Nude With Outstretched Arms Part II

The model: That’s supposed to be me?
The artist: Well, not exactly, but sort of.
I stood like a pinned butterfly for hours, trembling with cold, starving, for this?
It’s quintessentially you.
I don’t get it.
When I see a carpet, I ask: What’s underneath?
So what’s underneath my carpet?
Your soul. Your being. That’s what’s left when I substract your mind and flesh that make you spend your life doing things you detest to make money you don’t want to buy things you don’t need to impress people you dislike.
I see.
This is your soul. Pure like baby shampoo. Like vitamins. Like snow.
All right. The other night. When you painted me, you were drunk, right?
I was stoned.
You’re a funny kind of drunk. You just sat there looking unhappy and looking at your easel.
I was waiting for your soul to appear.
What about my bones?
Bones is refrigerator. Dishwasher, air conditioning, freezer. Bones is one closet for each bedroom. Bones is monthly mortgage payments. Bones is not what lies underneath the carpet.
How do you feel? Looking at the picture?
I feel fine. It’s nice. It says something. You did a great job.
It’s not a nice painting. And you shouldn’t feel fine. You should feel troubled.
Okay, I feel troubled. But nevertheless, we have to take you back to the mental ward.
I don’t want to go back there. I don’t feel strong enough to get chased by those nurses.


Foto: Theres Buchwalder