Soliloquies Anthology 30.1

by Coralie Olivier

Paris’ most prestigious art school was located inside a curved building that, in any other city, would have made the corner between two streets. There was no indication that the academy was even there, and Vira almost missed the door, tucked between the awnings of two different cafes.

A twisting staircase of polished, calico stairs took her to the second floor, where she was to take her first class under the genius Achille De Verley. Her path seemed clear now, after so many years of hardship and so many kilometers crossed; six different trains between Kiev and Paris, all of them on time. This was it. The beginning of something new. She stepped inside with excitement.

The room was lit by three long windows on the far wall, left open so that the morning breeze played with the curtains and the sounds of the city – tramway bells and puffing car engines – mingled with the conversations of the other students. Seven easels had been set up in a half-circle around an empty stage. As Vira moved between the stands, she saw that five of the other students had arrived, all men. She was quite used to it by now, being the only woman in the room, but one could always dream.

Vira took one of the last two easels, leaving her bag and painting supplies on the ground. She felt the other students’ eyes on her and glanced back, giving them a nod. None of them seemed hostile, though there was a certain curiosity, as if none of them had expected a woman to study among them. As if the Academy hadn’t already trained a number of female artists who’d shaped the Modern arts. Vira did her best to ignore them and prepare for the class, though she heard them whisper to each other. Her French was still a work in progress, but she was fluent enough to understand that they wondered how talented she must be, to have scored a seat in De Verley’s class.

When Vira looked past her naked canvas, she found another young woman leaning in the doorway. She expected her to enter, to take the final easel, but the woman didn’t move, only surveying the room with keenness, as if she wanted to see who the great Achille De Verley had taken under his wing this time. Her eyes landed on Vira, and a small smile pulled on her red lips. She gave her a tiny nod, like an acknowledgement of a familiar position, then pushed herself off the doorframe and disappeared down the hallway.

The final student had arrived – another man – before, at last, Achille De Verley entered the room. Though Vira had never met him before, he looked every bit the artist she imagined: curling moustache, thick beard, wind-swept hair, its recession over his skull artfully hidden. He had the brow of someone who’d spent most of their life staring at blotches of paint.

“Get your stencils ready,” he said without preambles or introductions.

From his pocket he pulled out a pocket watch. Then, a young woman wrapped in a bathrobe climbed onto the stage. She removed her bathrobe to reveal her naked body, and struck a pose. Vira glanced at the men around her, but their expressions remained perfectly professional. She’d never done a nude before.

“You have an hour,” De Verley warned. “Begin.”

Vira swallowed and picked up one of the charcoal sticks from its box. She leaned over the blank canvas and started sketching the model under the white morning light. Though she’d never drawn a nude, she’d drawn many portraits, especially her father’s, and she considered herself a quick sketcher. However, as their teacher took a first turn around the room, he stopped in front of hers, hummed, then declared:

“Start over.”

Vira blinked, surprised.

“I’m sorry?” she could only blurt out.

“Your proportions are wrong. Start over.”

He walked off, looking at the others’ canvas, and she expected him to snipe at the others too, but he said nothing. Her attention returned to her canvas, but nothing seemed wrong with the way she’d shaped the torso, the legs, the arms. She was still staring at her sketch when De Verley was done taking a turn. He glanced at his watch, then announced:

“You have forty-five minutes left.”

Vira picked up her kneaded eraser and started over.

Though her previous day of classes had been grueling, Vira spent her afternoon at the museum to draw. She’d finished sketching the model on time, and without more comments from De Verley, but still, the fact that he’d commented only on hers had fractured some of her confidence. She needed to be better than them all, and for that, she needed to keep training.

One of the places she’d been most excited to visit when coming to Paris was the Louvre, but she hadn’t had the chance before her first class. As she stood in one of its many painting galleries, she was sure it would become her favorite place in the city. Armed with her sketchbook and her box of charcoal stencils, she sat whenever she found an empty bench and sketched the painting in front of her. The hours moved on quickly as she filled page after page, sometimes copying one of the figures in the paintings or sometimes just a detail – a hand, a vase, the drape of a skirt, a face.

She was focused on her paper, running the charcoal back and forth on the paper then smudging it with her finger to make a shadow, when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, but do you mind if I sit here?”

Vira looked back at the young woman standing behind the bench, her own sketchbook in her hands. Her brown hair was cut short in a fashionable style, her red lips pulled into a small, friendly smile. Vire recognized her right away, even before their eyes met. It was the female artist from the Academy, the one she’d hoped would enter her class.

“Go ahead,” Vira said as she scooted on the edge of the bench to leave enough space for the newcomer.

The brunette sat down, hands smoothing her straight skirt before she opened her sketchbook. Vira tried not to stare and return to her own sketch. At first, they worked in silence, surrounded by the scratching sounds of the charcoal on paper and the footsteps of the other visitors behind them. But then, the brunette started making conversation, without looking up from her sketchbook, like they were two old friends catching up:

“How did you find your first class with the prodigious Monsieur Achille De Verley?”

Vira bit her lower lip, unsure what to respond.

