I Love You, Suzanne
by Ford McLain
Very early this morning, I woke up with my arms wrapped around the naked body of an artist. And yes, at last, a redhead: a beautiful head of curly auburn hair, gorgeous, just lightly perfumed with a shampoo and conditioner I didn’t recognize but enjoyed. I slowly and quietly pulled my arm out from under her and glided my right hand along her right arm and then let it rest on her hip. I lingered in bed for a bit, with my hand on her hip, and gave a few kisses on the back of her ear and her neck and her shoulder. I didn’t want to separate myself from her, but it had to be done. I needed to get up and paint. After all, it was a picture of Suzanne that I was going to paint.
I’d been asleep for only four hours. The night before, we visited for a long time in the studio. We had agreed to meet at the Clam Shack around seven for some beers and talk about our work. Suzanne was a sculptor, and at my request she brought her sketchbook to the bar. Suzanne met me at the outdoor bar and kissed my cheek. She had her sketchbook, and allowed me to handle the book, while she moved around the bar and talked to friends and musicians. The sketchbook was protected in a leather binder. Later, I gushed to her about the beauty of her studies for sculptures. Some were very classical. Some were abstract. Nudes, geometric forms, skulls, flowers. Each page had at least four drawings with different perspectives on the subject. They were all beautiful, detailed, and clean. No visible eraser marks, no smudges, nothing to indicate that any line or shadow had been changed or removed. I don’t know if this sketchbook was the public one she shared and there was a more private, primitive book or if this was how her mind worked and she was able to lay down a vision so completely.
I was already in awe, and we really hadn’t talked much. I had not yet sat Suzanne in my armchair. I had not yet seen her naked. By virtue of her talent (and her redheadedness), she had me if she wanted.
After Suzanne saw the closed sketchbook on the table, she went to the bar and talked to Sophie (the bartender) and bought us each a glass of whiskey. We clinked glasses, I toasted her beautiful work, and we drank. Then I invited her up the hill to visit my studio, warning her that she would be much less impressed with my work than I was with hers, but that I wanted to share anyway. Besides, I had some good bourbon there. And wine. And espresso. Suzanne accepted. We said goodbye to Sophie and began the walk up to my cottage and studio.
On the five minute walk up, we quickly shared our histories. At 30 years old, Suzanne was 20-plus years younger than me. She was a sculptor who also taught ESL in Barcelona, a graduate of Cooper Union with a Masters from the College of St. Rose in education. I was surprised that Suzanne and I were in Albany at the same time. She drew, painted, and sculpted for most of her life, starting as a pre-teen living in Orange County. I asked her why she didn’t stay in New York City after college and start her art career. She said she wanted to teach. She wanted some stability.
Suzanne had been living in this town for a few years now, and she commuted to Barcelona. Most of her free time was spent at her apartment, working on her pieces. Like my place, hers was a five minute walk to the Clam Shack but from the opposite direction. When we first met at the bar a few weeks earlier, I told her that I had seen her there a few times before, engaged with the musicians, talking to Sophie or the other bartender, and talking to some of the fishermen, but that I was too shy to insert myself into her conversations.
“Don’t be silly, she admonished me, smiling with her hazel eyes, “I’ll talk to anyone.”
When we reached my place, I asked if Suzanne wanted to see the cottage or the studio on the side. She was interested in seeing my work and opted to pass up on the cottage for now. Later perhaps. While I usually keep my cottage door unlocked off the patio, I always lock my studio because of all the paintings and supplies that are kept there. So, she stood by as I fumbled with the keys, unlocked and pushed open the door.
