Portrait of Téa

She was one of the most ferocious women I’d ever seen. That her ferocity was inspired by injustice, people’s hatred of others, racism, sexism, and (let us not beat around the bush) criminal politicians just went to say how current and overgrown issues needed a cyber ambassador. They required someone to fight the corner and spread the news as the press seldom did in a non-diluted or unbiased way. She was extraordinary. This woman did not lean to favour anyone for her own gain, she saw social injustice and addressed it, albeit in her rather unique and scathing, cynical, venomous tone.

She was scathing, taking her axe like tongue to every political wrong and its perpetrators (possessors of immobile ideas and beliefs, crippling the people) with remarkable vitriol. If it was violence, it was to improve, to protect. It was self-defence for and of life. She couldn’t remain silent if paid to do so and her videos demonstrated that. Her moral compass was intact, whether people subsequently called her a whore or not.

She was also rather fetching and had swarms of cyber lunatics (maybe ones made of flesh and bones, you know, real, tangible stalkers, too) as well as, I do not doubt, legitimate and more gentlemanly admirers getting in line to take a closer look. She was an online female political Morrissey – she caused a reaction, and a wide range of them at that. Her following was large, a voice folk could relate to, one of the masses, one not fashioned by wealth and self-aggrandisement. At times, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was one of a kind. Who could really say that?

The fact that she was, through my artist’s eyes, and in my relative way of seeing things, better looking than many girlfriends, spouses and partners meant she received a great deal of threats and verbal carnage online from creatures and savages who were intimidated by her strength, beauty, and intelligence. It was a problem from the off. That she had a mind of her own, and spoke it, frightened people to their cores. That she communicated her sentiments so vehemently, in what can only truly be described as a confrontational manner, meant they were literally quaking in their boots, attacking back as their only form of defence, of self-protection. She wasn’t even after many of them, just things they believed in perhaps. If, as they say, you cannot take the heat, get out of the kitchen – here, the realm of the internet. They were panicked by her fortitude, her guile, her directness. She was a modern woman. Not one to be feared but admired for her singular approach. I could see how it might be intimidating, but here was a woman that warranted some positive energy, some love, some kindness, even if she was not your jam.

Her blonde hair flowed down in waves, enticing, elegant, in contrast to her X-rated vocabulary. She was real, even in her 3D Twitter dimension. She came out of the device upon which I watched her, larger than life, daring, dangerous, delectable. The internet was all bite or be bitten, but I was trying to look past the confrontation at the heart of her message and its cause. It wasn’t to fill boredom; it was that the government had let them – millions of beings – down. Underline that, motherfuckers!

She was steely, sometimes in the face of brutal online assaults (even needing to vanish occasionally to recover from the attack she was under), and her blatant use of the F-word, one of her weapons, as well as its even rougher sibling the C-word (sometimes), made it hard to digest some of her content, for she made videos and tweeted throughout the day. Maybe her language rubbed people up the wrong way, instigating more extreme reactions. But she was also onto something. She was getting her message across as she knew how. She was a pied piper with over a hundred thousand followers. People listened because she, unlike the politicians that led us toward the abyss, cared.

You could not conform to people’s – nay, society’s – expected standards, unless you were weak (are you brainwashed?). She was incapable of backing down. You had to admire it. She was driven by justice and expressing her disdain for and highlighting the endless stream of poor decisions by the current UK government. It meant something to not let it pass on by. Her videos were a tough watch, yet somehow essential, inescapable, works of lethal love. She was diminutive but utterly explosive.

How did she walk down the street, what mood was she in when she woke up in the morning, what sounds did she make as she ate? I had more questions than answers, which meant my work was never done.

Her green marble whirlpool eyes glistened as if tears were never far despite her steeliness, her resolute determination in the face of modern virtual madness, her axe-like language, and even physical gestures. Her middle finger never far from being extended. She was cartoon-esque, thrilling, inspirational. She was a glorious handful on a quest for justice, and little else mattered.

