Supermodel

The story of a muse

Supermodel--the tale of a muse

 

George Turner was an average painter of landscapes, portraits, still lifes. That was until he met Yadira. He was in one of his favorite spots, Descanso Gardens, in La Cañada, California. It was a temperate day, when he was seated on a bench to the side of the isolated dirt pathway that wound its way up a hill on the left side of the large property. Before him stood an easel on which a canvas was set. A palette of oils was poised in his right hand while a brush sat in his left. His subject was the road which wound its way through the tall camellia plants, until it disappeared. Yadira suddenly walked up the dirt road behind him. Silently she approached and looked, over his shoulder.

“That’s nice,” she commented.

He turned slowly to look at her. She was beautiful, not exactly thin, about 5’6”, pleasing in her softness, dark brown eyes with startling dark eyebrows, haunting, hair slightly unkempt. Within seconds, he had assessed her appearance, and was already back at work.  “You were sneaking up, weren’t you? You were very quiet, but not enough.”

“You’re right. I wanted to see your work, rather than walking up and having you throw a cloth over it.”

“I’m not that private,” he said, before setting his palette and brush on the small wooden folding table at his side. “Sit,” he commanded her. She sat, smoothing her skirt, that was the color of goldenrod, beneath her on the bench.

“What do you like to paint?” she inquired.

“Seascapes, forest environments, flowers…obviously” as he motioned to the gardens in which they sat.

“Ever paint people?”

“Once in awhile, if I have the right subject.”

“Would I do?” she asked, unabashedly.

“Maybe. This isn’t something I can say immediately. Might take a few days to decide.”

“Then, why don’t you come over for dinner? It would be my pleasure,” she said. “Here’s my card.” She handed him a card with her name and address on it. Above her name was the word SUPERMODEL. After he read the card, he looked at her again, and smiled. She did not strike him in the class of a Gisele Bundchen, Heidi Klum, Carole Alt or Elle McPherson.

“Yadira!” he said, feeling the way her name sounded in his mouth. “I can do that,” he said, thinking that she had to be joking in some strange way.

“How about evening after tomorrow? Say about 7:30?” she inquired.

“Great,” he replied. “Oh I’m George.” he announced. She rose, and retraced her original path.

When she had almost disappeared, she turned and shouted, “Good-bye George!”

George returned to work, and after another forty minutes, he stopped. Pleased with his progress, he packed up his supplies and left.

 

His arrival was at precisely 7:30. She answered the door carrying two glasses of wine, one of which she handed to him. “Come in, come in George! Glad you could make it. I’m almost done. Sit here!” She pointed to a straight-backed wooden chair at the table. She came out of the kitchen and plopped down opposite him. “So! To new friends,” she toasted and they clinked.

“Yes, indeed,” he said and took a sip. “You go to Descanso often?”

“Gone there since I was a child. My aunt used to take me there. The place is so vast, and flowers are so amazing. I like the ones that look very…feminine, shall we say? Those are the best.”

“They all have unique appearances, I’ll tell you that,” he noted.   They continued to chat in quite an animated fashion for the next hour, as they ate the meal she had prepared. After consuming it, he declared, “That was delicious. A sumptuous repast!”

“Thank you, George! Now let’s get to the real reason I convinced you to come for dinner. I want to model for you.”

“I’m very flattered, Yadira, really I am. Sure that’s possible. Let’s set a date and time, and let’s plan on dinner again. Yet, this time, and I insist, I will cook for you!”

“A man who cooks?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “There’s an offer I can’t refuse. What should I wear?”

“I don’t know,” he said, stroking his chin and looking at her. “Perhaps something frilly?”

“Done!” she said.  Four days later, she arrived at his home with two frilly dresses on hangers. When he greeted her, she found herself in a room with white walls that contained a medium-sized table with two simple chairs, a bat-winged chair with a small ottoman before it, an easel with a wooden chair and another small table beside it, and a dressing screen covered in deep blue drapes.

