It's been a long time since she's been here - the start of another life, really. It was when she first began to see things, Davydd pulling her off of a tree and dragons rising to life under her hands and the complete lack of understanding which accompanied the entire experience...
And now she's back, but utterly changed. What's a magazine editor to do, but she's got to look like she could step off the pages of Vogue if she had to. That's a part of her job she doesn't like so much. She's clad in what's often called the Frenchwoman's ultimate chic - a simple little black dress, scooped shallowly at the neckline, lone sleeves snug at her wrists, hem snug around her knees. Black heels, shadowy stockings, and a slender, delicate chain around her throat, almost invisible except for the central sapphire resting in the hollow of her throat. Her long blonde hair is shiny even in this light, worn in a demure topknot twisted on top of her head, two blue jade butterflies almost hidden, holding it in place.
And she's Fiona, elegant and professional with her camelhair overcoat draped over one arm, black patent leather carryall over her other shoulder. The changable eyes as she looks up and around are her own. But she's ... familiar ... even though not at all the kind of beauty Drancy was. There's nothing scruffy about her as she looks around for her quarry.
Editors who do interviews, she's thinking to herself. Well, she did want to do the occasional bit in the field, to keep her hand in... this just isn't quite what she had in mind. Ah, well. It'll all come out in the wash. Approaching someone who looks vaguely like they might be an employee, she clears her throat. "Pardon me," she says aloud, in the precise Oxonian tones she was raised with. "I was wondering if you could help me... ?"
It is one of the employees, tastefully dressed in a heather grey turtleneck and a simple black skirt. Her brown hair piled up in an artistic zig-zag, held by a silver clasp. She turns as you speak, her blue eyes and her face open, warm inquisition. "Yes," she says and she asks, all at once. "Of course," she says after.
The Abbey is flush into its typical evening. There are voices above in the cafe. There are those milling about in the main gallery. Voices that can be heard in other, hidden areas. And softly, beneath it all, Claude Debussy...
"Yes, I'm Fiona Arundel, from The Magazine? I've an appointment with Guillaume d'Angevin," fancy that, Fiona can even pronounce it properly, and leaves her own title off - though whoever made the appointment, no doubt stressed her title for her, without her knowing, "and I was wondering if you know where I could find him." She smiles at the employee, polite, even almost friendly - but focused on her desire. And under the surface of her calm, she's absorbing everything, mentally writing and rewriting what she'll say...
Known simply as M in some parts, The Magazine has become the magazine for the London In-Crowd. Sort of a hybrid between Interview and Vogue. It is immediately recognized by the young woman, whose plucked eyebrows open outward. "Oh! Oh yes...Lady Arundel," using the formal, "...My name is Amanda Beauchamps. We spoke on the phone," she's all smiles. It's great publicity. "Guillaume is waiting for you. He's right through here," she continues, turning and gesturing toward 'The Rectory'.
Through the archway, you can see the contents of the most modern room of the modern art gallery. There are a couple of meandering visitors. And one other who stands in spotlight, lifting a glass of wine.
Tall. Black-hair cut very short, very modern. The dress? It is expensive but casual European. Cinnamon brown trousers, a wine-colored shirt. His form, well... art is not all he does apparently....
But...
Doesn't he seem familiar?
William half-turns, eyes not on the women and the conversation -- which he feigns not to hear, nor could most mortals -- but on some artwork behind plexiglass. And when his profile may be seen, you could not help but recognize him. That distintive face. And now, without the partial beard, without the shelter of imperfections, without the longer hair to hide his eyes, he spares not the world.
One eyebrow goes up, but she's already learned: her coworkers will capitalize on her title whether she wants them to or not. The old Fiona, Drancy, would have dug her heels in. Fiona, though, just shrugs, a rearrangement of her shoulders, and turns to follow Amanda. "Thank you, Miss Beauchamps, I appreciate it." A quick smile, then turned off, and she clicks gracefully after on her heels.
There's a brief, puzzled look when she first spots the figure, followed by a dawning comprehension that causes her to drop her overcoat. Whumph. It's a soft sound, displaced air more than actual contact, and Fiona quickly bends to pick it up, almost grateful of the opportunity to try to get her composure back, hide the shock - and some dismay - in her eyes.