I was fascinated, wondered what the atmosphere would be like if she were sat down in front of me, we had a beer – or other alcoholic beverage – to bring us together, and a dialogue that I knew for sure I could far from predict. She was a live wire, crackling with electricity, a dazzling dragon, and anything, anything at all could happen.

She was getting better with age. She possessed a radiance, a humanity that earlier photos of her in life had shown to be lacking (then she was tunnelling; now she was revealed, in the great outdoors, alert, aware of the hunt). She was worldly, knowing more, even too much, about how the world worked, its pros and cons, the place she wanted to take in it, and she fit it more than she ever had. The past, shaping us, evolving us, giving us riches and ruin. It was all there in her, a possessor of truth and treasure. She wanted to be proud of her homeland, but they had made it too difficult, and I was unable to do anything but agree on this. I lived abroad and Brexit had done nothing to make me feel closer at hand. Britain, ever the island, was pushed ever further out to sea, lost, isolated, cutting its nose off. It was meandering, drifting, aimless in its course. She knew all of this, knew how it could be corrected, but women and men in high places do not see such issues of the ants, the mere pests (they claim to serve) they abandon on topic after topic as they, on their thrones atop their sky-scraping ivory towers watch us mere mortals far down below. We knew, though. We had the key. We knew what they were up to. They were watching us nowadays, in an Orwellian nightmare becoming ever more our dystopian reality. There was no waking from this. And they were watching us. Téa and I knew. Millions of others knew. Others were waking up to it, too. Only, now, we were watching back. Téa’s voice was ringing loud and clear, an ambassador for the oblivious. If they were coming for us, we were coming for them, too.   

Connected to this literary portrait is the artwork with number DJS00004 above.

Both works by Dominic J Stevenson (for more details contact me on dominicjstevenson@yahoo.co.uk)

The Stripped-Down Portrait (Autumn 2022)

We discuss where to commence and in the end it just happens. I aid in undressing the model, but it never veers off and into the sexual. It is so uncertain, and it doesn’t seem possible to enjoy the moment. Soon, she stands before me completely naked and more comfortable than I had imagined she might be. Now, as I sit and look at her and wonder where to place my eyes – exactly – not that I haven’t seen female nudity many times before, she starts to ponder the experience, voicing some of her sensations.

She is facing me. Her hair is tied back, her ponytail falling in front of her shoulder, her nipples are large, consuming the lower area of her ample breasts. They hang like succulent fleshy droplets, fruit ripe and waiting to be plucked from their tree, raindrops desperate to plummet towards earth and shatter upon the ground.

She has been standing, allowing me to simply admire her in this new state. Now, she moves over to and takes a seat upon her sofa.

She is presently half sitting, half lying, her upright upper body neither too stiff nor overly relaxed. She appears comfortable, talkative, nothing at all forced. It’s almost identical to a standard portrait, the absent clothes not spoiling anything. I proffer that she might be a willing participant for modelling nude for an artist class, but it smacks of something a little too open to any kind of unwanted attention and spotlight to her. She prefers the intimacy of the one-on-one treatment, and you can’t blame her for that.

We discuss skinny dipping and her naked experience at a German spa, where it felt natural given everybody else being in the same state. Her figure is well toned, a fit, healthy, and vibrant woman in her mid-forties.

Her face is glowing with an almost youthful exuberance, the shared experience bringing out her colour, perhaps a mix of excitement, nervousness, and embarrassment a cocktail of emotions as she is surprised, stated again, at how easy it is to be naked with an artist – myself fully clothed – and being written about in such a state of undress.

The lights are quite low, some curtains are drawn, it is still day outside, and the mood of the room is a relaxed one, somewhere in between a Danish showroom at a lighting company and romantic/sensual. She has shifted position, my unnamed model, legs now facing sideways, sticking out of her body to my left. Her hand is placed on her thigh, concealing her vagina, though it briefly appears as she shifts to have a drink of her tea, or the hair of it at least, and then it is gone again.

One of her arms is now up behind her head in a pose the great impressionists of yore would have loved. It wove its way down like a sublime sculpture. As smooth as the sea when it has nary a ripple, glass-like, as if it were blown by a master glassblower.

