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You, you only, exist.
We pass away, till at last,
our passing is so immense
that you arise: beautiful moment,
in all your suddenness,
arising in love, or enchanted
in the contraction of work.
To you I belong, however time may
wear me away. From you to you
I go commanded. In between
the garland is hanging in chance; but if you
take it up and up and up: look:
all becomes festival!
--"You, You Only, Exist", Rainer Maria Rilke
Gregory Milson lightly rolled the charcoal stick across the paper, decided that he needed to soften the edge of the face he'd just outlined, and then did so by moving the tip of his ring finger over the line. He rubbed his hand beneath his lip and looked at his model and wife, Lorraine.
"You have no idea how ridiculous you look, my love," she giggled.
"What?" Greg frowned, turning his eye back to his pad.
"You have a little bit of black smeared on your lip. You look like a sunburnt Hitler."
"Don't move your face so much, dearheart." He scribbled quickly, passionately.
"I can't help it, it's just...so...funny!" Lorraine's lip trembled, a quivering dam against the laughter.
"Well, I'm glad that my resemblence to the most hated man of the twentieth century fills you with so much delight." He put down the pad and charcoal, walked over to the side table and began wiping off his hands and face with an aready greying towel. "Feel free to move, now. We're finished here."
"Don't be cross, Greg. I was only joking." She sat up straight, dropping the pose she had been holding. She rubbed her arms.
"I know." He picked up the pitcher, filled a nearby bowl and began to wash his face in earnest.
"You're always so serious when you're working. You have no idea how difficult it is to model for someone who never smiles." She stood and sauntered over to the liquor cart and picked up a glass. "Pour you a drink?"
"Please. Scotch." Gregory walked over to the window and looked out upon the countryside. He had thought that he would hate the summers here, but they turned out to be far milder than he had expected them to be. And the grass! It was wonderfully tall, and green, and so full of life. Beautiful. It was shame that he couldn't capture it.
He was a fraud, a fake, and completely talentless. As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, as much as his peers told him, and as much as the critics hailed him. He was a simple street busker who had been fortunate enough to have such a beautiful wife.
He turned and looked at Lorraine, and folded his arms, watched her move. Her fingers, her lips, her eyes, her very breathing was a wonder to behold. It hurt to look at her directly, let alone to draw her, to paint her. If it weren't for the imperfection of his art, he wouldn't be able to look at her without losing himself.
At least she believed in him, believed in his art. That belief validated his work--validated him.
"--egory? Are you quite well, my love?" She held a glass of scotch out to him.
He took the glass, and looked into the amber liquid. "My apologies, dearheart, I was lost, worlds away."
"I see!" She smiled over the brim of her glass. The room brightened just a bit. "So, did you hear what I asked, then?"
"What was that?"
"I asked, why don't you smile more often?"
He sipped his drink and turned back to the window. The grass glowed in the afternoon light. "I do love you, you know. Very much so. Sometimes I think my heart may burst from it."
"Gregory?"
He downed the drink, turned and took his wife in his arms.
Lorraine felt his mouth form a rare smile as she breathed a sigh of joy past his lips.
© Anthony Robinson
We pass away, till at last,
our passing is so immense
that you arise: beautiful moment,
in all your suddenness,
arising in love, or enchanted
in the contraction of work.
To you I belong, however time may
wear me away. From you to you
I go commanded. In between
the garland is hanging in chance; but if you
take it up and up and up: look:
all becomes festival!
--"You, You Only, Exist", Rainer Maria Rilke
Gregory Milson lightly rolled the charcoal stick across the paper, decided that he needed to soften the edge of the face he'd just outlined, and then did so by moving the tip of his ring finger over the line. He rubbed his hand beneath his lip and looked at his model and wife, Lorraine.
"You have no idea how ridiculous you look, my love," she giggled.
"What?" Greg frowned, turning his eye back to his pad.
"You have a little bit of black smeared on your lip. You look like a sunburnt Hitler."
"Don't move your face so much, dearheart." He scribbled quickly, passionately.
"I can't help it, it's just...so...funny!" Lorraine's lip trembled, a quivering dam against the laughter.
"Well, I'm glad that my resemblence to the most hated man of the twentieth century fills you with so much delight." He put down the pad and charcoal, walked over to the side table and began wiping off his hands and face with an aready greying towel. "Feel free to move, now. We're finished here."
"Don't be cross, Greg. I was only joking." She sat up straight, dropping the pose she had been holding. She rubbed her arms.
"I know." He picked up the pitcher, filled a nearby bowl and began to wash his face in earnest.
"You're always so serious when you're working. You have no idea how difficult it is to model for someone who never smiles." She stood and sauntered over to the liquor cart and picked up a glass. "Pour you a drink?"
"Please. Scotch." Gregory walked over to the window and looked out upon the countryside. He had thought that he would hate the summers here, but they turned out to be far milder than he had expected them to be. And the grass! It was wonderfully tall, and green, and so full of life. Beautiful. It was shame that he couldn't capture it.
He was a fraud, a fake, and completely talentless. As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, as much as his peers told him, and as much as the critics hailed him. He was a simple street busker who had been fortunate enough to have such a beautiful wife.
He turned and looked at Lorraine, and folded his arms, watched her move. Her fingers, her lips, her eyes, her very breathing was a wonder to behold. It hurt to look at her directly, let alone to draw her, to paint her. If it weren't for the imperfection of his art, he wouldn't be able to look at her without losing himself.
At least she believed in him, believed in his art. That belief validated his work--validated him.
"--egory? Are you quite well, my love?" She held a glass of scotch out to him.
He took the glass, and looked into the amber liquid. "My apologies, dearheart, I was lost, worlds away."
"I see!" She smiled over the brim of her glass. The room brightened just a bit. "So, did you hear what I asked, then?"
"What was that?"
"I asked, why don't you smile more often?"
He sipped his drink and turned back to the window. The grass glowed in the afternoon light. "I do love you, you know. Very much so. Sometimes I think my heart may burst from it."
"Gregory?"
He downed the drink, turned and took his wife in his arms.
Lorraine felt his mouth form a rare smile as she breathed a sigh of joy past his lips.
© Anthony Robinson