My first interview, and it's William. Just my bloody luck.
Not aloud, though, she rises and straightens the material over her arm, smoothing it before offering her hand - nails still cut short, though manicured neatly, painted a pale frosted shade of silver, with a bracelet of the same material as the chain around her throat and a jade and turquoise butterfly charm dangling from her wrist. "M'sieur d'Angevin? Fiona Arundel. How do you do? I do hope I'm not late..."
While away the hours with art and wine... he barely notices the passing of decades, what's thirty minutes, give or take? He hears his name, and while the voice strikes him as familiar of timbre, it is not until he turns and looks to you that he does a double take. No, can't be...
"Gui is fine," he says in English, fluent...yes... but heavily accented. "...Miss.. Arundel..." Those words, like the realization is mulled. And you see the recognition, flaring in the indigo eyes. William smiles, he gestures to a seat. "Is this alright, or would you prefer some place more formal? The private studios are upstairs...wine?" he asks suddenly, gesturing with his glass, making an offer. And taking a swallow.
There is a demeanor about him... perhaps command is not the right word. One might venture regal. The oily lethario who drove you around that first night, who fondled the tit of a waitress another, is nowhere to be found...
It's funny, but whereas before, she didn't want to bring her title to anyone's attention, now Fiona has to bite her tongue to keep from making the correction. She smiles politely, a brief flare in her eyes that quickly settles. Fiona, refusing to let Drancy live again, replies. "Some wine would be lovely, though privacy is probably best if we want things to go smoothly. I've always found," she adds, with a small laughing grin, "that it's when in public, that people are the least themselves..."
And she's noticing every little change with observantly bright eyes, as brilliantly aqua as the turquoise and jade combined, her makeup flawlessly painted on to enhance the contrast in her pale English rose complexion, and her dark garment. "If you prefer, we could of course, switch to French? I'm sure my accent will seem horrible to you, but if you are prepared to make the sacrifice, I'll play the fool."
Ah, that offer. For the first time in your entire experience with Guillaume d'Angevin, William Plantagenet, you are being looked on, not as a meal or an annoyance, but with something of respectful gratitude. "If it is myself you wish to know, then French is best," if only he could speak his native dialect, the sugar and fire of Provencal. Then you should know a William only a very very few know...
"Very well," he continues in French, and it comes from that mouth as if it were created to be spoken by him, and he smiles. "Follow me, Lady Arundel," he corrects himself. And though he is an artist, he bears himself like a king...
Hint Number One...
Wine glass in hand, held dangling from fingertips, William heads out of The Rectory, into the gallery proper and he slows his stride, gesturing to the staircase.
He continues up the curving, metallic stairs. He leads you in a journey past the cafe, upward still to the third floor. Reserved for artists and for management...
If someone taught her to it, she could learn it. While not a 'genius' with languages, it's one of the little knacks Fiona's got, to absorb details and make them live within her... It's how the transformation to Drancy was wrought, how she has moved from birth through rebirths, how she is able to write well enough to have attained her current lofty status - why despite all old attitudes, Fiona was someone they'd take a chance on.
In French, thus, she responds, accent very near to being 'genuine' in sound. A procession of French and Swiss nannies and governesses have seen to that. "By all means," she replies, another smile curving up the corners of her mouth. And that being that, she remains in that language.
She watches, hawk-like, though still more the prey than the predator, wary for any hint - but her grace and her movement is every inch the lady, aware of herself and her status, coolly refusing disdain from any source. Someone who has almost learned the value of her worth... "This is a lovely place," Fiona remarks. "Do you work here often?" It isn't even quite a beginning to the interview, seeming almost an idle conversational question. For all her leashed energy, she is taking her time. No hurry...
The journey is not a rushed one by any means. In consideration for your shorter stride, he has slowed his own. It, as languid as ever. Conveying both potence and grace. William looks to you as you come along with him, up the second stairway to private offices. "Whenever I am in London. I have my own studios, but these are well-lit, comfortable." He smiles, and the indigo eyes are darkly brilliant as he does so. They flicker. A keen mind lives behind them.
He comes to a white and bare corridor, stark in comparison to the rest of the gallery, and he turns toward an indigo door, the door metallic.
