![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue28\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/21\/2019\/03\/leave-image-1.png\")
\nRory has one knee on the floor, the other tucked under his chin as he paints. His canvas is propped on two milk crates set over newspaper laid out to protect the floor. His paint tubes rest in two six-quart baskets when he tidies up, but the selection of tubes he\u2019s currently using is spread out on the floor by his left hand. He\u2019s left-handed, which seems appropriate due to his generally contrary nature. His painting pallet is a piece of cardboard box that also sits to his left side.<\/p>\n
“Do you want something to eat or drink?\u201d
\nHis answer is off-hand, his focus on the brushstrokes and composition before him.
\n\u201cI\u2019m alright. Go ahead, if you\u2019re hungry. I\u2019ll make myself a sandwich later.\u201d
\n\u201cNo, I\u2019ll wait for you.\u201d<\/p>\n
I settle into the one chair at the table with my notebook and I watch the man I love as he gives himself to his painting. He never complains about the strain on his back, or his legs going to sleep due to this awkward posture for hours at a time while he paints. He has told me he\u2019s more comfortable drawing me standing, saying it\u2019s about perspective. That might be the main reason he likes me to stand, but when I stand he sits in a chair. I\u2019ve wondered if perspective or creature comfort appeals to him more? I\u2019m not sure he\u2019d reveal the answer. As I\u2019ve said, he doesn\u2019t complain, but he rarely shares. It\u2019s the same for me, frankly. Each of our focus rests on the importance of creating art. Maybe that\u2019s why we work so well together? When I\u2019m naked before him, I feel we communicate more fully than we ever could with words. I feel his presence differently, my skin becomes a thousand nerve endings.<\/p>\n
Some of my poses are easier than others to hold. I can’t say I enjoy standing, unless it\u2019s a quick pose, but our process has nothing to do with his speed in drawing. He lays his lines down easily these days, not struggling as he did when we first met. I can see the effect of my posing, the improvement in his perspective, the confidence of his lines. It\u2019s more that he sketches the same pose so many times over. My problem is how to balance raised limbs within an interesting pose. I often copy what Rodin had his models do. Maybe allowed is a better word for the orchestration of poses for Rodin\u2019s statues.<\/p>\n
Yet, it applies to my own drawings. Arranging a pose that can be held for a long time, I mean. It sounds crazy to say I do drawings of my own poses, but I play with similar scenarios. Rory and I have entirely different styles, but drawing a pose I\u2019ve taken, using the information gleaned from my muscle aches, leads to decisions about the best poses I can do for him. My drawings of my own poses, in a studio where the evidence hangs on the wall, allows me to understand what he sees. I resist drawings of inanimate objects like fruit bowls or flowers in a vase. Drawing a pose, from within the body that experienced the pose, is how I\u2019m practising my art. Rory doesn\u2019t pose for me. I hear my repetition of that complaint, that stress. To cope, I consider how Rodin and his models worked out the same issues I have, 100 years or so before me. Rodin\u2019s models were artists, too.<\/p>\n
Take Rodin\u2019s John the Baptist, for instance. An arm lifted beside him, unbalanced, would be impossible to hold for long. I\u2019m sure the model for his Age of Bronze appreciated the difference in that pose, arm raised beside the ear, elbow bent, forearm resting on top of his head. It\u2019s almost impossible to hold a pose with a raised arm for more than a quick sketch, unless you find a way to support it. Hands can rest on hips, or hang beside them. It\u2019s not that I don\u2019t want to do complicated poses. If he were a photographer there’d be no limit to what I\u2019d offer. We experiment more with the poses when I stretch out on the bed like a nude by Egon Schiele or Walter Grammatt\u00e9, my body twisted and turning at awkward angles. Rory has ideas we adjust and collaborate on, making the final piece a result of our concessions. I\u2019m always providing input. What he desires is sometimes beyond my physical endurance when I stand. This only makes it more real. It reflects what a woman\u2019s body can naturally endure.<\/p>\n
We\u2019re so caught up in our work as painter and model, we put little effort into furnishing the two rooms we rent in this divided mansion. Our main room is the size of two normal bedrooms, though that\u2019s what it would have been for the original inhabitants. Our home is simple and minimal, only the absolutely necessary furniture. One chair is a wooden crate that used to collect fruit but now offers us seating. However, the walls in our home don\u2019t lack decoration. They\u2019re studded by a multitude of brilliant jewels, canvases of various sizes butt up against each other. Each one is unique, though several could be grouped under a theme. The paintings hang so tightly they almost hide the colour of the walls. This main room is large enough we can separate to focus on our own work when we need to. Rory kneels before his canvases while I write or draw at the table.<\/p>\n
We use the shared kitchen down the hall for fridge space and washing dishes. Further down again is our shared bathroom. We\u2019re on the second floor in a mansion divided into a large rooming home. There are two rooms on the opposite side of the hall, one rented by my brother, Weylin, the other seemingly used by different people each month. A family rents the entire bottom floor, while an old drunk rents the attic. The superintendent for the building resides in the basement, though the ceiling is so low he can barely stand up straight in his rooms. Our suspicion is he tolerates this and collects our rent in exchange for free accommodation.<\/p>\n
Our regular visitors continue to be my brother, Rory\u2019s best friend Noel, and Rory\u2019s friend from work, Manuel. Yet lately, we receive visitors who are both unwelcome and un-refusable. They arrive late at night, around 2:00 or 3:00 am. Be careful, the voice in my headwarns as soon as they knock. True friends hang back at that time of night, thinking it far too late even if light in our windows made it obvious we\u2019re still awake. These visitors don\u2019t give us that respect. We know why the police appear at our door.