Her tummy is toned, muscly but also soft, far from betraying being the body of a mother of two. She is comfortably seated, observing me, looking around, wearing the room, the scenario, the moment, if not bedecked in a stitch. It must be liberating.

She grows silent, also looking at me, listening to the room, how her new outfit speaks to her, what it comments upon her nakedness, to how it admires her willingness. She asks me if she is hairy down there – what do I know? – but it is not the easiest question to answer as the feeling exists that there is a required answer to such queries. And… is not everything relative?

She walks out of the room (unrelated to the previous question and my less than forthcoming answer – I did say it was not overly hairy), with a clear tan line on her bottom, which is peach-like, a succulent posterior as it powers gently through the room. Her body is compact, beautiful, as warm as the perfectly dimmed Scandinavian lighting.

She re-enters the room, asks if she should sit down, and as she is willing (maybe she was pushing me to ask her to stand) she remains on her feet and slowly moves her weight from one foot to the other repeatedly as though a silent song does it to her.

Behind the dense dark blond hair of her vagina are thick, full, rich lips protruding, requesting passion, attention, endless desire, puckering up for touch and feel.

Her hips draw out to where the outer edges of her lower bikini tan line live – for now – and as she gently shuffles sideways (a pendulum style rocking) she appears more petite than when she is fully clothed. There is the vulnerability not of our characters, but that which our nudity represents.

Her belly button goes inside, as if to take anyone peering at it to the interior behind the walls of skin, where her womb once held a body and then another. There are some tiny scars nearby as well as a few small moles. Her whole body is one of a younger woman, mostly smooth, soft to the eye, easy to look at, to devour complete.

When the topic of ‘cellulite’ is brought up – by her, of course, what do you think I am, crazy? – she states that she hopes she doesn’t have any. Cue a brief joke from the artist that leads to the model wishing she had not brought it up. It’s a little banter that might not ordinarily be possible, not with most other people. But… Is it not to deny her age, her life on earth, what her body has lived until now to wish cellulite away?

I become aware – as I write, looking at the page – I am looking down and not admiring the wonderful naked female body in front of me. This is one of the disadvantages of a naked portrait with words. Her bottom is in front of me, legs stretching, tiptoeing feet, as she tries to make herself look taller or just stretches out her limbs, so they don’t get stiff. She stares into the distance, a deliberate, slight rotation, like a pig on a spit, only slower, only vertically, full of life, far from overheated, and much prettier, of course.

I now see the side of her shapely breasts. They hang a couple of inches below where they emerge from her lower chest as she reaches down to touch something, the breasts stealing the limelight. The position is pure modelling – not sexual, not enticing, just a simple display, a demonstration of the body that had been (and normally was) beneath her clothes. This was a perfect example of our lives – our sleeping or hidden sides. How often were they even allowed to surface? Did it always have to be just so, the way society dictated? Our bodies were often craving escape, release from the prison of conformity. Did we let them? Mostly, I would say not. On this occasion, the model had allowed it to happen. We ought to be brave and take a chance a little more often. As this wondrously shapely Danish pixie before me was showing, right now – in all her naked glory – life was very much for the living.

Connected to this literary portrait is the artwork with number DJS00003 above.

Both works by Dominic J Stevenson (for more details contact me on dominicjstevenson@yahoo.co.uk)

Portrait of Audrey (April 2023)

Over a decade after Audrey and I met one another, crossing paths in a Milanese hostel, she is facing me via the computer video screen, sitting in my picture frame, all I can see. She is – from the outskirts of the Danish city where I live to her area in the suburbs of Sydney – approximately 16,197 km away from me.

We often talk, sometimes deep, never shallow, sometimes fall out, and over time, as it stretches out in front of us, we share a great deal of conversational ground. She often appears a close ally despite the phenomenal distance between our continents. Audrey is a luminous, independent, occasionally fierce force, she knows her own mind and has a genuine warmth and kindness, patience, too.

