An excerpt from “The Hungry Artist”—the obligatory gratuitous sex scene. :-o
A word of explanation: In this scene, told in first person narrative—that being myself—I meet up with Angie Fox (a fictional character) on a ‘date’ of sorts, except the characters (Angie and I) don’t view it as such. The sexual tension mounts as the characters interact with one another until a boiling point is finally reached and the results are very sexy indeed.
***
My thoughts were dispelled as my cab pulled up in front of a brown brick studio apartment. Sitting at the entranceway was a guy who may have been a doorman or a bum, dozes off in an armchair. He is jolted awake by the slamming of the cab door.
Entering the building, I notice a hallway that so very different from the fetid entrails of my apartment. I arrived at Angie’s door. I took a deep breath and experienced a mild astonishment at my nervousness. I collected myself and give three little knocks on the door.
The door swung open, slowly, as if the person on the other end were playing ‘peek-a-boo.’ The next thing I know I am gaping into those beautiful aluminous green eyes. Her wavy brown-red locks cascaded down around her shoulders. “Come on in,” Angie said, offering an exaggerated flourish. She chuckled. I entered and cased the place as if I were meeting a real estate agent. “Hey,” she says, holding open her arms. We gave each other a tentative hug, lasting a little longer than a standard greeting called for.
Angie’s apartment was amazing. It looked like some decorator’s sketch with gleaming polished wooden floors and high ceilings. The walls are lined with books and records—complete with beautiful drapes, tropical plants and a giant movie posters from the 1940s. Various carefully placed lights surrounded a separate section of the apartment where her paintings hung. An easel rests there with an almost completed masterpiece rests. “Oh, don’t look at that, I still have a lot of work to do on that,” she says, waving my attention away from it. There are little splotches of paint on her forearms in the shape of African nations. When she brushed her bangs away from her face, I could see trailing white paint streaks in her hair.
At that moment, a white Persian cat walks across the floor warming up to me. Angie mockingly admonishes the cat. “Here now, you rascal, be nice to our visitor.”
I chuckled and gave a fast little wink. Shyly, Angie looks downward to the floor avoiding direct eye contact. But she finally does look up at me and smiles. I searched her face for any hint of seduction. There is nothing but a light, playful feeling. There is music in the background; a low, slick, sexy jazz tune.
“You look great,” I said.
“Thanks. I’m glad you came over.”
I walked around the big studio apartment, reverently, as if in a temple. I stopped at a large book case to examine the titles, as if I were in a used book store. There are large editions covering the works of great painters: Lawrence Alma-Tadema, William Bouguereau and Frederick Lord Leighton. There is her record collection on another shelve. Her taste runs from jazz, blues, soul and glam rock. My eyes fell across the rest of her collection as I try to access the inner world of Angie Fox.
Angie sat down, trying to compose herself with all her cool. She’s just smiling and getting a real kick out of me. I’m like a stray cat just in from the street sniffing my way about her home. I’m sure she summed me up as an eccentric.
Angie suddenly springs up from the couch with an impish grin, taking my arm to led me to her paintings. Her manner is one of daring, as if to show her work is an act of intimate exposure. I like the way she moves, the way she carries herself with a relaxed energy.
“What do you think?” she asks shyly.
One painting catches my eye, a painting entitled Lovers for Life. It portrays, in rich colourful detail, a man and a woman seated across from one another with their eyes averted, but their legs are entwined. A break in their conversation has occurred, and each of them has withdrawn temporarily into a private reverie. This silence reflects Amber’s observation that a “comfortable silence reflects true intimacy.”
And then suddenly, without apparent reason or context, Angie said: “Isn't this a core issue with artists? We put a piece of ourselves—our souls, our creations; our artistic progeny out before the world. It hurts when our fruits are misunderstood…or not accepted.” I could have sworn that I sensed anger at this point, but Angie’s voice rose in a forced jollity and she concluded: “But similar to the experience of raising children, our works are best left to stand on their own…and over time…on their own merit. They will vindicate themselves.”
