Still Life
"She guards art at the National Gallery—stands still for hours while masterpieces hang around her. He's the artist who keeps sketching her during his visits. When he finally shows her the drawings, she realizes she's been his masterpiece all along."
I stand still for a living.
Eight hours, same spot, watching people admire art that costs more than I'll earn in a lifetime. It's not glamorous, but the paintings are beautiful and the silence lets me think.
Then he starts coming.
Same time every day. Sketchbook in hand. Drawing everything.
Including me.
"I'm not supposed to be art."
I say it after week three, when he's clearly sketched me again.
"Everything in this room is art." He doesn't look up. "Why would you be different?"
"I'm a security guard."
"You're the most interesting thing I've seen since I started coming here."
His name is Yusuf.
Fine arts student. Somali. The kind of intense that comes from seeing the world differently than everyone else.
"Why do you draw me?"
"Because you're still." He shows me his sketchbook. Pages of me—standing, thinking, existing in the margins of his imagination. "Everyone else moves. Rushes. You're present."
"I'm working."
"You're being." He turns to a new page. "That's rare."
We start talking during slow periods.
About art, about life, about the difference between being seen and being known.
"Do you like your job?" he asks.
"I like the paintings."
"What about the standing?"
"The standing is the price." I look at him. "What's the price for being an artist?"
"Feeling everything." He sets down his pencil. "Seeing beauty everywhere and knowing most people can't see it."
"That sounds lonely."
"It was." He holds my gaze. "Until I found someone worth drawing."
He finishes a portrait.
Large. Detailed. Me, standing in the gallery, surrounded by masterpieces I was never meant to compete with.
But in his painting, I'm the masterpiece.
"Yusuf—"
"I want you to have it." He sets it down. "I've spent weeks looking at you. Now I want to see if you'll look at me."
I look at him.
In his tiny studio flat, surrounded by paintings, with his hands finally touching me instead of his pencils.
"You're my best work—" he breathes.
"I'm just me—"
"You're everything." He pushes into me. "You've been everything since the first time I saw you standing still."
We come together among his canvases.
Paint everywhere. Art everywhere. Us, becoming something worth creating.
"I want to keep drawing you," he says afterward.
"For how long?"
"Forever." He pulls me close. "If you'll let me."
He shows his work at a gallery opening.
The centerpiece is me. Standing still. Being present.
"People love it," he says.
"People love your talent."
"People love you." He takes my hand. "I love you."
In the gallery where we met, surrounded by art, he kneels.
"Marry me. Be my muse forever."
I say yes.
And we're both masterpieces now.