The Portrait of Rachel Fayne

She glided into the studio

And dropped her clothes on the floor,

Gave the artist a pirouette,

And said: 'Do you want any more?'

He shrugged, and told her to take a seat

While he etched the background in,

'I'll paint you draped on the canapé,

I'll tell you, when I begin!'

 

She wandered naked around the room,

At home in the artist's den,

Rachel Fayne was the model's name,

She'd modelled since she was ten.

From auburn hair to her shapely calves

She'd stared from a hundred scenes,

That hung in frames under different names

As a slave, or a Gypsy Queen.

 

Her lips were full and her eyes were green,

They'd startled men in the past,

Staring from frames in the galleries,

In the windows of shops they passed,

So haughty and so beautiful,

And beyond the reach of men,

Yet here she'd bare, for all to share

Through the brush in the artist's den!

 

She hadn't sat for John Durrell

Before, but she knew his work,

The famous 'Woman of Paddington',

The 'Girl by the Friendly Kirk,'

His 'Venus under the Waterfall' -

Her heart had skipped a bit,

As she stared green-eyed in her wounded pride,

Would he never ask her to sit?

 

The summons came through a friend of hers,

'Be there, first thing in the morn!'

She'd bathed, and powdered her body well

By the light of the breaking dawn,

For John Durrell was a master, skilled

And she knew it would seal her fame,

To be tied to an R.A. masterpiece,

And the famous Durrell name.

 

'Don't ask too many questions, he's

Intense, and immersed in paint,

He's hard and cold, and inclined to scold

If you don't sit still, or faint,

He'll look at you like a curlicue,

An enigma of line and form,

His passion is brushed in his pictures,

So, it won't keep your body warm!'

 

He laid her out on the canapé

And took up his sable brush,

Mixed the tint on his palette there,

For the flesh tones, and the blush,

He worked with a growing intensity

And he frowned, as if in pain,

As he brought the features to life within

The portrait of Rachel Fayne.

 

She wasn't to see the canvas, he

Would cover it, out of sight,

Before she dressed, and took her fee,

Was bundled into the night,

Each day she lay on the canapé,

Each day he'd frown and paint,

'There's something isn't quite right,' he'd say,

In a tone of quiet constraint.

 

While Rachel felt there was something wrong

With her, a cold or flu,

Perhaps it was her complexion,

It had taken a lighter hue,

She felt quite sick to her stomach,

Couldn't eat, and her sight was dim,

But he'd continued on painting, so

She held her sickness in.

 

While there on the painted canvas was

A beauty, so profound,

Her eyes of the deepest green, that seemed

To follow him around,

The lips were a pouting marvel,

Breathing life to the easel there,

Durrell becoming excited with

Each brush stroke through her hair.

 

His heart was beating much faster with

Each stroke applied anew,

The love that cozened, eluded him

Began to seep on through,

While Rachel gasped to take each breath

And couldn't speak, or think,

As the woman within the picture, well...

Her eyes, they seemed to blink!

 

The canvas facing the furthest wall

Belongs to John Durrell,

The first and the only portrait that

He swears he'll never sell,

For where the woman had been, is white,

No paint was left behind,

And Rachel Fayne, before she died,

They say that she was blind!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[R J Askew]

I read the poem entirely in a personal way. I used to think I favoured green eyes, but now I wonder why. I also wondered why is it we men can't move beyond the physical? Is it me? Is there something wrong with me? Is my sex urge dead at last? Am I am mysogenist? But I find I am turning away from the lure of naked flesh. Is this freedom or the sign of malaise? An odd reaction I admit. But that's what I felt. I think Rach might get bored if I was the artist as I'd be gazing at the canvas thinking how can possibly improve on what is already there ... nothing.

[Valentine]

So he brought her features to lide..yet she was dead..Sad but you work your m,agic pen so well mate..You make me jealous some times that I do not have your memory for story telling..love to you and Lyn..God bless..Kathie

[Mark]

Somewhat reminiscent of "Poems Beyond The Grave", where an artist prefers the objects that represent his love to the love itself. I know of no one else here who writes with this intensity, of matters so deeply personal, to all would-be lovers and scoundels. Thank you, David, for a reminder that the symbols are NOT the objects, and without exception, the objects are superior!

[Lena M. P.]

A new way of looking at the old saying, "He sucked the life from her". An irony that the one person she wanted to see her completely blinded her to her fate. Well written as always David.

[Ferg]

After the explanation was provided......and I now "get it," I think this is a masterful piece of writing.....I'm sorry it wasn't totally obvious to me what happened to her, but it is a fantastic story of the artist brushing her to life on his canvas! I am intrigued to know what he did with her after she "walked off" the canvas......Very clever indeed! I'm just sorry I was so dense I had to ask....I should have thought more about it and maybe it would have come to me...I am used to a macabre twist to your stories so I was imagining a somewhat darker fate.......excellent, my friend!

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

You have woven a subtle beauty within this piece, the poignant and tragic passing of a beauty who lives forever on the canvas of the mind. You managed to maintain a certain intimacy throughout this poem, almost like the soft brushstrokes of the painter.

As always, a lovely job!

Linda Marie

[Ellen Hammond]

I greatly admire your gift for telling stories in rhyme. This grabbed my interest from the first line and held it captive all the way to the last word. It is quite a tale with the artist's intensity and awakening love and the model's dedication to pose even when she was ailing. A sad but intriguing twist at the end. Thanks for sharing.

[emmajoy]

This positively sings! What a wonderful poem, what a great story ..

Apart from the 4th stanza the meter romps from beginning to end and is, in its own way, as near to a modern day madrigal as one could get. Can imagine this being sung in the open air ..

Great writing, as always.