“Hopefully during our lifetime,” I said.
After this private showing, we return to the couch. Angie took a deep breath when she sat down, and didn’t stop for a second one as she went on to talk about the artists that inspired her. There was warmth in her eyes as she speaks; her buoyancy shot into the world from her eyes. My usual inaccessible and chilly remoteness begin to melt. “Oh, what was I thinking?” Angie said aloud, clasping her hands over her head. “I didn’t offer you a drink! Do you want something to drink?” “Sure. Thanks. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“What do you want?’
“Whatever you’re having.”
Angie spins off to prepare drinks. Looking about, I see this old hi-fi with more records underneath and I get down surveying the selection: Miles David, Billy Holiday, Arthur Crudup, Vivaldi and Bach rest against one another. I select Coltrane’s ‘Love Supreme.’ Angie returned with the drinks. Sprawling out on the couch, I could see the purity of her face. She evoked in me a sense of lightness. Angie, I really like your work,” I said, sipping my drink. “Your paintings sometimes convey an erratic energy and others convey an innocent playfulness. It’s hard to believe that one person did all of this.”
Angie becomes relaxed, sitting cross-legged on the couch.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m split in two.
“Really? You seem like you are in control.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she demurred, “I’m not yet in full control of my life and I’m not quite where I want to be. Maybe that’s why I decided to return to art school. I’ve still got too many jagged edges.”
“Yeah?” I responded, surprised by this declaration. “If you are an example of jagged edges, I must be a disaster.”
Angie assured me that my own jagged edges where necessary if I am to create art in the way I was doing. As she spoke, there was a solemnity in the stillness of her body. Whatever she was struggling with internally, it did not show externally.
“I gotta tell you, Angie, from the moment I came here…I have forgotten every problem in my life. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a person’s company as much as I enjoy yours. You are very beautiful…and in every way a person can be.”
Angie eyes lit up, and she smiled brightly and then giggled.
I sat back becoming more relaxed. “Do you consider yourself an extrovert or an introvert?”
She looked thoughtful for a moment, gazing up at the ceiling.
“Well, it’s different for artists.”
“What do you mean?”
“Creative people seem to be both extremes and at the same time,” she said, becoming animated. “We need to be alone to create, but we also need to be around the right people for inspiration.”
“People who can’t stand solitude don’t tend to develop as artists because developing painting or music skills requires countless hours of practice.”
“But an artist can’t merely reside in an ivory tower—totally cut off from people--and create works of art if they are sealed off from the world they portray.”
I shrugged. “Well, only if it is the right people.”
At that juncture, there was moment of silence as we sipped our drinks. I glanced over to her painting of the hushed lovers, sitting comfortably in calm. It rang similar to the reality taking place as experienced by the flesh and blood people sitting in the same room. Angie saw right through me. She knew what I was thinking.
At that moment, I broke. I reached over and kissed her. She was not at all surprised by the kiss and leaned forward into it. She exhaled a nervous breath. “I have wanted to do that for a long time.” I said. Angie rested her forehead on my cheek, closing her eyes. “Yes, I was waiting for you.” We kissed again. It was a slow lingering kiss that built in momentum. She rapped her arms around me, pressing me closer to her. “Oh, god, I can’t believe this,” she said breathlessly, her chest heaving. “I have been thinking of this moment for a long time. I have been waiting for it.”
Her confession hinted of childish mischief as she smiles shyly, but then the look was replaced by a serene look of elation. We kissed and Angie’s passion and mine becomes more unreserved. At that moment, we both rose, still locked in our kiss. I took her by the hand and we whirled off into the direction of her bedroom.
The rain came down heavily and the New York streets looked as if they had a smooth sheen to them. Looking down at the streets from Angie’s bedroom window, I thought of how lucky I was as I saw people running for cover from the rain. It wasn’t because I was warm and dry and they weren’t. I merely concluded that those people, whoever I saw, could not have been as happy as I was at that moment.
