Draw Beautiful

— Mmm… umumum… — the girl hummed softly to herself, dragging a thin brush with a milky stroke across the raw shadows, squinting so the light from the window hit the canvas just right.

The cigarette dangled between her lips, smoke curling up to short chestnut strands, and the dark dress on thin straps did exactly what it was made for: tightened the waist, hugged the hips, pushed the tits upward, to the brush, to the canvas, to the gaze. One strap slid off her shoulder, exposing warm skin that shivered from the draft. On the easel the painting already had clear outlines: a damp Parisian rooftop and a yellow rectangle of a window, inside of which the silhouette of a girl staring out could be seen. The same kind of window, through which — if it were open — some random neighbor could see her right now.

— Colette? — a voice pinged from the messenger on the laptop. — Are you even listening? — Sophie Durand’s voice came from the headphones, her stubborn gallerist from Marais.

— I hear you, — she replied, moving her brush toward the jar of thinner. — But call me Antoine when we’re talking business.

— How many years can we argue about papers, — Sophie sighed. — You passed the ID check, all your documents say “Colette Moreau,” and in the contracts it says “she.” I have to sell “her,” not argue with “him.”

Colette, Antoine, smirked with one corner of her lips, never letting go of the cigarette. The second she straightened, her tits swayed, the dress slipping just enough to show a bit of nipple. She inhaled at the sight, then set the brush aside, tugged the dress higher and fixed the strap back on her shoulder.

— Nobody’s buying “her,” Sophie. The last three months — zero. Even your Loïc didn’t come back.

— Loïc would’ve come back if you hadn’t scared him off. You don’t leave the house without that baggy hoodie and hood. You could’ve at least prepared for the meeting with him. I know damn well you dress perfectly normal at home. You’re so cute in your red dress! — Sophie fell in love with her own thought aloud. — I just don’t get why you can’t always look like that?

— Because it’s not “always,” — she answered, exhaling smoke and narrowing her eyes. — This is the apartment. This is the canvas. This is me on the canvas. Out there — it’s shop windows and eyes. Out there I’m just a poster.

— A successful woman is always, or almost always, a “Poster,” darling — Sophie sang. — And the brighter, the better.

— You’ve got posters in your shop windows, — she exhaled, shifting the cigarette to the corner of her lips. — I’ve got these things on my tits. Are they supposed to sell too?

The strap slipped again. She pulled it up, and her tits gave a heavy little bounce, as if they had a breath of their own. The brush trembled in her fingers.

— They are, — Sophie confirmed without blinking. — And your voice. And your story. Loïc will be at “La Verrière” tomorrow. I arranged it, Colette, don’t blow this chance.

Antoine, Colette, took a drag and exhaled into the ceiling. For a second the gray cloud painted another rooftop, another window.

— You don’t understand, — she said slowly. — I can’t just walk out there in a red dress. That’s not “putting it on,” that’s admitting.

— Admitting what? — Sophie snorted. — That you’re beautiful? That you’ve got tits, a waist, and an ass that could make any collector sign a check?

Her eyes dropped to her tits again, pressed forward, pushed by the straps. Breathing suddenly felt tight.

— That it’s not me, — she finally answered. — It’s the body. That it’s the body that sells. But I’m the artist. They should value the paintings, not me. Besides, I don’t like men. I like admiring myself, and that’s why I walk around at home like this. It’s like I’m seeing a muse in the mirror, not myself. Do you get it?

On the other end of the line Sophie paused, a lighter clicked.

— I understand perfectly, — she exhaled with smoke. — But, Colette… or Antoine, whichever you prefer — you just spoke the magic yourself. ‘Muse.’ And isn’t that exactly what buyers want to see? They don’t want Antoine with a brush. They want a woman painting herself, and that’s where your value is.

Colette burst out laughing, harsh and short.

— Value? You’re suggesting I sell not the paintings, but what’s under the dress?

— And why not? — Sophie didn’t blink. — Paris is full of female artists who paint with their tits, stamp with their asses, put on performances where paint runs down their skin. And they sell. By the way, you could do it too — with your name, it would be very expressive and… — she added with a slight nasal tone, quieter — profitable.

Colette froze. Something inside jerked — from disgust, or from some strange, painful curiosity, she couldn’t tell.

— You think I should… — she didn’t finish, but her hands slid to the neckline of the dress, tugging at the fabric that was barely holding her breasts in place. — Smear the canvas with my tits?

In the headphones Sophie chuckled:

— Why not? Sounds vulgar, but in reality it would look like provocation. Paris loves that. They’d put you in Beaux-Arts not for technique, but for audacity. Besides, in your financial situation, especially if Loïc bails again, you’ll be left with an empty fridge and a pile of canvases.

Colette squeezed her eyes shut. The smoke stung, but it was better than looking straight at her breasts, which reminded her of themselves with every heavy wave of breath.

— So, — she said slowly, — you’re suggesting I take off the dress, pour paint, and… roll around on the canvas?

