Portrait of Lotte (April 2022)

A pair of circular gold-rimmed glasses is removed from a face. The face is hers. It is just before we commence, or dive into, the portrait, and yet it starts the piece. She had already sat with Kid O, my eldest child, on her lap and had spoken to One briefly, after being welcomed into our home, and we had arrived upstairs and settled down for something artistic.

Here we are together, Lotte and I, finally. Having her before me felt dreamlike. When she talks, somehow, it both bursts and preserves the bubble, the moment, forever.

Lotte starts by saying she is normally more talkative and is, needlessly, worried her English language skills will not be up to scratch for this. One of the reasons I asked her to sit for a portrait is her extraordinary English ability. An exceedingly special young woman – she recently turned twenty-one – sits before me. We have changed positions twice already (a la musical chairs), as I chase the best light while the sun plays games with us, but she is now sitting close to the double window. One window is open, and a pleasant spring breeze is drifting in, wafting the loose net curtain, as Lotte patiently sits and perhaps wonders exactly what I am writing. The sun has gone behind a cloud. I cannot see the cloud nor the sun, but I know this because the golden light no longer dapples her soft, heavenly smooth cheek as it did only a moment before.

I stop writing while we discuss being in one’s twenties and enjoying being young and that sense of exploratory freedom that can lead to the discovery of one’s identity. Lotte is sharp and easy to talk to. The wind is now picking up and sending the curtains into a vicious dance behind her.

She does not fidget or show grandiose signs of discomfort or apprehension. There are minor tics and tell-tale signs of her age, but she glows, exuding the charm that had pushed me to her portrait, tipped me over the edge of something, into something greater, far beyond asking her and her acceptance. She has a luminosity that I had to get to, even if only for a moment and no more.

The scent of her perfume had enshrouded me upon her entering the house, throwing a spell. She has faintly discernible shiny lip gloss on, as if it had been faintly visited across her lips, a luscious meeting taking place.

Lotte is wearing a grey sleeveless woollen jumper and a long-sleeved white t-shirt underneath. She has incredibly straight light brown hair on this occasion – that goes lighter in the summer – and she confesses it is blow dried for the desired effect. Her natural hair is a little wavier. She has never dyed her hair before. She has a simple black designer label belt – a globally-renowned pair of letters that when stood beside one another immediately tell everyone something quite specific. She is wearing a silver necklace with a 3cm rectangle hanging down. It is simple, elegant – even sophisticated – and it sums up the object of my attention well. She is as impressive to share a room with as I had previously imagined her to be.

At home, she wears more comfortable clothes. Now, she has black skin-tight jeans and white socks (and the black guest slippers we had given her upon arrival), and her outfit is completed with a large wristwatch with silver mesh bracelet, a silver ring on her right hand on the wedding ring finger (on my left side), and four earrings in her ears, two in each – a silver stud in her right ear a little above a silver dangling hoop. On her left ear two small similar dangling hoops sit close together. I get the impression that Lotte is still seeking to find her preferred style, very much trying on different hats.

All of Lotte’s fashion choices seem simplistic, elegant, and notably undemanding. Lotte already knows less is more and that amateur dramatics get nowhere. She is comfortable in her young shell though it hasn’t yet settled, no discernible fanfare characteristics, precisely the type of person that draws me in, subtly calling for my attention, all kinds of beauty the calling card for a deeper perusal of her charms. Further exploration still would be a pleasure indeed.

When I ask if Lotte thinks she looks German, she replies, ‘yes!’ and refers to her own ‘organised look,’ also stating that when she gets a tan on holiday people have thought she might be Mediterranean in heritage. I for one would love to see her with a creamier brown complexion and floating along in a summer dress (she later tells me she wears dresses more in the summertime) as she took it where she went.

I had only ever seen her on a video screen – so, face, shoulders, and upper body – and in the distance in her office, and she clearly possessed a breath-taking beauty. It had always been her face and hair drawing my eyes to her and hoping that one day my pen might write, and that those words would be for, about, and of her. However, it is rarely if ever the same when coinciding, reality possessing a savage kick that dreams seldom do. Now, the light is dancing around her, playing on her features – elements I could admire for hours – and changing them. I am also playing with this moment, a ball for my creativity.

She is 1.73m, her shape exquisite, calming to observe. Her gestures are measured and there is nothing theatrical or over the top about her, no fake appearance, no bells or whistles, just plainly superior, undiluted, unfiltered, unending beauty. She is ‘mildly’ curvy. She will state this, and I will simply admire her accuracy.

I ask about her day. She concisely informs me of her day in nigh on perfect English. It’s what impresses me about her so much. Her magic from the computer screen is augmented in the here and now. She is like an elegant oil painting come to life, well developed and communicative as she is, calm and alluring to boot. She tells me she is capable of living in the moment, something she proves by sitting for this very portrait (something many are afraid of, reluctant to do, or simply fail to sufficiently understand).

