The Beauty Within. Marguerite Kaye
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Название: The Beauty Within
Автор: Marguerite Kaye
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
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‘First, I divide the canvas up into equal segments like this.’ He sketched out a grid. ‘I want you to be exactly at the centre of the painting, so your face will be dissected by this line, which will run straight down the middle of your body, aligning your profile and your hands which define the thirds into which the portrait will be divided, like this—you see how the proportions are already forming on the vertical?’
He turned from the shapes he had sketched in charcoal to find that Cressie looked confused. ‘There is a symmetry in the body, in the way the body can be posed, that is naturally pleasing. If you clasp your hands so, can you not see it, this line?’
Giovanni ran his finger from the top of her head, down the line of her nose, to her mouth. He carried on, ignoring the softness of her lips, tracing the line of her chin, her throat, to where her skin disappeared beneath the neck of her gown. The fabric which formed a barrier made it perfectly acceptable for him to complete his demonstration, he told himself, just tracing the valley between her breasts, the soft swell of her stomach, finally resting his finger on her hands. ‘This line …’ He cleared his throat, trying to distance himself. ‘This line …’ he turned towards the paper on the easel once more and picked up the charcoal ‘… it is the axis for the portrait. And your elbows, they will form the widest point, creating a triangle thus.’
To his relief, Cressie was frowning in concentration, focused on the drawing board, seemingly oblivious to the way his body was reacting to hers. It was because he so habitually avoided human contact, that was all. An instinctive reaction he would not repeat because he would not touch her again. Not more than was strictly necessary.
‘Are you always so precise when you are structuring a portrait?’ she asked. ‘This grid, will you draw it out on the canvas?’
‘Si. And I will also block out the main shapes, just as I have shown you.’ Giovanni guided her back towards the chair, encouraging her to question him, relieved to discover that by distracting her with the technical details of his craft, the various pigments he preferred, the precise recipe of oils and binding agents he used to create his paints, he could distract himself too, from his awareness of her as a woman, of himself as a man, which had no place here in his studio.
Cressie’s face, which was quite plain in repose, when animated was transformed. He fed her facts, drew her out with questions as to the detail of her theory and sketched quickly, trying to capture her in charcoal and when he had, he replaced the paper with his canvas and repositioned his sitter. This he did quickly lest she remember the purpose of this session and become self-conscious once again.
‘Tell me more of this book you are using to teach your brothers,’ he said as he began to paint in the grid.
‘It is a children’s introduction to geometry. I am hoping that if I have evidence of its practical application I will be able to persuade my publisher to print it. At present, he is unwilling to do so at his own expense, and I have not the wherewithal to fund it myself. Unfortunately, to date my brothers have not exactly proved to be the most interested of pupils.’
‘It seems to me that your brothers have been raised to find only themselves of interest.’
Cressie grinned. ‘That is a dreadful thing to contemplate, but I am afraid it is quite true. Save for my father, they have been raised to care for no one’s opinion but their own.’
‘And your father cares for none but them, you say?’
‘Blood and beauty,’ Cressie said with a twisted smile. ‘Your words, signor, and most apt. Your own father—is he still alive? He must be immensely proud of you and your success.’
‘Proud! My father thinks …’ Giovanni took a deep breath and unclenched his fists, surprised by the strength of his reaction. He never thought of his father. Not consciously. He had no father worthy of the name. ‘What I know from bitter experience is that you might succeed in mollifying your father by doing as he bids, but he will only see it as his right, his due. You cannot make a man such as that proud of you, Cressie. And in the process of trying, you are making yourself thoroughly miserable.’
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