The Painter's Portrait
"Celeste paints commissions for people who want to be remembered. When a collector commissions his own portrait—and then his admirer's—she discovers art imitates more than life."
I've painted portraits for forty years.
Families, executives, people who want their likeness preserved. I'm Celeste—sixty-two, working from my French Quarter studio, making permanent what time tries to erase.
"I want you to paint me."
The collector is well-known. Marcus Webb—art world regular, owns pieces by everyone who matters.
"Why me?"
"Because you see people. Not just their faces. Their souls."
The sittings begin.
He comes to my studio, poses in the light, talks while I work.
"Most people are nervous," I note.
"I'm comfortable. Something about this space. About you."
"It's just a studio—"
"It's you." His eyes hold mine. "You make people comfortable."
The portrait takes three months.
Longer than necessary, if I'm honest. He doesn't seem to mind.
"It's finished," I finally announce.
He looks at the canvas, then at me.
"Now paint another."
"Of what?"
"Of you."
"Artists don't paint themselves—"
"You should." He moves closer. "You've spent forty years seeing everyone else. Let me see you."
"How?"
"Sit for me." He gestures at my own easel. "But let me direct."
The sittings reverse.
He watches while I paint myself—uncomfortable, vulnerable. His eyes catching details I'd miss.
"Your left hand," he notices. "It shakes when you're uncertain."
"It does?"
"Only when you're painting yourself. Never when you paint others."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you don't believe you're worth capturing." He stands behind me. "You're wrong."
"Marcus—"
"I've collected art for forty years." His hands find my shoulders. "You're the most beautiful thing I've never owned."
The kiss happens in my studio.
Paint-stained hands, canvas watching. His mouth on mine like he's been planning this since day one.
"This is—"
"Art." He smiles against my lips. "The best kind."
His home is a gallery.
My work among masters. He leads me past paintings worth millions, to a bedroom simpler than expected.
"Here," he says, "it's just us."
"No art?"
"You're the art tonight." He begins to undress me. "Let me appreciate."
He studies me like a canvas.
Every curve catalogued, every shade noted. His mouth traces the same lines his eyes memorize.
"Beautiful," he breathes.
"I'm old—"
"You're a masterpiece." He kisses my belly. "One I intend to keep."
When he enters me, we're creating together.
"So good," he groans.
"Don't stop. I want to remember this."
"You'll remember everything."
Afterward, in his bed, he holds me.
"Finish the self-portrait."
"Why?"
"Because I want it." He pulls me closer. "On my wall. Where I can see you every day."
"You could just see me—"
"I intend to." He kisses my forehead. "Marry me, and the portrait becomes a wedding gift."
The self-portrait hangs in our home.
Our home—his gallery expanded, my studio included. The woman I painted looks happy.
I recognize her now.
"To the artist who finally saw herself," Marcus toasts.
"To the collector who made it possible," I counter.
We kiss while our art watches.
Some paintings capture moments.
Some capture lives.
And some artists find that the best portraits are the ones you get to live inside.
Brushstroke by brushstroke.
Day by day.
Together.