It is very hard to express both how embarrassed and exhilarated I can get at moments like this, meeting a new friend, an artist in a different medium, a young woman with a great mind, and some common geographical connection. This town is more a fishing town than an art town, but we do have some painters, sketchers, and photographers who hang out, mostly at a bar closer to Suzanne’s than the Clam Shack, but I’ve not made much connection with any of them. Definitely not with any women who partake in the arts. So, when one appears out of nowhere, as Suzanne did a few weeks before, my instinct is to want to meet her, know her, pick her brains, learn about what makes her tick and how she works. Are those sketches finalized versions of ideas or does she wait until she has a clear vision in her head before she puts them down? Does she feel differently painting than she does sculpting? Obviously, she prefers sculpting. Why? When she sculpts nudes, does she have models or does she work from her own imagination? Has she ever had lovers that served as subjects? Has she ever had subjects/models who became her lovers? Just being at the bar with Suzanne briefly the first night, talking a little about art made my heart race. Knowing that she was interested in sharing with me and knowing that we would have this outing (it was just planned to be a few hours at the Clam Shack), drove me nuts for the time between our first and next meetings. Seeing her sketchbook sealed the deal. I wanted to know this woman. I wanted her as a friend. At the very least, I wanted to drink whiskey with her.
The evening turned into something a bit more fun than simply drinking whiskey. You would have been proud of me if you could see me this evening. After showing Suzanne around the studio – which is not very big: a space for painting, a small fridge, a couch for afternoon napping, a director’s chair, an area rug, and the armchair – we sat and had some whiskey. Suzanne sat in the armchair, and I sat in my director’s chair. We talked about painting and sculpting and models. We sympathized with professional models’ needs to make money but shared the frustration of being struggling artists having to afford a good model. I told her how in Albany I would barter with my model (usually a friend) and offer a nice dinner and wine in exchange for her body and her time. She told me that her models came from her head mostly but occasionally a friend or two would inspire her and she might get him or her in the studio. Suzanne has done studies and sculptures of close friends and even a lover. But she prefers to work within her imagination. Without sharing who you are or what you mean, I told her that I had you. There were others, I said, but your inspiration, I told her, was more than I ever needed.
While we talked, I began to play with my old digital camera. She was sitting in my armchair with a glass of whiskey in her hand and was wearing a summer dress with a green floral pattern on top of a white background, putting on her glasses (she had contacts on earlier but asked if I minded if she switched to glasses). I asked Suzanne if I could take a photo or two of her. She consented. So I took pictures of her while we talked. Candids. Nothing formal. I captured shots of her face with her curly auburn hair, her hazel eyes hiding behind her glasses, and I enjoyed the way she casually held the rocks glass while she talked, got a small rise out of when she pulled the edge of her dress above her crossed knees, allowing me to see part of her upper leg under the dress. I offered her a cigar and she smoked it, and I continued to take pictures while we talked.
The quality of the photos decreased as I consumed more whiskey. But not the stunning quality of the model. Suzanne with her glasses, cigar, whiskey and auburn hair shone through. Both of us were a bit drunk, and we just kept talking. We talked about Albany and our experience with the artist communities there. We talked about downstate, about the art of making an Italian combo (which, I guess, made me a sculptor in my own right), about nudes and especially women.
And we talked about Sophie and about how both of us would love to have her sit for us in the studio and about making it a collaborative project (at that point, Suzanne had no idea about my friendship with Sophie and what she meant to me anymore than she had an idea of you. I kept that to myself; mostly because Sophie was local and I don’t know how much she would want people to know about our friendship).
We talked about being each other’s models. Then I asked her what her favorite form of painting was.
“Finger-painting.” Suzanne smiled and pulled from her cigar and took a sip of whiskey.
I leaned back in my chair and held my rocks glass against my stomach.
“Finger-painting,” I replied.
“Yes. I am very tactile person, and I enjoy the way the paints feel going on the paper or the wood or the canvas.” She sipped her bourbon and looked at me through her lenses. God she had great hazel eyes. “What about you?”
“Oils, used to be acrylics, but I like oils better.”
“You never finger-painted?”
“I’ve not finger-painted since I was five. I’m pretty anal retentive. I can barely tolerate paint on my hands, much less all over my fingers.”
Suzanne fell back into the armchair and looked at her cigar and her empty whiskey glass. I think I was a glass ahead of her. After a few hours of talking non-stop, we both became silent. She took a drag from her cigar, and I quickly took another picture of her. And she smiled as I did this. She held out her glass and smiled, and I poured her some whiskey and a bit more for myself. I was getting drunk. I don’t know if it affected her much as she had the same personality and openness as she did three hours earlier.