Angie and I had seen each other for the last few weeks, always retreating to the sanctuary of her apartment. We attended art openings, movies and various restaurants together, but our mainstay was her apartment. When in public, we shared and amplified our respective sense of exile from the world in mutual haughtiness. When at her apartment, we sometimes would paint side-by-side, always accessing the other’s work—doing so in a respectful and playful way. We thought of painting as a semi-religious act. This was one of the bonds between us.
Tired from a day’s painting, we went to her bedroom.
Angie stood before her large bedroom window; trails of spider-like rain crawled and rolled down the surface of the glass to the sounds of little pelting sounds. The dim lights from the street bathed the room, its nooks and corners submerged in complete darkness.
I lay in bed resting my head on the palm of my hand, watching Angie peering out the window. I loved to look at her. She was so fantastically beautiful to me. She turned to face me, feeling the warmth of my gaze upon her near naked frame.
Angie removed her last article of clothing while exerting a forced effort to appear casual. She started to sing some little unknown turn-of-the century French ballad, but she broke it off with a little laugh, making light of her own weak vocal styling. We both still felt a dab of shyness, and that was enjoyable, as if sharing bashfulness was itself an act of deepening intimacy.
Angie’s nude silhouette was all the more emphasised against the brightness of the large window, her figure a dark paper cut-out against a clean expand of city light white. “What are you looking at?” she asked demurely, pulling a long strand of hair to cover her face.
“A work of art,” I answered.
She laughed gently. “Am I?” she said. I couldn’t see her too well in the darkened room but the smell of perfume filled my nostrils. “I think you just enjoy fucking me,” she said, a hint of daring in her voice.
“Always. Come here,” I demanded. Actually, the tone was more a plea than a demand.
Angie retreated under the covers with me, giggling like a high school kid.
“I want to taste you,” I said. She whispered in my ear: “I want you to taste me.” She whispered other sexy thoughts, licking my lobes between words. Her breath was on my neck and it sent chills the length of my spine. My palm was pressed flat against her chest between her breasts, and I could feel the racing pulse of her heartbeat and I noticed blissfully that it matched the rate of my own pounding heart. “Taste me,” she demanded.
My tongue traced a path from the base of her throat on down to her navel. She moaned, not being able to hide her excitement. I licked and kissed around her navel, focusing on her stomach. It was a deliberate tease and we both giggled with a child-like volatility. “Hey, come on, baby,” she moaned. Her face was a beautiful amalgam of demand and surrender. She arched her pelvis toward me, feeling my muscles tense against her. Spreading her legs wide, she pulled my mouth down between them. “Oh, fuck yes,” she moaned. My hands slid down to cup her buttocks and I urged her against me.
Angie’s inhibitions were now gone, if any were there at all. She wanted more, always more. I came up and kissed her with a passionate force, her tongue exploring my mouth. “Oh my God, that was nice.” Her words whispered into the curling tendrils along my temple. She smiled. The white flash of her teeth were almost savage in the shadowy room. I moved down and kissed her breasts. I inhaled deeply at the perfumed smell of them, something dimly fruity, but not fake. I felt an intoxicating rush through my body—her hands were massaging my scalp, gently directing my head from one breast to the other. She then straddled me, taking me in, and she rocked her hips with a violent force. Our moans were in time, like the rhythm section of a band. We did not take our eyes off each other and we both reached the conclusion we had been seeking in the act.
When I awoke the next morning, I found her curled up like a question mark. I played with Angie’s hair, her burgundy mane fanned out in fiery disarray over a white pillow.
Curious, I reached for a book that lay propped on the nightstand. It was an art history book. At that moment, Angie’s eyes fluttered. Her lashes were at half-mast in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness. “I was dreaming about you,” she whispered. “And here you are.” I held up my hand: “Wait. Don’t move.”