She is surrounded by light, a white space, a mirror behind her, a peaceful aura to the bubble she is at the centre of. She is cleaned up now after having played tennis earlier today. She says she isn’t good at the sport, failing to execute her game plan, knowing what needs doing but that being beyond reach for her. A more regular session would fix it, bringing improvements only continuity can. Her honesty is refreshing. She will later add that she only started in her twenties. She leaves it be by saying she is ‘working on it,’ the desire clearly not lacking.

Audrey feels better today – after getting a temporary crown yesterday to fix a cracked molar, owing to grinding and clenching her teeth. Her dentist had massaged her jaw muscles from outside and she had found it relaxing, wishing he would do a full-scale face massage. He might not like the idea, as one time she accidentally bit him as he had digits inside her mouth. We then discuss healthcare and having it covered, as she does with her job.

Audrey is drinking a cup of dandelion tea in a William and Kate 2011 Royal Wedding mug. She states she has quite a few royal mugs. She adds that she sees the royal family as redundant, and that one family being ordained by God to rule over the people is nonsense. Her connection to the royal family is purely ‘kitsch.’

Audrey’s voice is a thick, sped-up Australian drawl, loquacious indeed. She talks freely, naturally, only later, after the call, telling me the nervousness of the interchange ramped up her speed of delivery. I’ve heard her speak far quicker in the past. It’s languid, it’s hyperactive, the whole shebang is a melange of sensations.

She is in her house, hanging out. ‘Yeah,’ she is comfortable, she replies when I ask if she feels good in this new scenario. She has an ‘ugly’ office chair which provides brilliant support for her back – something necessary given she labels herself ‘old’ and physical comfort is therefore also key.

She lives in an elevated ground floor flat. She likes looking out of the window at the trees, the street, and is currently eyeing the ‘purple sunset’ delivered to her suburban Sydney home. She has a ‘bee cemetery’ at her window – in between the fly screen and the windowpane. A spider had previously set up a web, the bees attracted to the light in the office, Audrey playing the bee god, letting them get caught in the web, tricking them with her artificial sun. The four deceased bees ‘break my heart’ she says forlornly of the visible proof her actions have had. She likes to have her windows open all year round. She has now closed her window to let no more in, not wishing to be responsible for the further demise of bees. There is a worldwide shortage she will proffer, and we desperately need them for our own survival.

We then take a break, discuss Denmark and its population and size, that people here all own homes and have trailers to transport garden rubbish and more. Benji, her dog, an American Staffordshire terrier, enters the room and exits when he finds our conversation less than thrilling. He will briefly appear again later. Audrey talks about Benji’s recent UTI. Her dog is undoubtedly one of her favourite subjects.

Audrey recently dyed her hair blonde and has a ‘lob’ – a ‘long bob,’ I need informing. She has a supposedly unfashionable ‘side part’ as opposed to the popular ‘middle part.’ The masses are seldom worth following though. Ears hidden behind her hair as it neatly and casually, sublimely, falls around her face.

Her blue green (grey when she cries) eyes sit behind sophisticated tortoise shell glasses, known as the ‘Wayfarer’ style. She has worn glasses since she was ten, discovered as long-sighted early on. The glasses, she says, are a protective mask or barrier that she wears, even when she goes into an uncomfortable social situation. She considers her face ‘oval,’ and every style of sunglasses is said to fit her face-type, something she says is definitely not true.

She is bedecked in a black ‘Red Hot Chili Peppers’ t-shirt with the band’s name in a circular pattern on the breast (small) and – I ask her to stand up to show me the back of the t-shirt – the back (large). Her earphones match the t-shirt – black buds with red wires (the colour of the lettering on the tee). When she stands, I briefly clock her red skirt with white brush marks on it. I was mistaken in saying they were polka dots.

Audrey then discusses her home and how to make it cosier and reflect her personality. She considers it too white and in drastic need of a makeover. I crack open a cold coffee and she tells me she has had two coffees today – one this morning while walking Benji, the second with a friend this afternoon before her game of tennis. We talk about team sports and handling winning and losing, and the madness of bad losers – we name one or two (a little whispered secret between us).