I ask her to turn sideways, and she obliges me. Her nose is neither big nor small, standing out only as a feature that demands no greater attention. Her eyebrows sit prominently, but stylishly shaped. Her teeth and mouth are effortlessly fashioned, as if by a master sculptor.

She is now sitting straight, not staring at me but cautiously pondering the silence that we have slipped into, which is now whispering – telling us to get a bottle to put this moment, this taste, its specific flavour, inside. When I start to smile at what I am writing, with my head down, Lotte breaks into a laugh and our gentle noise, now shared, penetrates the silence, moving it to the side. Laughter will later devour the room again.

There was not a blemish on her creamy, smooth pink-white skin, her exterior a faultless surface, an almost opposite to the moon. The way her facial contours caught the sun’s rays as it had sprayed stripes across her features – hurtling down through the windows as it did – and onto her tender face was mesmerising. It sent a tingle down the spine, a shiver making itself known, another spell cast. Her face and the sun, her body motionless, gently breathing, possibly revelling in the peace and quiet of the portrait, of the statuesque moment, the clock paused.

Lotte smiles when I talk of the portrait idea. Her smile is loaded with sweetness, warmth, patience, and a nervousness that unveils her true nature – no longer in the safe surroundings of our normal environment. She has done splendidly, in this new setting, a strange room in a home she never knew before. Giving things a chance, as she had done here, meant anything was possible. I thank her for showing a different side of herself – vulnerability that comes through uncertainty.

She has a centre parting – a strict curtain of German hair falling either side of her face – and a swirling cacophony of colour in her eyes. Those orbs of predominantly green, with mascara adding a stunning shimmer there, are aqueous, foreign, unknown quantities. There, lives excitement, restraint, and flourishing intelligence. A woman soaking up her surroundings and every drop of the richness life has to offer her.

Her eyes are absorbing and intriguing, added dimensions of her uncovered in person, here in the room with me. Her eyes are murky and entrancing, even invitational waters. This had never quite been visible through the modern wonder of the video screen, her eyes now flourishing, beckoning me, previously unvisited flavours there. These eyes I would need to gaze upon for longer – a plethora of hours to have any chance of encapsulating her essence – for me to stand any chance of calculating mathematically this sublime equation. 

She moves her finger attentively through the lower part of her hair, ensuring that every strand falls in line together, one army of hair, a wall, a single body, a slick mass. Her hair falls to the pinnacle of her breasts. Her eyes have a faint trace of tiredness, a delicate openness that’s beguiling, intoxicating, lends me to wonder if it is her or simply her age. She observes me when I look up at her, her mouth twitches – a glimpse of nervousness, of the occasion, of her young years and all that goes with that? Was the meeting unmasking the heavenly creature before me? Was that not part of its very purpose?

How can I do her justice? I hope for such grandiose things for her. I want her future to somehow sprawl out across these pages and for people to see and read and know this self-confessed far-from-perfect cherub who is still calmly seated before me. She is a masterpiece of a new exhibition, and I am a mere spectator.

Unusually composed for her age, even in the internet epoch, she voices her sometime contemplation that she should perhaps be having a little more fun at her stage of life. It’s impossible not to encourage her to do so.

She was a young woman brimming with, even sparkling, bursting at the seams, with endless potential. Lotte was ever evolving and expanding – and rightly so – a flourishing spirit, bigger than Munich, greater than her boyfriend, grander than her job and its title. Only a picture frame could hold her in, as art lives forever.

 

 

Portrait of Jakob (April 2022)

This portrait, uniquely, starts its life in a moving vehicle. Jakob is on the left side at the steering wheel – because that is how we roll here in Europe – as we hunt for a parking space and a place to sit and share a dialogue.

Shortly after, I am sitting at a small table with Jakob. He is in his leisure clothes, for comfort, he tells me. The plan to meet near his home did not come off, the train driver taking the train from its platform before the new arrivals from the late bus, including myself, had had a chance to board, and Jakob had had to come and pick me up, showing off his improvisational skills. We had shared a short adventure to get to the centre of a small town and find a bar in which to have a drink.

Jakob has apologised for being dressed in such a manner and for having not had a shave, but the rough-hewn human before me is perfectly ripe for the portrait treatment. He takes a call, to talk to a work colleague in his native German, and he looks calm, peaceful, serene. Life is good here.

We have an incredibly intense, in depth and fascinating dialogue about growing up, rushing into things (that which people excelled at), travelling, exploring being young. He mentions his older twenty-something cousin who he is meeting later today and the role model that his cousin is to him.