“Well, a Spartan lifestyle, I see,” she commented.

“Hello, Yadira, so wonderful to see you again. Yes, well, you know, the art is in my mind, not in the room, necessarily.” She immediately perceived the wisdom of that idea.

“I brought two different designs and colors, both frilly.” She held them up, one in each hand. One was black and very long. The other shorter one was teal blue.

“Why not the teal blue one? You can change behind the screen there.” Ignoring his comment, she removed her blouse and pants where she stood and hung the black dress on the screen. Then she donned the blue one. George said nothing, but waited until she was done. “Great! now sit in the chair and put your feet on the ottoman,” he instructed.

Yadira did so. When she was settled, she said, “Where do you want me to look?”

As George continued to prepare, he told her. “Look out the window, and look at the telephone wires strung between the poles across the street. There should be a few birds perched there. I want you to think about what the birds might be talking about.”

“That’s different,” she said. For the next hour, he worked, until he finally put down the brush. “May I see?”

“Certainly…I think I’ve captured you. I’ll just need to touch up a few things.” She walked around to the other side of the easel. Yadira discovered a rather accurate depiction of herself, the face somewhat shadowed, the teal color accurately colored.

“I like it…but I think I look a little sad,” she said.

“Yes, but maybe that’s what you felt the birds were perceiving.”

She looked at him and smiled. “Want me to change?”

“Well…” he began, but she had already turned and removed the black dress from the top of the screen, and stepped behind the blue barrier. When Yadira stepped from the barrier, he shook his head as though he were dizzy. She had changed in her appearance. It was subtle, but noticeable. Before she had been just about 5’5” in height. Now, she was about 5’11” and looked directly into his eyes. He quickly gazed down to see if she were wearing heels. She was not. Then he closely examined her face. Yadira’s nose was a bit thinner, her cheekbones were a bit higher, the skin of her face was ever so slightly darker.

“Is there something you don’t like?”

“No,” he said, “not at all.” Then he looked again at his initial rendering of her. It appeared to be someone different. He quickly put that canvas on the floor and replaced it with a new one. Shaken, he said, “Can you sit again?” She complied, and as she sat, he was certain that he was looking at a considerably different woman. “I’m certain I’ll do better this time. Just sit as you did before, and keep your eyes on the birds.” Yadira sat as he directed. As he looked at her, he knew that she did not move a muscle. In fact, she did not even blink her eyes, and they did not tear up, as he remembered his eyes and all of his friends’ eyes doing, when they used to have “staring” contests. An hour later, he was done again and put down his brush.

“Let me see what you did this time,” she said. When she examined his painting, she remarked, “Very accurate!” Then she picked up her pants and blouse and once more, went behind the screen. George was very bothered when she appeared, because Yadira now looked as she had the first time he had painted her. As promised, he cooked her a tasty dinner of Italian food, they chatted about art, and she left his home at ten in the evening.

Once the door closed, he raced to compare the two paintings. They both showed two completely different women posed in the same way. George was confused, and he did not sleep much that night.

 

A week later, he called Yadira to invite her to his home again, since he was determined to get to the bottom of what he thought was his “hallucination.” This time when she arrived she was dressed in white pantaloons and sandals. Her blouse had long sleeves with French cuffs rolled up.

After serving her some wine, they sat across from each other in matching bat-winged chairs.

“It’s lovely to see you again,” she said.

“Likewise,” he said. “But you must understand that I have to know how you did what you did.”

“Me? What did I do?” she said innocently.

“Look at these,” he said, drawing a long cloth from the two paintings of her that he created. “These are paintings of two different women, but they are both you. I wasn’t drugged when I painted (at least I think I wasn’t). So how? Did you do this?”

“I have a knack for modeling, George. What can I say?”

“I know I’m not crazy, Yadira.” He was becoming exasperated.