She talks repeatedly about her age and what is expected of being an adult – fashion, behaviour, stage of life. She states we all try to justify the way we are – it’s apt, thought-provoking. I tell her she makes a good point. She responds that she does so occasionally, and then spouts rubbish about bee cemeteries and such topics. Why are we even trying to meet all those rigid expectations though?

As she gestures, a couple of her various tattoos become fleetingly visible, ones on her arm and wrist. She is a lover of having them in not such brash places and they seem mostly small ones.

Her nose – upon which rest her glasses – is a strong feature, not too large, straight, smooth. She turns to give me a look at her profile and the nose takes on a new life as our features sometimes tend to from other angles. It’s cute, not a button, fitting her face well, as she has already said.

Her teeth are very straight – more than should be, after using something to correct them – and they are ‘short’ because she grinds them. Her dentist thinks she should have veneers like film stars and celebrities have, but while she acknowledges hers are not perfect, she is contented with them.

We discuss being eight hours apart – after the recent time changes – as opposed to ten hours. Time bringing us closer together just as it will separate us further in the autumn (for me, spring for you).

Audrey’s eyes are shining, telling stories that sometimes corroborate what her mouth delivers and at others secretly whisper of other tales – in contrast, untold treasures living there. When she shifts on her seat, I see myself on the screen reflected in the mirror. She is in her spare room that she uses as an office.

She lives opposite a trainline, and her road can be busy. Two flights a day pass overhead. Luckily, it is only that small number, but the local transportation links and infrastructure depict the nearness to big city life, everything there, just around the corner.

Audrey has been delightful, effortlessly providing conversation, making the portrait full of the hustle and bustle of her character, of life, and of the centre of Sydney near to her suburban home bubble she had just shared with me. Her thick Australian notes are ringing in my ears long after the call ends. It feels like I have been swimming in Antipodean waters.

Connected to this literary portrait is the artwork with number DJS00001 above.

Both works by Dominic J Stevenson (for more details contact me on dominicjstevenson@yahoo.co.uk)

Portrait of Trine Dyrholm (February 2023)

With piercing eyes that glisten with secrets untold, roles played, wisdom accrued, and a spectacular charm, at times youthful, Trine Dyrholm, a jewel in the crown of Danish cinema, is a woman growing old gracefully. Under the spotlight she has grown up – a past teenage starlet – flourished, evolved into an unstoppable force of nature. She radiated greatness.

While long hair suits her (I imagine it is for her roles), it is only when it is shorn, cropped to end at the nape of her neck that she appears the sublime, most perfect, killer version of herself. She is one of those women whose short blond hair suits and astounds, leaves men and women in her wake as her seemingly tall and slender frame eases through the rooms she is delivered to, the spaces she profoundly alters with her presence. Her elegance augmented, a la Judi Dench, there is a power seldom seen, as if her hands could emit inventive spells. She is the picture of elegance, a modern style icon with a sublime blend of charms. On the screen, she is intoxicating, one of those actors you cannot take your eyes off.

She is feminine, tough, yet absorbing, adorable and fragile, a shapeshifting siren blessing the screen with her depictions of lives and loves encountered. Every gesture, tic, movement is spellbinding, an amalgamation of all the best qualities of the finest of her field – steely, mesmerising, unmissable actors at work.

The years have penetrated her face and skin and the life lived adorns her in exquisite fashion. This is a beauty that trying to fight time – and its many effects – knows not. Her every move exudes a confidence, a grace, an assured quality that most silver screen beings lack. Her charms do not diminish with age, if anything, they ever unfurl into something more than before. She is stylish and slick.

When you were serious, Trine, grave issues tattooed across your face, I would lean in to listen; when you smiled, I lit up and the world seemed safe and full of joy. When you were dark, the clouds would appear sublime, essential. When you could scarcely contain your bliss, the magnitude of that would be contagious.

Your bright blue bulbous eyes pierce. They were more loaded with excitement and passion than people could dream up. Those eyes were an entrancing mix of dangerous beauty and humanity. Trine’s smile grew from her eyes and mouth, setting fire to her entire face, consequently illuminating her surroundings. Whoever she was playing her lips drew you to her words, would render you unable to do anything but believe her, left you thinking one kiss would exchange truths of the world previously undiscovered. Whether in her native Danish or foreign English tongue words seemed precious as they worked their way out of her mouth and into the shell ears of anyone available. She was a gift of seismic proportions.