\n
\n
\n\u201cSaw your lights on. Just thought we\u2019d check everything is okay for you both.\u201d
\n\u201cMom and Dad gave up telling me when to go to bed a long time ago,\u201d Rory sasses.<\/p>\n
The officers give him a stern look when he responds rudely to their knock. It scares me when he talks back like that, but he correctly feels they\u2019re pushing the line in terms of what they can and cannot legally do. They walk in wearing their big boots and dark uniforms, the voice in my head complains, This is your home, and Did you invite them in? We aren\u2019t playing loud music, or quarrelling, or disturbing a soul. They can\u2019t tell us we\u2019re up too late. No, that\u2019s not why they\u2019re here. They\u2019ve come like moths drawn to light, confident their uniforms mean they can\u2019t be rebuffed.<\/p>\n
There\u2019s a 10 pm curfew in our town. Anyone under eighteen years is prohibited from wandering out-of-doors after curfew. The thing is, they view us as a subversive element, though we\u2019re inside our own home and haven\u2019t done anything wrong. Rory wears his hair too long. We don\u2019t cower when they knock. We\u2019re artists, and different from other people. They make my skin crawl because the paintings on our walls have drawn them in to gawk. These aren\u2019t the sort of men who see themselves engaging with art, except when it\u2019s bad prints of good paintings chosen by their wives, or some version of pornography.<\/p>\n
It disturbs me that Rory and I accept their quasi-bullying, never knowing what time of night they\u2019ll knock. Reading the open curiosity in their posture, I wonder if they want greater control of us than that 10 pm curfew grants them. They\u2019ve come to domineer in our home. They have no legal reason to challenge us for being awake at 2 am. It\u2019s perfectly legal to have our lights on at any time of day or night. The truth is, they\u2019ve stopped by to check out the canvases, looking for any new ones. They examine Rory\u2019s paintings as they talk, trying to read the messages hidden in the paint. They\u2019ve clued in to the fact that this long-haired painter is displaying his politics through some sort of visual coding, whether it\u2019s nude women, goat heads, candles, or books. But that\u2019s not all there is to their curiosity about his paintings.<\/p>\n
Rory paints me in all my glory, even with my growing pear-shaped belly. I discovered my pregnancy six months ago. I\u2019ve already dealt with my heartache over Rory\u2019s response, his refusal to accept the role of father. He insists this child will be adopted. The best I can do, in the end, is to ensure my baby has two parents to shower them with love. I\u2019m hugely unnerved because I know the police arrive here as men, not just policemen. They\u2019re curious about paintings of my naked pregnancy. Their eyes scan my body, return to the paintings, then fall back to me again. I feel them undress me in their minds, confirming their imagination through the paintings. The fact that they struggle to interpret Rory\u2019s messages offers a challenge they\u2019re trying to confront. A slow smile grows on their lips. I\u2019ve begun to wonder how long we\u2019ll be safe in this town. I begin to wonder if I\u2019m safe here at all.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe should move, Rory,\u201d I say after they\u2019ve left. \u201cI think we\u2019d do better in a bigger city, a place that\u2019s large enough for people like us to blend into the crowds.\u201d In this small town, his long red hair and being a painter makes him stand out. There aren\u2019t many artists here.
