still unopened does not make a man an artist.

Héloïse had come to the conclusion that Harrison Drake really had no reason to exist at all, and so from that day on, he did not.

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2022

Seed from Erin: “A guy becomes infatuated, possessed by a … work of art and he finds himself lounging in her pose slowly acquiring elements of her wardrobe. He finally goes to the museum in a recreation of her outfit where of course the museum curator falls in love with her.”