I was no actor, but I had previously written myself into your arms to feel what it would be like to be there. I had dreamed about and of you, a dream with more life to it than many tangible moments.

I imagine Trine sitting in front of me, a relaxed picture of contemplation, exchanging a gentle dialogue with her author, both revealing and concealing, pushing my buttons, inspiring further intrigue, weaving a web of curiosity for me to get trapped inside. She would be wearing an elegant black trouser suit, her frame making her appear spider-like, and she would stare at me with those juggernaut eyes, discovering as much about me as I would about her, and yet retaining a sweetness that wouldn’t allow me discomfort.

She tested and challenged herself, probing at her own boundaries. She was a temptress of gritty roles, inhabiting each violently, possessing them in a way most actors could not – uncovering a depth to each individual – that brought them to life, sat them beside you on the sofa in all their petrifying and life-affirming glory. She moved like the master chess piece, the Queen, in all directions, sweeping others aside as she went, altering her surroundings, imprinting herself on the memory, burning her presence there for eternity.

I had long thought of her a masterwork, someone who I would like to see more of both on and off the screen, to feast off her charisma, write sentences about her as she filtered into my consciousness as we shared a room, dined, drank a cup of English tea together.

I could never see her from enough angles; her past, present and future selves all calling, jostling for adoration, focus, limelight. She always left the viewer wanting more, questioning the real Trine. What was she like? Which character she had played was closest to her true self, if any? Or did she only step into the bodies of those who she shared nothing in common with, thereby making the ultimate escape from her own reflection, and an unfathomably convincing entrance into someone else’s essence? I had more questions after thinking about her, gazing upon her, contemplating the beauty of her I had witnessed on the screen as well as various photos. I hadn’t answered anything of her in my words, that which was precisely how I knew, ultimately, she was the worthiest of subjects.

I had once had a dream about Trine Dyrholm…

There was quite the throng of bodies, a party swirling around them, the bodies mingling, glorifying in their own presences rather than that of others, as the rich and the modern did and do. They appeared the elite of society, famous people, the wealthy, the supposedly classy, but everyone was a dog, just a dog pretending or imagining themselves to be something, anything else.

One was there, slipping into the brickwork, the voice of reason, as ever she was, aware my electric attraction to the sparkling Danish actress had started my engine of pining, of desiring, of picturing and then embellishing some more. A life in the imagination.

We were at stages seated in ornate and old-fashioned rooms, the moving between these spaces as if a non-stop movie were being played out, bodies floating, gliding effortlessly into the next room, ones decorated with silver platters on elegant wooden tables and with high ceilings halfway to the heavens above the players of the scene, with chairs and food fit for queens and kings. With regal portraits on walls of self-important prigs, of people with enough wealth to ensure they never escaped from their warped perspectives in their mortal existences. She swanned in on her wave of noble authority, uplifting the room in a way nobody could replicate. The author moved the other pawns into their positions, but Trine was moving to her own rhythm.

And the dream was over, she was stolen from me, slipping out of the majestic door and into the next room, the following role, somebody else’s dream.

Connected to this literary portrait is the artwork with number DJS00002 below...

Both works by Dominic J Stevenson (for more details contact me on dominicjstevenson@yahoo.co.uk)

 

Portrait of Vivi (October 2022)

Vivi was a whirlwind of energy, of dynamic bustle, of passion for life. Yes, her life looked idyllic, her zest remarkable, but as she honestly stated, she only shared a part of it, so the view was spectacular, controlled, a window into the fun stuff. The side that drew you toward her, that made you want to know her better, see if her aura could spread, even repair your own lesser charmed existence.