\n\u201cIt\u2019s a lot of hassle to move, Elke. I don\u2019t think I\u2019m ready to do that.\u201d
\n\u201cBut the people here don\u2019t understand us. They certainly don\u2019t approve of us.\u201d
\nTell him all of it, the voice tells me. Tell him about your fears.
\n\u201cThis whole situation, with the cops coming to our door in the middle of the night, creeps me right out. They\u2019re not just looking at your paintings, you know. They\u2019re looking at the two of us. They think we\u2019re doing something they should stop. They\u2019re looking for something they can prosecute.\u201d
\n\u201cThey\u2019re just being pervs.\u201d
\n\u201cAnd that\u2019s another reason. Are you comfortable with that? Because I\u2019m not. With the way they stare at the nudes and me\u2026.\u201d
\n\u201cThey\u2019re performing. They\u2019re strutting. They wouldn\u2019t dare do anything.\u201d
\n\u201cI don\u2019t know that for sure. I don\u2019t think you do, either. Besides, this isn\u2019t about flying under their radar under our own roof. They have no right to intimidate us in our own home like that. We have a right to be who we are without feeling hassled for it. I think a bigger city, like Toronto, or Vancouver, or Montreal, would accept us as artists.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rory turns to me then. After a moment, he puts down his brush and comes to where I sit shaking. He pulls me to his chest and wraps his arms around me, kissing the top of my head. I relax against his body, hugging him. He heard my tone of voice. He recognized it.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re okay. You\u2019re okay, Elke. They won\u2019t do anything to us.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat I\u2019m saying goes for our neighbours, too, though\u2014not just the police. Everyone here disapproves of my pregnancy.\u201d It became more obvious as my pregnancy progressed. I don\u2019t trust anyone in this town to deal with me appropriately any longer. \u201cRory, I don\u2019t feel safe anymore.\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d he whispers into my hair. \u201cYou\u2019re right, , you shouldn\u2019t be afraid, especially in your own home.\u201d
\nI lean back, looking up into his face.
\n\u201cBut that\u2019s just it. They\u2019re sniffing at our door, testing our fears.\u201d
\n\u201cI know. But they need a reason to enter, unless we let them in. From now on, I just won\u2019t let them enter. Okay?\u201d
\n\u201cThey won\u2019t like that. Hell, it might be even more dangerous than just letting then in . Can we please consider moving to a bigger city?\u201d
\nHe laughs, giving me a squeeze. \u201cOkay. We\u2019ll look into it as soon as the baby is born. Everything is set up here, right now, but hiding in the crowds of Toronto does sound good.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
One day, the landlord himself shows up to visit. I\u2019m not talking about the security guard who lives in the basement and acts as our superintendent\u2014a title that exaggerates his role in collecting our rent. I\u2019m talking about Mr. John Irving, known to his elite friends as Jack. He\u2019s a man who wears thousand-dollar suits. He\u2019s one of Canada’s richest men. His family has banked billions off-shore through the oil industry. I open the door to his knock, and I\u2019m surprised to see him standing in our rundown hallway. No, let us be precise. I should say he\u2019s standing in his own rundown, rooming house hallway. He owns lots of properties like this one, corner lots that can be turned into gas stations. I invite him in, not quite knowing what else to do.<\/p>\n
\u201cWould you like a tea?\u201d<\/p>\n
Rory puts down his brushes as the man enters and walks over to shake his hand. They say their how-do-you-dos. Mr. Irving is on his best behaviour in our humble abode. I seat him in our only chair, while Rory and I sit on two wooden orange crates at our kitchen table. Our unexpected visitor is already scanning the walls as we chat, openly praising Rory\u2019s figures. He likes the slant of light in one, the contrast between forms in another. We begin to foster a slight hope. Mr. Irving says he really likes a quick ink-brushed portrait of me tacked on the wall close to our kitchen area. It\u2019s obvious he\u2019s scouting for art. Clearly, he\u2019s come to sit in our studio\/living room to check out Rory\u2019s paintings. Someone\u2019s talk about the paintings on our walls has reached his ears. What a lucky coup that one of his tenants is a bona fide artist. A list of unavoidable questions brought him here to check things out for himself. But it isn’t long before his taste becomes obvious. It doesn\u2019t fall in line with what he sees on our walls. Long before our little t\u00eate \u00e0 t\u00eate is over, Rory and I realize we\u2019re out of luck.
