Gillian hadn’t met Hubert until immediately before the interview in the studio. In their initial conversation, he had laid into television for ruining his pictures, and eyed her shamelessly. Under the lights he asked her if she fancied having a drink with him afterward, and she declined.
Don’t worry, he said with a mocking smile, I’m not thinking of painting you. It sounded like an insult.
By the time the recording was in the can, Hubert was already gone, and even though he had irked Gillian, she still felt disappointed. As Tania was cleaning off her makeup, she showed Gillian a little sketch he’d done of her, nothing wonderful, but Gillian was still annoyed about it.
Matthias wasn’t home, so she fixed herself a sandwich and went into her office. She clicked on Hubert’s website. The only entry under “News” was something about a group exhibition two years ago. Under “Who am I?” she found a photo of Hubert no bigger than a postage stamp, and a short biography. He had done an apprenticeship as a sign painter and then gone back to school. There followed a series of obscure grants and scholarships and group shows he had taken part in. Gillian clicked on “Gallery.” There were five pictures of unoccupied rooms: an office, a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. In all the pictures it was nighttime, and the rooms were dimly lit. Although not much could be seen, Gillian still had the sense that there was someone in all the rooms, hiding in a corner or else behind the onlooker. Under the pictures it said they were crayon on paper, and their dimensions were fifteen by twenty-one centimeters. They seemed to be older than the series of nudes. Under “Contact,” she found an e-mail address.
What was she going to say to Hubert? Why didn’t he want to paint her? She spent a long time staring out the window, then she selected as sender Miss Julie, an account she had acquired in order to send anonymous e-mails. Each time she used it, she felt she really was someone else, as though she was back to playing the part of the irresponsible and yet determined character in Strindberg’s play. She remembered the graduation show at drama school, and even some of her lines. When I really feel like dancing, I want someone who knows how to lead. There had been a lot of applause. When it was over she felt she could do anything. Looking at photographs of the production later, she saw a scrawny-looking girl with a silly face and staring eyes.
Not thinking anymore, she wrote to Hubert that she admired his work and was sorry not to see any newer pictures of his posted on his home page. After a brief hesitation she wrote: And as I’ve just seen, you’re good-looking as well. She signed herself Julie, and pressed Send.
When she went to bed, Matthias still wasn’t home. She woke at five and saw him lying beside her. She thought of Hubert and imagined meeting him in his studio. She knocked, he opened the door and showed her in. Without taking off her raincoat, she walked through the room and looked around. The studio looked like something from an old Hollywood film, with high windows, a potbellied stove, and a big easel. Hubert watched her with the blunt curiosity that had struck her in the course of their interview, and pointed to an old leather sofa. She ignored him and stepped up to the window through which she could see the rooftops of the city, and away in the distance, the Eiffel Tower. There were dark rain clouds in the sky, but at the horizon the cloud cover was broken and the sun shone through and illuminated the pale gray roofs of the city with its dazzling light. Gillian heard Hubert walk up behind her. Finally she turned around and took off her raincoat. Underneath she had on a simple black dress. He smiled, took her coat, and tossed it over a chair back. Then he picked up a notebook and a charcoal crayon from a low table, and started drawing. Gillian shut her eyes. She heard the scratch of charcoal over the paper.
Matthias turned over. Gillian quietly got up and went out onto the balcony. Although it was cold, she didn’t feel it. It was daybreak, the birds were rowing, it all sounded as though she was in a glass bowl. In the distance she heard the occasional sounds of sparse traffic and the shunting of locomotives.
Before long, Hubert and Gillian were writing to each other every day. Matthias wondered why she was checking her e-mail all the time. She shrugged. Under cover of her pseudonym, Gillian asked Hubert why he wanted his models to undress when he claimed their bodies didn’t interest him. He answered in almost identical words to those he had used at the interview, so she didn’t believe him. He wrote about the encounter as part of the process, of the right moment, of the impossibility of planning. He asked her for her picture. Gillian wrote back that she didn’t have any photographs of herself.
Have we ever met?
Gillian didn’t see his e-mail till the next morning. She had to go to Hamburg for a couple of days to record a feature about an elderly writer who had produced a kind of autobiography. Her flight didn’t leave until midday, and she was still in bed when Matthias left for work. He kissed her goodbye.
She had slept badly and felt depressed without knowing why. Even before her first cup of coffee, she sat down at the computer. She told Hubert that she didn’t want to model for him. She had imagined him taking her photograph in her apartment and it hadn’t felt right. Not the nudity, but his presence in her apartment, his looking around and making a picture of her life. No hard feelings.
She drank her coffee and smoked a cigarette. While she showered, she imagined Hubert painting her portrait. She looked around his studio. He pointed to an old leather sofa. Without taking off her coat, she sat down. He took a chair, sat down facing her, and started sketching her. After a time he put down his sketchbook and appeared irresolute. At last he said, very softly so that she barely understood, she could change behind the partition.
When Gillian reappeared, naked, from behind the partition, Hubert was just loading film into a big camera. Not looking up, he asked her to lie on the sofa with a book. He peered into the camera’s viewfinder, she couldn’t see his eyes, but sensed his cold, prying look.
Gillian packed her traveling bag. She still had time, and checked her e-mails. Hubert had written back already. He wrote that if she didn’t want to be photographed in her apartment, they could meet at his studio. You’re giving yourself away, she thought, you’re changing the rules as you’re going along.
Their e-mails were batted back and forth in double-quick time.
Are you alone?
You wish.
So you are.
Now you’re taking advantage of me.
How so?
You’re imagining me.
What alternative do I have if you refuse to show yourself to me?
Why do you only paint women? And why naked?
This time it took longer for an answer to come. His answer disappointed Gillian. She thought a moment, typed a question, deleted it. Wrote it again.
Do you sleep with your models?
When she fired off the e-mail, there was another one from Hubert. He wrote that the model’s nakedness created upset, disturbance, erotic tension. Art was the harnessing of this energy in a painting.
Gillian regretted her question now. Again, Hubert’s answer took a while.
Shall we meet?
That’s unprofessional.
Shall we meet?
You’re repeating yourself.
Life is repetition.
No.
Then what do you want?
Gillian thought. She typed her answer, read it back, and smiled as she pressed Send. She didn’t wait for his reply and switched off the computer. The sound of the ventilator ceased, and the apartment became very quiet.