She went beyond age, her spirit ever youthful, her physicality reflecting a woman in her late forties still flourishing as she fed her whims, what her soul desired, and yes, she was beautiful. She was quintessentially Spanish, the flamenco, the sultry tones of Andalucía, the elegance and richness of rapid modern life under the lens spilling out of all she did. She had embraced it, made it part of her daily routine. Of course, her cup was overflowing with the wisdom and vibrancy of experience. She knew what many people did not, that it fed the deepest parts of us, quenched a thirst that some sadly didn’t even know could exist. That was why she travelled, shared it all, evolved through the uncovering of other lives and their cultures.

She danced, she frolicked on the beach, she had daughters and many friends, and lit up people’s lives, whether via social media or the rooms she shared with the folks who crossed her path. Who lit her life that way? A man or a woman? Or was it travel and the places and the freedom and the rush that came with that that did it to her? Her wings taking her any place she chose, her merely listening to the calling and then taking flight.

Sometimes you looked your age, sometimes you looked much younger. You were locked into such a lifestyle it could only keep you younger than your years. The freedom did you good. You might be single, alone in many of the photos, but your partner was life itself, every photo you had sent me showing you to be in an eternal embrace with the richness of the days, gracefully, elegantly, sexily waltzing towards the precipice, reaching it, turning back, spinning like you had been born to do so, living on the edge of some grandiose fairy tale. Nobody, and nothing, was missing from the photos. You had not defined yourself by having someone beside you and whom exactly that might be. I wondered if your two daughters had half the lust for life that you did (or if they would grow into that space as you clearly had). If so, they would be lucky to take that into the future with them.

Your smile was easy, your shape spectacular. The dancing, the Spanish and foreign cuisine, the time spent outdoors – illuminating in its richness – and the fashioning of a contemporary social animal had all built a woman that would turn heads. As your dyed dark blonde hair flowed, a waterfall that flew from your head as you danced and span, catching everyone’s eye in a loving tornado.

The selection of photos of you that you had fed me were like a visual paella, the array of flavours, the senses piqued, the imagination running wild, craving more of you, to see, to taste, to feel.

Your style was modern, classy, elegant, a rich palette of fashion and knowledge of what looked good, both in general and on your own luscious frame.

The TikTok videos showed your sense of fun and connection with modern technological life. I was younger than you but did not partake of such cyber activities. They were not for everyone. You liked to display that side of your life, the vitality, pouring it all over the viewers, spectators even, and giving them something to put a smile on their faces, or even get them excited in other ways. Okay, so I did not like the music you sang along to on your videos or having an entire life shared on social media, but at least yours was colourful, a reminder of what was out there beyond our doors, in other climes.

I didn’t know how tall you were from the photos, nor what eye colour you possessed. Your eyes were different colours, reflecting your surroundings, your mood, your aura in that moment, like the sea often echoing the sky and environment perfectly. When I ask you via a chat app, you reply that your eye colour is miel verdoso azulado, an interesting label to say the least. A golden honey ring in the interior that mixes with green and as it reaches the edges it appears blue. Her eyes echo the life in her soul, the vibrant nature of her exploration of the planet and her place moving through it, always returning to her homeland of Spain.

You were never more sumptuous than when you wore heels – which you clearly loved wearing and moving in – and a flowing dress that would frequently explode into life as you, a human spinning top, pierced the rooms you lit up, a firecracker demanding attention, to be seen, to be heard, to be adored.

The lines on your face honestly commencing a dialogue about your age were no shame to you, but a badge of honour less commonly recognised these days. You were proud of your age, your figure, your existence. It was a grand acceptance of the beauty and honour, the extreme privilege, in being allowed to age. As should be, it could be felt in your every move, drawing eyes wherever you stepped, something you knew well. This aspect of you was highly attractive.

One TikTok video had caught my eye. She was fully decked out in black, heels to die for, that men would let her walk all over their bodies with, and a dress that hugged her figure and exploded downwards from her waist, completing the bombshell visage. Nothing was tame, everything here was devastating, a perplexing combination of elegance and sensuality. She was flooring the room, wiping everyone out, reducing men to rubble, leaving them on their knees, even performing that tablecloth trick with the floor itself, everyone left falling. She was a relentless force, like the wind or the waves, and would only stop moving when she decided to, not when anything got in her way.

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.