I hurriedly leaped up from bed and snatched a drawing pad and opened it to a clear page, my hands trembling. “There’s something ambiguous about you,” I sputtered excitedly. “There’s more to you than what meets the eye. I want to see if I can capture that.” Angie smiled brightly as I drew her. An occasional titter escaped her. “Oh, you are too much,” she said, very much approving.
I did not convey what Angie meant to me in emotional terms. Her language was the language of art, and it was easy for me to follow her lead, to talk around my need of her and my appreciation, but never to name it fully. I used humour at times to mask my deepening feelings. She responded in kind, totally open on the surface, and yet with much left unexpressed. Angie brought out the very best in me. Very few people can do that. Best of all was our time alone. I was always tender and affectionate, constantly kissing and hugging her.
Holding her from behind later that evening, Angie told me that she concluded that my “personality of the hard-boiled cynic artist” was largely an unreal alter ego. She was happy for the display of sweetness when I was alone with her.
My drawing was completed and it rested on her night table. It was not a caricature. It was a classic drawing. Looking at it, Angie smiled and kissed me. “You can draw anything—in any way you please. You express yourself very well.”
At that moment, she removed from a dresser a note pad. It contained her musings and ideas, written in a swirling stylish handwriting. Without prompting or context, she read aloud a recent entry:
“Spirituality is not to be found in the bricks of churches or at the end of one’s kneeling knees. It is not to be found in the pile of unintelligible New-Age bilge or in off-key Hymn singing. It is not to be found in the Bible or in the so-called text of Islam or in the spouting of pious platitudes on street corners. It is not in the act of giving spare change to a bum or yearly donations to ‘save the planet’ crusades. It is religion that has pre-empted the word ‘spiritual’ making it very difficult to communicate this phenomenon in solely secular terms. Spirituality is to be found at the center of a truly individualized person. It is to be found in love and art—in the act of truly loving someone---and in the act of creating or enjoying a work of art, a work that makes you feel alive. It is the love and the act of creation that is united in passion and devotion. This is the human potential at its peek. This is where you’ll find spiritually.”
With the conclusion of reading the last sentence, she inhaled lightly, closing her eyes and she leaned against me. I kissed her forehead, pulling aside a strand of hair.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you, Victor.”
Entering the building, I notice a hallway that so very different from the fetid entrails of my apartment. I arrived at Angie’s door. I took a deep breath and experienced a mild astonishment at my nervousness. I collected myself and give three little knocks on the door.
The door swung open, slowly, as if the person on the other end were playing ‘peek-a-boo.’ The next thing I know I am gaping into those beautiful aluminous green eyes. Her wavy brown-red locks cascaded down around her shoulders. “Come on in,” Angie said, offering an exaggerated flourish. She chuckled. I entered and cased the place as if I were meeting a real estate agent. “Hey,” she says, holding open her arms. We gave each other a tentative hug, lasting a little longer than a standard greeting called for.
Angie’s apartment was amazing. It looked like some decorator’s sketch with gleaming polished wooden floors and high ceilings. The walls are lined with books and records—complete with beautiful drapes, tropical plants and a giant movie posters from the 1940s. Various carefully placed lights surrounded a separate section of the apartment where her paintings hung. An easel rests there with an almost completed masterpiece rests. “Oh, don’t look at that, I still have a lot of work to do on that,” she says, waving my attention away from it. There are little splotches of paint on her forearms in the shape of African nations. When she brushed her bangs away from her face, I could see trailing white paint streaks in her hair.
At that moment, a white Persian cat walks across the floor warming up to me. Angie mockingly admonishes the cat. “Here now, you rascal, be nice to our visitor.”
I chuckled and gave a fast little wink. Shyly, Angie looks downward to the floor avoiding direct eye contact. But she finally does look up at me and smiles. I searched her face for any hint of seduction. There is nothing but a light, playful feeling. There is music in the background; a low, slick, sexy jazz tune.
