Date: Sun, 7 Sep 2008 19:45:49 +0000 (GMT)
From: Nexis Pas <nexispas@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Canvas

The Canvas

Nexis Pas

Copyright 2008

Nexis Pas asserts the moral right to be identified as the
author of this work.

It started with a streak of cadmium yellow.

The wind had died just after noon that day, and the heat
rose from the dry earth, filling the air with the resinous
smell of the rosemary and oleander bushes that surrounded
the cottage. Raymond was working with all the doors and
windows of his studio opened and latched to the wall in an
attempt to catch any breeze. The idea for the painting had
come to him in the morning and he was trying to get it down
before the inspiration faded. At some point during the
afternoon, when the sweat had begun running down his
forehead and into his eyes, he had absentmindedly tied a rag
around his head. He was wearing only an old, baggy pair of
khaki shorts and sandals. His paint-stained T-shirt lay on
the floor behind him where he had tossed after pulling it
off when it became too hot to wear. He had covered most of
the canvas with wet cloths to keep the paint from drying too
quickly, before he had a chance to work the next layers of
paint in. Only the area he was working on was exposed.

Dell came up from the beach and walked in the open doors on
the seaward side. He had been swimming and was towelling his
hair dry. He wore only the old flip-flops he had found in
the hallway cupboard when they had opened the cottage for
the summer, and his passage up the stairs that led to the
beach and then across the patio had been heralded by the
sound of the heels of the sandals striking the boards of the
staircase and then the stones of the patio. He stopped to
examine the painting that Dell was working on and then
turned to Raymond for a kiss. Raymond put an arm around
Dell's shoulders and drew in him briefly.

`Hmm, salty.'

`If you can tear yourself away from this, you should go for
a swim. The water is just the right temperature now.'

`Maybe later.' Raymond gestured toward the painting to
indicate why it was unlikely that he would go for a swim

`How's it going? Can I see?'

Raymond reached forward and lifted the cloths and draped
them over the top bar of the easel. He stepped back out of
Dell's way.  It was then that he saw the mark for the first
time. When he had hugged Dell briefly, he had been holding a
brush and it had left a smudge of paint on Dell's back. Just
a small streak of cadmium yellow, barely half an inch long.
The edges were ragged. The paint glowed against Dell's
tanned skin. In the three weeks they had been at the
cottage, Dell's body had turned a rich golden brown.

`Oh, just a minute, let me . . .' Raymond picked up a cloth
to wipe off the paint.

`What?' Dell turned halfway round to look over his shoulder.
The muscles of his back bunched, and the streak of yellow
paint rose and fell with the motion. Raymond was transfixed
by it.

`Nothing. Just a stray thought about the painting.'

`I should let you get back to work. Dinner about nine? It
should be cool by then. We can eat on the patio.'  Dell
draped the cloths over the painting again and smiled.

`I'm sorry to leave all the work to you.' Raymond stepped
back to the painting and added a streak of cadmium yellow to
the patch of open canvas. It was barely half an inch long
and ragged at the edges. But against the mottled greens of
the background, it drew the eye.

`I'll take my payment later, when we go to bed. For now,
just think of it as my tribute to your genius.' Dell patted
Raymond on the buttocks and walked out.

Raymond nodded absently. Dell disappeared from his mind even
before he had left the studio. Raymond lifted one of the
cloths and began judiciously adding a few streaks of cadmium
yellow. He didn't want too many of them, not enough that
they would overwhelm the painting, just enough to convey
fugitive motion on the static canvas.

The mark was still there when they ate dinner. Dell sat to
Raymond's left, and every time he leaned forward, Raymond
saw the yellow patch. It had cracked a bit at the edges as
it dried, but it was still there. And it was still there
when they made love later that night. As Dell lay atop him,
pushing him down into the bed, Raymond gingerly felt with
his fingertips until he located the rough patch on Dell's
shoulder. He was careful not to brush it off. In his mind's
eye, he could see the yellow against Dell's flesh, moving
with Dell.

In the morning Raymond awoke early. The light was just
beginning to come through the window. Dell lay beside him on
his stomach, with the sheet bunched around his waist, his
back uncovered. The mark had disappeared during the night.
Raymond reached over and gently touched the area where the
spot had been. Dell's flesh was smooth and cool beneath his
fingertips. His deeply tanned flesh was almost black in the
half light. Raymond eased his body out of the bed, careful
not to disturb Dell. Without dressing, he padded through the
cottage and across the patio. In his studio, he quickly
located the tube of cadmium yellow and squeezed a dab onto
his palette. He dipped a brush into it and held it up. The
bright yellow colour gleamed in the dawn light. It seemed
even brighter than usual. He walked back through the house
and into the bedroom.

He held the brush poised over Dell's back for several
seconds, searching for the right spot to paint. In the end,
he was drawn to a spot just under the right shoulder blade,
an inclined area where the skin was stretched taut. Once he
had located the spot, his arm seemed to move without
conscious thought. The brush dipped, and a yellow spot
appeared on Dell's body.