“I’ll let you make the determination. How would you have me look?”

“Really? OK, indulge me. How about tall, as you were before, but I want the fingers of your left hand to be six inches longer on average from the right hand fingers. I want you to have blonde hair. Your lips need to be a bit fuller. I want your skin to be extremely pale. And you need a longer more graceful neck.”

“Is that all?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s all. No wait! I want the right side of your face to be a man, and leave the left side a woman.”

“All right.” Then she stood. “I want to prove to you who I am so there can be no mistake.” She raised her right arm into the air. “Look at my armpit. You see that there is a small triangle of moles there. yes?”

“I see them,” George said.

“I’ll be right back.” Stepping behind the screen, Yadira was silent and made no sound. George was certain that he had tripped her up and, he would prove that this was some strange joke. When she came back out in her pantaloons, shirt and sandals, she had become everything that he had requested, down to her height, and the facial alteration.

He was stunned, shocked, and speechless. “Let me see under your right arm,” he ordered. She raised it, and as he had not expected, there was the small triangle of three moles.  He stared at her closely. “This cannot be! This is a trick! I don’t believe you. This is impossible!” He collapsed in the chair and put his head in his hands. Now he was frightened at this creature who sat before him, appearing to be male and female. “What are you?” he asked nervously.

“I’m Yadira, George. OK, I’ll change back since you’re upset.”

“Wait!” he said, and he ran to look behind the screen in order to insure that there were not two. It was empty. “No, don’t hide! I want to see you change back.”

“Very well,” she said. She seated herself and closed her eyes. The air about her rippled mysteriously, and within seconds, she was returned to her former state. “This can’t be true!” he said.

“Yes, it is true!” she explained. “I am a supermodel! I can be anything you want.”

“What do you mean by anything?”

“Any shape, any color, any form you want, so you can paint me,” she said.

George pondered this in a moment within his mind. “Do you model for others?”

“I have in the past, but I’m very picky, you see?” said Yadira.

“Well, give me an example, could you?”

“Do you know the paintings of Salvador Dali?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“How about the ‘Soft construction in Boiled Beans’?”

“Yes, a rather grotesque piece that’s supposed to be a premonition of the Spanish Civil War.”

“That’s the one. Would you like to see it, right here, in front of you?” she asked.

“I think that would confirm your abilities.” Within 30 seconds, the primary box-like figure of the Dali was balanced before him in all its ugliness. “Oh my God! Please! Change yourself back!” George pleaded.  In an instant, she was Yadira looking like her old self, and smiling at him. “I can’t believe that. How do you it?”  She was silent for a while and merely looked at him.

“It’s a gift I can share with you and you alone. The only thing you must agree to is you can never ever tell anyone, not any living soul, that I am your model.”

“Of course, I agree! I would be crazy not to agree. But, tell me…what happens if I might happen to tell anyone?”

“Then all of our mutual creations will cease to exist, as though they never were, and I will vanish from your life forever.”

 

After he shook her hand, sealing their pact, he began to create using her remarkable abilities to change her form. For fifty years, he created a variety of artworks whose unique qualities were only limited by his imagination. The name of George Turner became world-famous. Everywhere he went, he took Yadira with him, and all who met them wondered who she was. He only would reveal her first name. Amazingly, when he passed away, at age ninety, she looked exactly the same as she had when they met in Descanso Gardens many years before. After she attended his funeral, she vanished and might only be seen by another casual artist who happened to visit the gardens in hopes of visual inspiration.

 

 

Reviews

[patricia]

That was different, lovely idea to take the word supermodel and use it like that. Great descriptions in this peice. I enjoyed it a lot. Thankyou.

I adored this, it was beautiful! the story was unique... some humour, some sadness but quite hopeful, whilst I have a few gripes, as every reviewer would lol there is nothing that errs my like for it! You should expand it somehow, maybe focusing on the travels of the two of them! :)