“You look great,” I said.
“Thanks. I’m glad you came over.”
I walked around the big studio apartment, reverently, as if in a temple. I stopped at a large book case to examine the titles, as if I were in a used book store. There are large editions covering the works of great painters: Lawrence Alma-Tadema, William Bouguereau and Frederick Lord Leighton. There is her record collection on another shelve. Her taste runs from jazz, blues, soul and glam rock. My eyes fell across the rest of her collection as I try to access the inner world of Angie Fox.
Angie sat down, trying to compose herself with all her cool. She’s just smiling and getting a real kick out of me. I’m like a stray cat just in from the street sniffing my way about her home. I’m sure she summed me up as an eccentric.
Angie suddenly springs up from the couch with an impish grin, taking my arm to led me to her paintings. Her manner is one of daring, as if to show her work is an act of intimate exposure. I like the way she moves, the way she carries herself with a relaxed energy.
“What do you think?” she asks shyly.
One painting catches my eye, a painting entitled Lovers for Life. It portrays, in rich colourful detail, a man and a woman seated across from one another with their eyes averted, but their legs are entwined. A break in their conversation has occurred, and each of them has withdrawn temporarily into a private reverie. This silence reflects Amber’s observation that a “comfortable silence reflects true intimacy.”
And then suddenly, without apparent reason or context, Angie said: “Isn't this a core issue with artists? We put a piece of ourselves—our souls, our creations; our artistic progeny out before the world. It hurts when our fruits are misunderstood…or not accepted.” I could have sworn that I sensed anger at this point, but Angie’s voice rose in a forced jollity and she concluded: “But similar to the experience of raising children, our works are best left to stand on their own…and over time…on their own merit. They will vindicate themselves.”
“Hopefully during our lifetime,” I said.
After this private showing, we return to the couch. Angie took a deep breath when she sat down, and didn’t stop for a second one as she went on to talk about the artists that inspired her. There was warmth in her eyes as she speaks; her buoyancy shot into the world from her eyes. My usual inaccessible and chilly remoteness begin to melt. “Oh, what was I thinking?” Angie said aloud, clasping her hands over her head. “I didn’t offer you a drink! Do you want something to drink?” “Sure. Thanks. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“What do you want?’
“Whatever you’re having.”
Angie spins off to prepare drinks. Looking about, I see this old hi-fi with more records underneath and I get down surveying the selection: Miles David, Billy Holiday, Arthur Crudup, Vivaldi and Bach rest against one another. I select Coltrane’s ‘Love Supreme.’ Angie returned with the drinks. Sprawling out on the couch, I could see the purity of her face. She evoked in me a sense of lightness. Angie, I really like your work,” I said, sipping my drink. “Your paintings sometimes convey an erratic energy and others convey an innocent playfulness. It’s hard to believe that one person did all of this.”
Angie becomes relaxed, sitting cross-legged on the couch.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m split in two.
“Really? You seem like you are in control.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she demurred, “I’m not yet in full control of my life and I’m not quite where I want to be. Maybe that’s why I decided to return to art school. I’ve still got too many jagged edges.”
“Yeah?” I responded, surprised by this declaration. “If you are an example of jagged edges, I must be a disaster.”
Angie assured me that my own jagged edges where necessary if I am to create art in the way I was doing. As she spoke, there was a solemnity in the stillness of her body. Whatever she was struggling with internally, it did not show externally.
“I gotta tell you, Angie, from the moment I came here…I have forgotten every problem in my life. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a person’s company as much as I enjoy yours. You are very beautiful…and in every way a person can be.”
Angie eyes lit up, and she smiled brightly and then giggled.
I sat back becoming more relaxed. “Do you consider yourself an extrovert or an introvert?”
She looked thoughtful for a moment, gazing up at the ceiling.
“Well, it’s different for artists.”
“What do you mean?”