Jakob has an abundant beard, the kind of thicket nothing could get out of once inside. I tell him that blond and ginger are fighting for territory there. He tells me he sees it as more of a brown (preferred) than ginger (less desirable), we haggle, and he convinces me it does have brown in there and the three colours are coexisting. I see Jakob and his general aspect as being that of a blond man, and he has a beard that is tidily trimmed. He checks his calendar to see when his rejection from a potential film extra role happened. That was last November, and he’s been growing his facial hair since.

He then touches on his desire to travel, to move out, to spread his twenty-two-year-old wings and see what exists beyond his present sphere. He states that he is like his dad, with strong beliefs and morals, and that he cannot hold his tongue and there is a resultant clash between the two only known by echoing characters. Jakob doesn’t waste smiles – his are natural, easy, filtering into the conversation in a way that lends an air of tranquillity, of authenticity, and of curiosity. He could go far. It’s no wonder that travelling – and God knows where – is calling him. The sky is the limit.

He describes his dog, Snoopy, as a dark black-haired Labrador and his ‘spirit animal’ who is ‘ridiculously photogenic,’ and Jakob is disappointed we are not at his house to introduce me as we had planned to be.

Our conversation attends to politics, TV, the war in Ukraine, inevitably, and more, as we roam the conversational landscape. Jakob is ever calm, his voice constant, restrained yet never monotonous, more reassuring. There may be little undulation – less dramatic dynamics than other more confident or extroverted folks – but he has much to offer conversationally, even as a character. His soft drink is three quarters untouched.

He has on a short-sleeved t-shirt – blue with white lines that I find difficult to describe. He has a hairy chest only detectable owing to the V-neck. His arms are almost lit up with an abundance of golden pin-like hairs, a minor forest there. Jakob’s hair is neatly chopped. He has a side parting on his right (my left), and he has used his hand to brush it over and to the left (his right). He tells me he applies styling wax and that yesterday he did sport with his ‘nerd friends’, insisting that they all are precisely that, himself included, and clearly liking the label. It is important to add that he is a metalhead by heart and wishes to have long hair. He says he has ‘many nerd friends’ about his fellow gaming buddies and states they have fun playing and getting up to all manner of antics together.

He is 1,92m. I knew he would be tall, towering over me, and he was. He is also quite a muscular physical presence, and he offered his handshake when first we had met. This seemed extraordinary after the lack of contact of the pandemic. Were we finally emerging from that? Had Jakob arrived to signal that as well as have his portrait done? Was just a meeting setting us all free or was I reading too much into it?

He is wearing green cargo trousers with a dog’s paw print on them, scruffy trainers, and black socks. His complexion is fair, he looks German, and his eyes are blue but also brown with a dash of green depending on the day.

He tells me he has read a text in which Julius Caesar describes barbarians as looking almost identical to himself. He also goes on to say that in the days of Caesar if it got too hot the barbarians wanted to just lay in the shade. He certainly sees himself that way. He is incredibly easy to talk to, for a barbarian that is. To the point at which the occasion is calling for me to write and stop such an active dialogue with him. He is both fuelling the fire and stopping it from flourishing. He keeps talking – at ease with me as he clearly is – relishing storytelling, or not wanting to sit in silence. Nevertheless, he makes his own artwork a fascinating one.

Jakob tells me I have been great company as we drive to the station together, the portrait in motion once more, to cease our short, sharp but sweet afternoon in each other’s company, a wonderful two hours passed together (probably the only two hours in which we will ever be physically present in the same bubble).

We had shared a mini adventure, experiencing fun and laughter, curiosity, and fascination. Dialogue had been easy, comfortable, challenging, Jakob being precisely the young man I had hoped he would be – an open book, a brilliant mind, a talker, a listener, anything but statuesque, despite his placid nature and minimal movements (he was not sloth-like and something else lurked under his surface, like a human scratch card with the good stuff simply demanding a little scratching to reveal). His portrait had followed a week after Lotte’s and that I knew them from the same work environment and saw certain similarities between them made perfect sense to me even after observing, admiring, and shaping them into word sculptures.

Jakob had delivered me to the station, talked to me while we had waited for my bus, and checked I departed safely (or made sure he got rid of me!). It had been thoroughly entertaining, and indicative of what Jakob is open to and capable of; for once I had invested my energy in the right people – both he and Lotte.

The portrait had started and ended with a funny drive and a chat, a whistle-stop encounter. It was all a bit ramshackle, as I look back at it over my shoulder, but there’s nothing whatsoever wrong with that and it only shows how Jakob was the perfect subject and partner in crime for such a spontaneous voyage.

The journey never really ends though. The portrait on wheels had stopped for a moment, as if it had taxied to the runway and was paused, waiting, primed for take-off. Imagine, if you will, a painting framed on the sides and the base of the portrait. The top, the lid, remaining absent, Jakob about to fly off to other climes.