“Would you like to paint me?”
After neglecting having one for myself, I finally lit a cigar, exhaled, and took a sip of whiskey.
“Well, I was going to ask if I could use one of the photos and do a piece for you. I have nothing on my plate for the next few days, so I could start tomorrow morning…once I recovered from my hangover.”
“That’s fine. But it’s not what I am asking you.”
I leaned forward, a little at Suzanne…this wonderful, brilliant, talented woman in her summer dress…and wondering if I heard her correctly.
“I don’t have finger paints.”
“You can use acrylics.”
“I don’t have those anymore either.”
Suzanne stood up, put her hands underneath her dress at the hips and slowly lowered her underwear. I just sat there, pulling on the cigar. She let them drop to the floor and stepped out of them. She then picked up her cigar and took a pull from it, blowing smoke at me and smiling.
“Well,” Suzanne responded, looking down at the bottle of Woodford Reserve, “I know that you have bourbon.”
“That we do,” I laughed nervously, sipped mine and pulled on my cigar.
“Then we’ll just have to imagine the colors.”
***
After making my coffee and drinking a cup and smoking a cigar on the patio, I returned to the guest room to grab my watch. Suzanne was still sleeping. I leaned down to kiss her shoulder and touch her face. She sighed happily in her sleep and shifted a little, and I backed away and started toward the studio.
“Where are you going,” Suzanne whispered as I was almost out of the room.
“I’m going to find the right photograph, and I am going to paint for you,” I whispered back. “It’s only 5:30. Unless you have anywhere to go this morning, feel free to stay and sleep as long as you want. When you get up I’ll make a nice American breakfast.”
“OK. That sounds great.” Suzanne yawned and pulled the sheet up over her shoulder. I quietly left the room and went to my studio.
After creating a file folder named “Suzanne”, I transferred 50 or more photos from the camera to the laptop. And as the photos flashed across the screen, I smiled when I realized that she had allowed me to take about 15 of them as we prepared to finger-paint: one photo of her removing her sundress, one of her removing her flats, another of her sitting on the edge of the napping couch, a few photos of her lying fully nude before bourbon was applied, a few photos of the final product…before it was drunk off of her, and one last photo of Suzanne lying on her back with the cigar and the whiskey. I studied all the photos, and decided that the last was the best. That would be the one I would paint.
I went to the cottage and grabbed another cup of coffee. It was 6:00 a.m., and my guest was still asleep. I took my coffee, to the studio, lit a cigar, put on some Leonard Cohen, and began sketching the first of many paintings of Suzanne. She finally awoke around 8:00 a.m., and she knocked and walked into the smoke-filled studio. She was wearing my blue bathrobe. Suzanne stood behind me, giving me a foot of space, and studied my sketch. She took the cigar from me and had a puff and then sipped some of my coffee. Suzanne looked at the photo on the computer screen.
“I like that one, too. A lot.”
I was in a zone. I was not rude, but I didn’t talk. I turned my head and smiled at Suzanne, who took her rightful place in the armchair and watched me finish the sketch of the photo on the canvas. Mine, of course, had plenty of eraser marks and faded lines and gray smudges, but in the end both of us were happy with the final sketch.
Afterwards, we had breakfast on the patio and enjoyed the warm autumn morning. It was going to be a great friendship, I said to Suzanne, and told her that she was welcome to come and visit anytime she wanted. She simply smiled and stared out to the sea.
It’s around noon, and Suzanne is finally on her way home, and I am going to paint. It’s embarrassing for a 50-year old to say this, but I am giddy. But I know I need to keep myself in check. I don’t know how long this friendship will last, and right now, I need to keep my head. Perhaps I am delusional. Perhaps it is too new. Perhaps, as I have done before, as I once did with you, I will fuck it up and push her away and then wonder what the hell happened. I need to stay grounded. If I can’t do it, you can – as you always have – keep me from going too far out and ruining a good thing.
But that is tomorrow’s issue. I can still see her hazel eyes, smell her hair and savor the taste of bourbon from her breasts. I am grateful for Suzanne now. For her company, her body, her mind.
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