“Creative people seem to be both extremes and at the same time,” she said, becoming animated. “We need to be alone to create, but we also need to be around the right people for inspiration.”
“People who can’t stand solitude don’t tend to develop as artists because developing painting or music skills requires countless hours of practice.”
“But an artist can’t merely reside in an ivory tower—totally cut off from people--and create works of art if they are sealed off from the world they portray.”
I shrugged. “Well, only if it is the right people.”
At that juncture, there was moment of silence as we sipped our drinks. I glanced over to her painting of the hushed lovers, sitting comfortably in calm. It rang similar to the reality taking place as experienced by the flesh and blood people sitting in the same room. Angie saw right through me. She knew what I was thinking.
At that moment, I broke. I reached over and kissed her. She was not at all surprised by the kiss and leaned forward into it. She exhaled a nervous breath. “I have wanted to do that for a long time.” I said. Angie rested her forehead on my cheek, closing her eyes. “Yes, I was waiting for you.” We kissed again. It was a slow lingering kiss that built in momentum. She rapped her arms around me, pressing me closer to her. “Oh, god, I can’t believe this,” she said breathlessly, her chest heaving. “I have been thinking of this moment for a long time. I have been waiting for it.”
Her confession hinted of childish mischief as she smiles shyly, but then the look was replaced by a serene look of elation. We kissed and Angie’s passion and mine becomes more unreserved. At that moment, we both rose, still locked in our kiss. I took her by the hand and we whirled off into the direction of her bedroom.
The rain came down heavily and the New York streets looked as if they had a smooth sheen to them. Looking down at the streets from Angie’s bedroom window, I thought of how lucky I was as I saw people running for cover from the rain. It wasn’t because I was warm and dry and they weren’t. I merely concluded that those people, whoever I saw, could not have been as happy as I was at that moment.
Angie and I had seen each other for the last few weeks, always retreating to the sanctuary of her apartment. We attended art openings, movies and various restaurants together, but our mainstay was her apartment. When in public, we shared and amplified our respective sense of exile from the world in mutual haughtiness. When at her apartment, we sometimes would paint side-by-side, always accessing the other’s work—doing so in a respectful and playful way. We thought of painting as a semi-religious act. This was one of the bonds between us.
Tired from a day’s painting, we went to her bedroom.
Angie stood before her large bedroom window; trails of spider-like rain crawled and rolled down the surface of the glass to the sounds of little pelting sounds. The dim lights from the street bathed the room, its nooks and corners submerged in complete darkness.
I lay in bed resting my head on the palm of my hand, watching Angie peering out the window. I loved to look at her. She was so fantastically beautiful to me. She turned to face me, feeling the warmth of my gaze upon her near naked frame.
Angie removed her last article of clothing while exerting a forced effort to appear casual. She started to sing some little unknown turn-of-the century French ballad, but she broke it off with a little laugh, making light of her own weak vocal styling. We both still felt a dab of shyness, and that was enjoyable, as if sharing bashfulness was itself an act of deepening intimacy.
Angie’s nude silhouette was all the more emphasised against the brightness of the large window, her figure a dark paper cut-out against a clean expand of city light white. “What are you looking at?” she asked demurely, pulling a long strand of hair to cover her face.
“A work of art,” I answered.
She laughed gently. “Am I?” she said. I couldn’t see her too well in the darkened room but the smell of perfume filled my nostrils. “I think you just enjoy fucking me,” she said, a hint of daring in her voice.
“Always. Come here,” I demanded. Actually, the tone was more a plea than a demand.
Angie retreated under the covers with me, giggling like a high school kid.
“I want to taste you,” I said. She whispered in my ear: “I want you to taste me.” She whispered other sexy thoughts, licking my lobes between words. Her breath was on my neck and it sent chills the length of my spine. My palm was pressed flat against her chest between her breasts, and I could feel the racing pulse of her heartbeat and I noticed blissfully that it matched the rate of my own pounding heart. “Taste me,” she demanded.