\n
\n
\n\u201cI see a lot of talent in these pieces, Rory. I admit, I was curious when I first heard about you. I hoped your paintings were less explicit than these pregnant nudes, and nothing quite so political as your other pieces.\u201d
\n\u201cI paint what I see, in the room or the political realm. Sometimes I paint what influenced me as a person through family connections, such as pregnant nudes or the shipyards in Glasgow where my grandfather and uncles worked until they died. The political stuff is important. It needs to be given room to exist too.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rory glances at me and smiles. Mr. Irving smiles, deciding he can afford to be blunt.<\/p>\n
\u201cI appreciate that. I\u2019m just not seeing anything that\u2019s quite my taste here. Maybe I\u2019ll come back this way in a few months. Will you paint something with a mother and child after the baby\u2019s born? My wife has to like the piece too.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mr. Irving looks at me and smiles with something approaching kindness.
\nRory returns his smile politely. Sometimes saying nothing speaks volumes. We all know\u2014Mr. Irving included\u2014he won’t be crossing our threshold again. That\u2019s the lie of polite conversation. He\u2019s at least three times our age. His life follows a trajectory that\u2019s completely contrary to ours. He doesn’t express disapproval, but abandons his humble pretense of appreciation after a few sips of black tea. Rory doesn\u2019t say so, but he\u2019s got his back up. He won’t paint what Irving wants on principle. Rory\u2019s best friend, Noel, may have tried to, but not Rory. It goes against the grain. Besides, I\u2019ve already made the arrangement for our child to be adopted.
\nMr. Irving doesn’t finish his tea. After he leaves, I dare to say something about his request to Rory. But it’s like remarking on a sliver of light peeking around the edges of a closed door. I\u2019ll never be a mother in our relationship. I\u2019m only speaking to my indecision.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not sure I can give up the baby, Rory. Its too much like its a part of me now, a part of you\u2014\u201d
\n\u201cBabies don\u2019t belong in an artist\u2019s studio,\u201d he insists. \u201cYou can’t keep it.\u201d<\/p>\n
That\u2019s how little ownership he takes in our child’s conception. It\u2019s so unlike every other aspect of our relationship, but his opinion hasn\u2019t changed since I first told him I was pregnant. In every conversation he calls it my baby, never owning his part in creating it. In a moment of frustration, I start to weep silently. I grumble aloud, more to myself than anything.<\/p>\n
\u201cTell that to Picasso\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
I\u2019m thinking about how Picasso fathered babies both early and much later in his life. Rory has returned his attention entirely back to his painting, ignoring my grief. I\u2019ve been living with the similarities between Rory and Gulley Jimson, a character in Joyce Cary\u2019s novel The Horse\u2019s Mouth. Gulley is a much older and more eccentric painter, and Rory is a young man, not yet out of his teens, but I can\u2019t ignore the parallels. Rory\u2019s art is more important than anything else in his day-to-day life, and his dearest friendships have all begun to suffer for his art.<\/p>\n
I think about how he and I suffer in these bare rooms. He quit working at Glidden\u2019s paint factory shortly after I started to receive my Mothers Allowance cheques. We split what\u2019s designed to support one pregnant adult between two adults these days. I\u2019ve come face-to-face with a huge decision, the hard choice between keeping the child and losing its father, or giving the baby up to stay a couple. I decided early on to surrender my baby for adoption. Every child needs two parents. I pray whoever adopts my baby will welcome and love it wholly. Rory and I are so poor, we’re often hungry. Keeping my child would mean hunger, whether Rory stayed or not. It weighs on me. Giving the child up means losing all contact with them, having no knowledge of their future. I\u2019ve been told I must sign legal papers declaring I won\u2019t attempt to locate or see them in the future. That\u2019s what makes me hesitate.<\/p>\n
Wordlessly, I pick up our teacups and carry them to the kitchen down the hall. In Rory\u2019s mind, the matter has been settled. As for me, as I run soapy water into the sink to wash our teacups, my body continues in its biological role, producing new life as nature designed. Cell splits with cell at my core and they multiply quickly. The baby is developing as a simple physical function, both within and completely apart from anything to do with me.<\/p>\n
The truth is that I haven’t completely made up my mind regarding my next step. I\u2019ve arranged for adoption, but I\u2019ll wait for my baby’s arrival to make the final decision. Perhaps there\u2019s a solution to my dilemma I haven\u2019t considered yet. In the back of my mind, I\u2019m considering baby names. Still, I shiver with the ugliest anticipation, when anyone knocks on our door after midnight.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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