— If it’s beautiful — why not? — Sophie’s voice rang with excitement. — But start simpler. Dip the brush in red and draw a line with your breasts. One move — and you’ve got a performance. Then invite a photographer. Believe me, galleries will jump on it.

Colette clenched her teeth. The cigarette in her fingers had burned down to the filter, and without noticing she scorched the tip of her skin.

— Merde… — she swore, flicking ash. — You forget one thing. I’m a man.

— You’re an artist, — Sophie Durand cut her off, and in the headphones the leather of her chair creaked softly. — Man, woman… three years ago the world reshuffled the deck, remember? Three percent became new people. You went through identification, Antoine Moreau, got documents as Colette Moreau. Buyers want a story, and you have one. Use it.

— The story — yes. The body — no, — she said, and felt the strap sliding down again, as if testing her resolve. She didn’t fix it. Smoke scratched her throat. In the hair grown long over these years there lingered a faint trace of turpentine.

— Your body is a story too, — Sophie smiled with her voice. — And it speaks louder than any press release. Tomorrow at “La Verrière” Loïc Berger will be there. If you want him to hear you — give him a screaming note.

— I’m not a poster, — she said, though she knew it sounded like a slogan on a poster. — And not a performance.

— And I say: start with a line. Right now. Put the laptop closer to the canvas, I’ll help you frame the shot.

She smiled with the empty corner of her mouth, without moving the cigarette. Her eyes shifted to the window, the light falling right where the yellow rectangle of a window glowed on the canvas. If it were open… the thought burned sharper than the smoke. Some neighbor, for example Camille Leroy from the attic opposite, would see. Camille had once left a note in her mailbox: “Your rooftops make me believe in rain.” She had crumpled it and thrown it away, but the phrase never left. Yet at that moment hunger reminded her of itself, tightening her stomach with a sharp spasm. She winced at the pain, but it passed quickly.

— Sophie, — she said at last, slowly. — If I do this, will you drop all that sweet-talk crap? No more “darling” and “beautiful,” only numbers, dates, percentages. And I swear, if this doesn’t sell, then…

— It will sell. I guarantee it’ll be a success. And then, as you ask, only numbers, dates, percentages, — Sophie chimed, pleased. — Camera, please.

She hesitated a little, gathering her thoughts. Then she set the laptop on a stool, pushed it closer to the easel. Inside something jolted, not from fear but from some strange mischief she hated. Hated because she was feeling it now. As if a child had sneaked up and flicked a switch inside her. The body answered with a roll of the shoulder, the strap slid lower, and a breast, heavy, warm, found the air on its own.

— Fine. Just one line, — she said, almost whispering so the rush of blood wouldn’t drown her voice.

— Cadmium red, — Sophie prompted. — And a little linseed, so it stretches.

She pulled the cigarette from her lips, put it out in a tiny white cup with a cobalt pattern.

Colette, Antoine, inhaled, opened the tube’s cap. The smell hit sharp, like a red traffic light. With the tip of the brush she mixed the paint with oil, and instead of bringing the brush to the canvas, as her hands begged her to, she set it aside.

— One line, — she repeated, like a vow, and laid her left palm on the top edge of the easel to steady herself. With her right she yanked the dress down.

The fabric gave way eagerly, as if it had been waiting. The weight of her breast spoke at once through the pull in her right palm, like someone had dropped an apple into it and said: hold it, don’t drop it. She hated the feeling and couldn’t ignore it. With a free motion she scooped up the thick red paint on the palette with her nipple. The cold of it answered with a sharp gasp from the body and a wave of heat in her stomach. For a second she squeezed her eyes shut: ‘This isn’t me. This is a tool.’ She told herself and didn’t believe a single word.

— Breathe in, — Sophie whispered. — And draw.

She drew. The body leaned forward, wrist on the canvas, breast like a heavy pendulum slid, leaving behind a thick arc. The red line came out on the first try — continuous, steady, with two short splashes where the skin caught the canvas texture. She straightened, and the paint on her skin stretched coolly, gathering at the nipple into a dark crimson drop.

— Damn, — she exhaled, not knowing if it was from shame or relief. — Well… looks like some crap came out of it.

— Not crap, a performance. I filmed the video, now a couple more photos, — Sophie said, not hiding the excited note in her voice, whether from mischief or from the thought of future fees. — Wait. Don’t move. That’s the shot. Look at the painting intently, like you’re thinking something over.

On the screen the camera caught her chestnut strands, the red stain on her nipple, the dark blue dress that had slipped lower than decent, and in her hands the right breast. She felt her back break out in goosebumps from the draft through the window.

— Done! — Sophie declared, and Colette let out a sharp breath, yanking the dress higher, as if trying to hide not just her breast, but that strange rush inside. She didn’t care if the dress got stained. Her eyes were fixed on the arc. Something angry circled in her head, but just then her stomach growled again.

‘God. This is ridiculous, — she thought, smirking crookedly. — A whole life learning to hold a brush, and it turns out the real thing is holding a tit.’