Member-only story
Captivated
That look, so intent, could make cities burn.
Fernando’s studio is a mess of half-finished sculptures that look like misshapen alien beings. I peek through the open door and take in the smell of dust mixing with that odd scent of sunlight meeting wood.
The artist himself is staring at his latest piece while a frown puckers between his eyebrows. I almost think of saying hello, quick and easy, but Fernando has eyes only for his creations. Each one is a loved one he hopes never to part with.
In this sphere, I stand outside the boundaries. Fernando only looks at me when I model for his sketches. I don’t think we’ve ever had a proper conversation. Outside this studio, we aren’t even colleagues. I’m just his part-time muse, likely one of many who have drifted through this same doorway.
Still, I find myself watching as he bows his head, almost as if he’s praying. His shoulders quake, and I feel a sense of wrongness to intrude on this moment between him and his artistic woes. He is a secret twined around other secrets, knot upon knot. Even if we were on casual speaking terms, I don’t think he would ever confide in me. What do I know about being a tortured artistic genius?
When he shifts and stands anew, I back out of view until all I can see is a sliver of him. His hand runs along a table toppled with stray sketches. One by one, each paper flutters to the floor.
Then he lingers by a sculpture whose only defining feature thus far is a masculine face. That look, so intent, could make cities burn.
I turn away as if I’ve seen something far too intimate.
Artists — so enamored with their works. Why can’t they love the people around them just as much?