Raymond stepped back a few feet and looked at Dell. A
painting took shape in his mind. He could see the colours he
would use and the shapes he would create. How they would
flow together on the living canvas of Dell's body. A flat
canvas on stretchers wouldn't do for the images flowing
through his mind. And oil paints would be too stiff. They
would have too much texture of their own. He needed
something that would flow onto the skin and look like a
second skin. The brush trembled in his hand. He wanted to
move forward and make another mark on Dell. He knew the
exact spot the brush should touch. Dell rolled onto his
side, and the images in Raymond's mind shifted and flowed.

                            *****
`What are these? I've never seen these names before.' Dell
held up the list of painting supplies that Raymond had just
handed him through the open window of the van.

`I have something new in mind. I wasn't sure what will work
best. So I want to try various paints.'

Dell smiled and tucked the list into his shirt pocket, along
with the grocery list and the other reminders of things he
needed to buy and do in Genoa. He manoeuvred the van
carefully through the narrow gate. Just before he drove off,
he lifted a forearm out the window and waved goodbye.

For Raymond, one of Dell's more endearing qualities was his
lack of comment about Raymond's work. Dell never wanted to
discuss the paintings. He never felt a need to chatter on
about their meaning or significance. He just accepted that
painting was Raymond's life and incidentally his livelihood.
In response to a polite question early in their
relationship, Raymond has told Dell that if he could find
the words to say what he said with painting, then he
wouldn't need to paint. Dell had nodded and never mentioned
the subject again.

Dell took care of the daily tasks that would have
overwhelmed Raymond. He did the shopping and the
housekeeping. He put the food on the table and made sure
that Raymond ate it. He dealt with the plumbers and the
carpenters. When his school let out for the summer, he
organised the move to the cottage on the Ligurian coast. He
arranged for the boxing and shipping of the paintings and
saw to it that Raymond's agent was kept happy with a steady
flow of them. He drove Raymond where he needed to be, when
he needed to be there. And several times a week, he made
love to Raymond. If Raymond never lacked for anything, it
was because of Dell's foresight. Raymond took it for granted
that there would be clean clothes in his bureau and closet,
that there would always be hot coffee in the thermos and
milk in the fridge, that the dentist would see him twice a
year.

It never occurred to Raymond to ask himself if Dell was
happy. He didn't think about Dell's existence in those
terms. Dell was simply Dell. He was there. Raymond was quite
satisfied with the arrangements. He knew he was fortunate
that Dell was willing to manage his life. There were so many
tasks that were beyond his interests and hence beyond his
abilities. But the question of Dell's satisfaction never
arose in Raymond's mind. He simply assumed, without devoting
much thought to the question, that Dell would not do all the
things he did if he were not satisfied with their life.

Raymond stood motionless in the driveway for several minutes
after Dell drove off on the weekly trip into Genoa. He was
staring out the open gate. A passer-by might have thought he
was studying the rock wall opposite the gate. But Raymond's
vision was filled with images of the body of his lover, its
surface completely painted. A human-shaped canvas, a canvas
that shifted and moved, a canvas whose images were ever-
changing and never the same. A canvas that could be wiped
clean and repainted as often as he liked.

*****

`You want to paint me? But you never do portraits.'  Dell
looked up from the work table in the kitchen and smiled.
`This must be your first. I'm rather chuffed that you've
asked me to sit for you.'

`Not a portrait.' It hadn't occurred to Raymond until that
moment that what he was about to propose might strike Dell
as strange. The idea had been so present in his mind for the
past few days that he thought that Dell would understand
what he wanted. `I want to paint your back. At least that's
the first painting. It's just a trial, to see what paints
will stick to the surface. When I find the method that works
best, then I want to paint your entire body. You'll have to
shave all your hair off, of course.' The words rushed out.
Raymond was never sure that language would bend to his
meaning. Paint was much easier to manage than was speech. He
looked around the kitchen for help. Everywhere shiny
metallic surfaces reflected distorted images of himself and
Dell. It was a domain he identified as Dell's part of their
living space, both here at the cottage and at the house in
Norfolk.

`You want to paint my body?'

Raymond nodded and held up the tube of yellow body paint he
had brought with it. He handed it to Dell as if its very
existence explained and justified what he wanted to do. The
colours of the Cryolan paints were brighter, more lurid,
than he liked, but he had experimented a bit and found that
he could tone them down. He wasn't sure what they would look
like on Dell's tanned skin or what would happen to the
colour and lustre when they dried.

Dell turned the tube of paint over and over, reading all the
labels. Neither man said anything for a few moments. Raymond
tried not to disturb Dell's thoughts. He was certain it was
only a matter of letting Dell grow used to the idea.

`It says to use face cream to remove the paints.' Dell
indicated the directions on the back of the tube.

`For this kind. It will also come off with hot water and
soap. I checked. The latex paints that you bought the other
day will peel off. But they will take the hair with them.
That's why we need to shave your body first.'