“Have you taken a class with him before?” she asked instead, trying to redirect the conversation.

“I did, last year. He’s a first-rate son of a bitch but I did learn a lot.”

Someone scoffed behind them, as if offended that a young woman was using such a term, but the brunette didn’t even spare them a glance. Vira, however, felt a slither of her tension ease, and her shoulders lowered an inch. 

“He made us sketch a model in an hour and after fifteen minutes told me to start over. No one else. Just me.”

“By the end of his class you will absolutely hate painting. You’ll be the best you’ve ever been, but you’ll hate it, unless you’re made of sturdier stuff. And you look like you are,” she added with a playful nudge of her shoulder.

“Are you still taking classes?”

“I’m taking a little break from painting. Perrine Garreau is giving sculpting classes, and, well, I don’t claim to be Rodin, but I’m enjoying it so far.”

Vira had never been interested in sculpting, only ever in painting, for as long as she’d been able to hold a brush. A sudden tremor of fear jumbled her stomach. What if coming here had been a mistake? What if by the end, she truly hated painting and couldn’t commit so much as a brushstroke without feeling ill? She had no one here, and no one waiting for her back in Kiev either. This had been her life’s gamble.

“Are you done?” the woman beside her asked, probably because Vira hadn’t drawn a single line in some time. “Have you seen the 18th century nudes yet?”

Vira frowned, though she could feel warmth beneath her collar.

“Why?” she asked, clearing her throat.

“You’re going to be painting nudes all year long; you might as well get some practice.”

The brunette shut her box of stencils, tugging it into her small clutch, then stood.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

Vira looked at her open hand with surprise. The charcoal had left strains on her fingers, turning the free edge of her nails black. Lighter stains, dust-like, lingered in the lines of her palm.

“Why are you helping me?” Vira asked her.

“If Achille De Verley took you in his class, it’s because he thinks you have something special. Also, I figured you weren’t from here, and you could maybe use help from someone who’s done it before.”

Vira was touched. She’d yet to make a friend in Paris. With a thankful smile, she grabbed the brunette’s hand and let herself be pulled up from the bench.

“I’m Angele,” she introduced herself, turning the helpful hand into a handshake.

“Vira.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Vira.”

After her next class, Vira met with Angele at a nearby café, where it seems most of the Academy’s students liked to gather at the end of the day. However, the brunette had gotten them a small squared table inside, rather than joining the rowdy men taking up most of the terrace. Vira had barely sat down that Angele set a tin box of pencils between them and asked:

“Ever took the time to sketch the people around you?”

Vira rolled her eyes.

“Yes, all the time.”

“Then this shouldn’t be too hard for you. Pick anyone in the café and start drawing.”

Vira wasn’t quite sure she wanted to be sketching again after a long painting class with De Verley, but she also wanted to prove herself to the other woman. She flipped through her sketchbook until she found a blank page.

“I can’t really make conversation if I’m drawing,” she warned Angele.

“It’s alright. I brought a book.”

From her bag, she pulled out a small dime novel, the pages a dirty shade of gray and the picture on the cover, a young woman wandering through the dark halls of a castle, damaged in the corner. The name ‘La Demoiselle de Dustead Crag’ was written in white letters. Angele crossed her legs, and the plait of her skirt settled over her knee. She glanced at Vira one last time, to make sure that she was sketching, then started reading.

Vira sketched the waiter behind the bar, standing like he had a metal bar under his shirt while he waited for orders of wine glasses. An old water fountain for absinthe preparation sat on the shelf behind him, and Vira found herself sketching it too, focusing on the curve of its glass, the light reflecting off its brass top and the angles of the spigots.

Then, her attention was drawn to the back of one of the other Academy students. His head was turned ever so slightly away from his friends as he smoked, cigarette trapped beneath his mustache. He seemed lost in thought, and though Vira couldn’t really see his eyes or nose, she sketched him as quickly as she could, pencil gliding over the paper until the tip was flat.

Out of the tin box, she retrieved a prism sharpener and twisted it around the pencil a couple of times. The shards fell on the table, and the sound prompted Angele to look up from her book.

“Ready to show me?”

“I’ve barely just started.”

The brunette smirked.

“That’s what I liked to hear.”

She returned to her book, and when Vira set the sharpener down, her eyes landed on Angele. Her thick eyebrows were delicately furrowed as she focused on the words on the page. The careful wave of her short hair fell over her left eye, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Her nose wasn’t straight, in fact it had a slight bump before it descended like a mountain slope. She used lipstick to accentuate the arch of her Cupid’s bow, and freckles dotted her cheeks, so pale that they looked like a trick of the light. One hand clutched the right page of her book like she was afraid someone would rip it out of the grasp, and the other rested delicately on the left page, the tip of her fingers covering the words on the last paragraph, as if to preserve their mystery a little longer. Clay had left a couple of stains in the creases of her knuckles.

Before Vira knew it, she had sketched Angele, sketched a detail of her hands, a detail of her face, then put all them together and done another sketch of her, improving on the first one. Once she was done, doubt settled in her fingers. Should she really have drawn the brunette? Surely, Angele hadn’t intended to become a model. Vira surveyed the café again, and the new patrons settled. She had picked one, steadying her hand once more, but Angele shut her book.