My tongue traced a path from the base of her throat on down to her navel. She moaned, not being able to hide her excitement. I licked and kissed around her navel, focusing on her stomach. It was a deliberate tease and we both giggled with a child-like volatility. “Hey, come on, baby,” she moaned. Her face was a beautiful amalgam of demand and surrender. She arched her pelvis toward me, feeling my muscles tense against her. Spreading her legs wide, she pulled my mouth down between them. “Oh, fuck yes,” she moaned. My hands slid down to cup her buttocks and I urged her against me.
Angie’s inhibitions were now gone, if any were there at all. She wanted more, always more. I came up and kissed her with a passionate force, her tongue exploring my mouth. “Oh my God, that was nice.” Her words whispered into the curling tendrils along my temple. She smiled. The white flash of her teeth were almost savage in the shadowy room. I moved down and kissed her breasts. I inhaled deeply at the perfumed smell of them, something dimly fruity, but not fake. I felt an intoxicating rush through my body—her hands were massaging my scalp, gently directing my head from one breast to the other. She then straddled me, taking me in, and she rocked her hips with a violent force. Our moans were in time, like the rhythm section of a band. We did not take our eyes off each other and we both reached the conclusion we had been seeking in the act.
When I awoke the next morning, I found her curled up like a question mark. I played with Angie’s hair, her burgundy mane fanned out in fiery disarray over a white pillow.
Curious, I reached for a book that lay propped on the nightstand. It was an art history book. At that moment, Angie’s eyes fluttered. Her lashes were at half-mast in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness. “I was dreaming about you,” she whispered. “And here you are.” I held up my hand: “Wait. Don’t move.”
I hurriedly leaped up from bed and snatched a drawing pad and opened it to a clear page, my hands trembling. “There’s something ambiguous about you,” I sputtered excitedly. “There’s more to you than what meets the eye. I want to see if I can capture that.” Angie smiled brightly as I drew her. An occasional titter escaped her. “Oh, you are too much,” she said, very much approving.
I did not convey what Angie meant to me in emotional terms. Her language was the language of art, and it was easy for me to follow her lead, to talk around my need of her and my appreciation, but never to name it fully. I used humour at times to mask my deepening feelings. She responded in kind, totally open on the surface, and yet with much left unexpressed. Angie brought out the very best in me. Very few people can do that. Best of all was our time alone. I was always tender and affectionate, constantly kissing and hugging her.
Holding her from behind later that evening, Angie told me that she concluded that my “personality of the hard-boiled cynic artist” was largely an unreal alter ego. She was happy for the display of sweetness when I was alone with her.
My drawing was completed and it rested on her night table. It was not a caricature. It was a classic drawing. Looking at it, Angie smiled and kissed me. “You can draw anything—in any way you please. You express yourself very well.”
At that moment, she removed from a dresser a note pad. It contained her musings and ideas, written in a swirling stylish handwriting. Without prompting or context, she read aloud a recent entry:
“Spirituality is not to be found in the bricks of churches or at the end of one’s kneeling knees. It is not to be found in the pile of unintelligible New-Age bilge or in off-key Hymn singing. It is not to be found in the Bible or in the so-called text of Islam or in the spouting of pious platitudes on street corners. It is not in the act of giving spare change to a bum or yearly donations to ‘save the planet’ crusades. It is religion that has pre-empted the word ‘spiritual’ making it very difficult to communicate this phenomenon in solely secular terms. Spirituality is to be found at the center of a truly individualized person. It is to be found in love and art—in the act of truly loving someone---and in the act of creating or enjoying a work of art, a work that makes you feel alive. It is the love and the act of creation that is united in passion and devotion. This is the human potential at its peek. This is where you’ll find spiritually.”
With the conclusion of reading the last sentence, she inhaled lightly, closing her eyes and she leaned against me. I kissed her forehead, pulling aside a strand of hair.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you, Victor.”
****