`But why?'

`The idea just came to me. It's . . . it's an experiment. It
will only take me a few hours to finish your back. Then you
could show me how to operate the video recorder and I'll
take some pictures and you can remove it.' It pained Raymond
to say that. He didn't want Dell to destroy his painting.

`I suppose if it's only a few hours . . .' Dell looked
Raymond in the face for the first time since he realised
what Raymond was asking of him.

Raymond nodded.

`When do you want to start?'

Raymond didn't trust himself to speak. He wanted to start
now, but he simply raised his hands and shrugged to indicate
that Dell could chose the time. He didn't want to appear to
be in a hurry.

Dell looked at the vegetables that he had been chopping.
`Just let me finish up here. It will only be ten minutes or
so. Is my back hairy? Does that have to be shaved now? I'll
need your help if it does.'

The image of what he wanted to do was clear in Raymond's
mind, and Dell's back was not as large a surface as the
canvases he usually painted. The colours of the paints were
more intractable, however. They didn't blend in the same way
as oils. Raymond wasn't wholly satisfied with the results
when he finished. But he could see what adjustments he would
need to make the next time.

Dell had perched on a stool while Raymond painted his back.
He hadn't said anything and had barely moved the entire time
it took Raymond to paint both sides of his back from the
shoulders down to the waist.

`It's very sensual. It's as if you were kissing each spot on
my back. Tiny kisses with the tip of your tongue. Each kiss
is a drop of moisture and then it dries.'

`Do you want to see it?'

`No, I don't think so. I don't know why. Somehow I think . .
. I don't know. That it would be like seeing a foreign
growth on my skin. Are you happy with it?'

`It is beautiful,'  Raymond whispered to himself. He was
entranced by the look of the painting on Dell's body. It was
as if he had created something from the raw material of
Dell.

`I don't think I have ever heard you use that word about any
of your paintings before.'

Raymond set his palette and brushes down. He walked over to
Dell and then kissed his back. Raymond inhaled the paint
smell slowly and deeply. The odour was different from that
of oils, more natural, less processed and chemical. Dell's
usually cool skin felt hot beneath Raymond's lips. He
pressed his fingertips into the painting and felt the
familiar flesh give slightly as if the paint had soften
Dell's body, made it more malleable. Dell stood up and undid
his shorts. The unpainted portions of his body shocked
Raymond with their nakedness. He blocked them out of his
mind and focused on the painting as he stepped out of his
own shorts. He pressed Dell's back against his chest, with
the painting between them.

The pattern of their coupling was different. During the
eight years they had been together, Dell and he had fallen
into easy habits, but that afternoon Raymond felt more
active. They flowed together but Raymond for once set the
rhythm of their movements. Raymond wasn't dominant or
violent, but there was just more energy and intensity.

The painting was ruined. As much of the greasy body paint
ended up on Raymond's chest as on Dell's back.

Neither of them said anything. Each separately took a shower
and washed his body clean. Dell finished cooking the evening
meal, and they ate it in their customary silence. Something
had changed, but they didn't want to talk about it yet.

The next day, Raymond returned to his studio and resumed
work on the painting on his easel. Dell followed his usual
routine of swimming and pottering about the cottage.

The second morning, Raymond rose at his customary early hour
and began painting before breakfast.  Around nine he heard
Dell enter the studio. He half-turned around expecting Dell
to call him into the house to eat.

`I've removed all the hair I could.'  Dell stood there
naked, his body shaved. The purity of the canvas was an ache
in Raymond's psyche, a void in his mind that called out to
him to paint. Several hours later when Dell's body had been
converted into a maze of colours and shapes, Dell made him
videotape the painting. The colours swirled and the shapes
shifted as he walked about in front of the camera. It was as
if some creature had possessed Dell, possessed the both of
them. Human, inhuman, Dell, not-Dell. Created yet always
already there. They awoke in the morning with the evidence
of their lovemaking on their bodies and on the sheets of the
bed. The two painters came together again.

That set the pattern for the summer. Every few days Raymond
would paint Dell. It became an obsession, to cover Dell's
body with images, to transform the familiar, to free them
from the inheritance of form and shape and colour. Dell was
scrupulous about recording Raymond's work before the two of
them joyfully set about celebrating the wonder they were
discovering. `It will be a record,' he said. `You can donate
the tapes to a museum.'

One week toward the end of the summer, when Dell returned
from the weekly shopping in Genoa, he walked into the
studio. He was dressed in his usual summer outfit of jeans
and a knit shirt and wearing the wide-brimmed straw hat he
favoured. `I got a haircut.' He removed the hat. All the
hair on his head had been shaved off. `I left the eyebrows.
I thought my face would look too strange without them, but
we can cover them with petroleum jelly, and then you should
be able to paint over them.'

As the critic for the Times said, Raymond's first painting
of Dell's body and shaven head was `a sublime maelstrom of
rapture'.