“Can I see?”

Vira fought the urge to reach for the eraser, and instead flipped back to the sketch of the waiter before handing her work to Angele. Lips pursed, she watched as the brunette inspected each page with a hum. When she flipped to the pages of her sketches, Vira was sure her soul had left her chest, taking all her courage with it. But Angele said nothing, not even a sound of surprise. Once she was done, she gave a sharp nod then closed the sketchbook.

“I think this calls for a drink. What’s your poison?”

Vira’s drink of choice probably couldn’t be found in a typical French café. Slivovitz was a plum spirit, her father’s favorite. He’d given her her first glass, in what felt like another life.

“You pick,” she offered Angele.

“Alright. I’ll go easy on you.”

Vira rolled her eyes. As if any French wine could be as strong as what she drank back home.

They stayed in the café for so long that they were politely asked by the waiter to leave so they could close up. The male students were long gone, dispersed to the winds like a flock of sparrows. Vira didn’t really care. When Angele started walking in the direction opposite to her apartment, she followed her anyway.

Angele had lived an exciting life during the war. Barely thirteen years old, she’d replaced the mailman who’d left for the trenches, and would ride to all the nearest towns and villages. Vira didn’t share her memories of the war. So many of them were tied to her father, the historian, the book printer, the idealist. For a couple of months, he’d managed to convince her that Ukraine could finally get its independence. And then the Soviets had crushed his dreams once more.

Vira was pulled out of her thoughts when Angele grabbed a streetlight and used it to turn around, like a comet using Earth’s gravity to change its course. She stopped in front of Vira and said:

“This is where I live. Do you want to come up?”

Vira would have loved to, but one glance at the sky told her it was late.

“Thanks, but I should get going.”

“Where do you live?”

“Rue Saint Jacques.”

Angele gasped.

“That’s in the opposite direction. Why didn’t you warn me?”

Vira shrugged.

“I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t want to stop listening to you.”

Angele looked at her like she knew something Vira didn’t. She was wrong. Vira knew, and when the brunette took her hand to lead her to the tall front door, she didn’t protest.

Their hands remained tied as they climbed three floors of stone staircases, guided by the brazen moonlight through the small rectangular windows. Angele lived in the attic, under the low roofs, and from the moment she opened the door, Vira had to hunch to stand. She didn’t mind, as she had to hunch to kiss Angele anyway.

Neither of them slept that night, and when the pale sunlight found its way through the flimsy curtains of Angele’s one room apartment, Vira’s only wish was to spend the rest of the day in bed.

“Ready?” Angele asked. Vira nodded. “Go.”

The twin sounds of charcoal stencils scratching on paper filled the room. They were reclined in Angele’s bed – which, for the size of the apartment, had no right to be this big, but it seemed Angele preferred a bed to any other type of furniture – drawing each other. Angele had called it good practice for her nude classes, but Vira had an inkling it was just an excuse to stare at her naked body.

The tip of Angele’s tongue was caught between her lips as she worked, brown eyes flitting between the paper and Vira, her fingers working in small strokes. Her hair was messier than at the café, but this time it didn’t fall in front of her eyes, revealing the beauty spot above the corner of her brow. She had more freckles on her shoulders, more prominent here, like she used to spend a lot of time bare-shouldered in the sun. Her collarbone shifted beneath her skin as her hand moved, changing the size of the purplish bruise Vira had given her.

“I hope you’re actually drawing and not just staring,” Angele warned her.

“The owl doesn’t see itself,” Vira scoffed.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’ll see who’s done the most staring.”

Vira lost track of time, adding every little detail she could see in the brunette’s eyes, and she figured Angele had, too, because she didn’t stop drawing. In fact, Vira wasn’t sure they’d agreed on how long this sketch was supposed to take them. She decided to call the end of it, or they would be sketching all day.

“I’m done.”

“Just give me… a second…”

Angele added a couple of lines then set her stencils back in its box.

“Alright, done. Show me.”

They exchanged their drawings and Vira frowned. It was her, with her shoulder length hair, her legs which she’d kept folded at the knees, her roundish face and short nose, but it seemed Angele’s attention had mostly been on her chest, translating in perfect detail the slopes of her breasts and the day’s shadows on them, even adding the mole on her right breast.

“It’s really good,” Angele said before Vira could find anything to say. “I don’t think my feet look like that, though.”

“They do,” Vira confirmed before turning the paper around to show it back to its artist. “Why are my tits more detailed than my face?”

“It’s because we all have our specialty. You’re really good at drawing faces and I’m really good at drawing tits.”

Vira laughed, the sound only echoing harder when Angele hurriedly pushed all the art supplies aside to close the distance between them. She placed her hand on Vira’s arm as if to bring her closer, leaving half-moons of charcoal on her skin.

“If you weren’t such a good artist, I would call you a pervert,” Vira told her.

“Same difference,” Angele replied before drawing her into a kiss.