"I am not in London very often," William remarks quietly, the French elongated, accented southern, of regions to the southwest central of his homeland. The Loire. But by his native dialect made more southern seeming. Langue d'Oc. The Occitan of troubadours. The language of his mother's Court of Love.
He opens the door and holds it open for you. You see a sofa. A table. Wine already set out. As if he assumed the interview would take place here afterall. "And... it is, I think too... I like The Abbey. And it has a cafe. It has everything I would require..." Wine, coffee, working space.
It is a dual play being acted out here. If he does not wish to acknowledge recognizing her, why, she'll do the same, and not without a certain element of relief. After all, the last time they met was not one of her most pleasant, albeit alcohol-dimmed memories. Fiona steps through the door as though it is of course expected that it would be held for her, and she glances around.
She crosses to the couch, turning, waiting for your approach before she sits, as is only proper, an interrogative lift to her eyebrows as she lays coat aside, sitting demurely and settling her carryall in her lap. She doesn't need to take notes, she'll remember it all - but the office is pickier, and so, she takes out a small record. "Do you mind if I use this? - It's a very nice setup. Everything close to hand, so long as the Bristol two-ply doesn't decide to snap and prove to be the last in store." And again, her mouth curves into that warm, not quite teasing grin. "Everything an artist needs, except, perhaps, drama - but that takes place before the art does, no?"
He closes the door and he laughs. It is a genuine warmth, that sound, from the gut and held in his chest and throat. "No... that is fine," he murmurs and he crosses over to the sofa a moment or two after you reach it. He pours the wine, the smile lingering on that mouth -- it holds every expression, humor is made sensual by it. "I do not tend to drama. But... I suppose like every artist I am high-strung and high-maintenance," he says, colloquial French teasing upon that term. "You do not have to agree with me on that, but .... I think you've seen that, yes?" And there you have a little acknowledgement. "I leave drama to those who know it best. Me... I stick to painting and sculpture..."
The glasses that have been prepared are of Murano glass, the finest of Venice. The clear glass is marked by purple and indigo swirls and explosions of color. The dark wine, poured from an unmarked bottle, goes purple and blue in the light and with the reflections of the glass. "We have had drama already," he notes, indigo fixing on you as he hands you the glass. "Secret identities revealed," he murmurs conspiratorially, "... surprise appearances... what's next?"
The recorder's clicked on, and she accepts the glass with an underlying control, careful not to drop it. Smoothing a stray strand of hair back from her cheek, Fiona lifts her chin slightly - that faint, unconscious arrogance and defiance which is still proof that she is who she is.
"Drama's been done already," she agrees, slightly warily. "Though I am not particularly intent upon following the traditional plot - suspense, denouement, and a dramatic conclusion in which everyone ends up either dead or married, in love. With all due respect to Shakespeare, those are the sorts of drama I prefer to watch - not live."
Bringing the glass to her lips, she crosses her legs daintily, thigh moving against thigh under the thin material. Drancy would have been ill at ease. Fiona ignores it. "As to what is next ... pick a card, any card, and see what it is up one or the other's sleeve, perhaps. You spend most of your time painting at Chinon, then?" And how many editors can say they have been the overnight guest of the artist, sometime in the past? It's potentially an angle.
He pours a glass for himself, glancing to you, the smile lingering. Deepening in a way. And it warms his expression. If he could be made more beautiful, it would have done so. Does it bother you? Unchecked? And alone with him here, it is as if you were beside his fireplace in Chinon again...
"Chinon is good for it, yes," he murmurs, "...it is dryer than London." The smile becomes a grin in a flash. "But I travel. It depends. If I am restoring a painting, then I prefer Chinon. But sometimes I must travel to, say, Venice, to work on a structure, a building, or a tomb. So sometimes I do not get to spend much time there. I have been lucky, the last two years I have been mostly in England and Chinon, doing my own thing... it has been a good...break."
It is not an interview about you, about the change in name, or revelations. So he does not ask. This is business after all.
Glass poured, William takes a seat on the opposite end of the sofa, half-turning to face you as he drinks. His mouth twists a smile, smooth and warm. "I will agree with you on Shakespeare," he chuckles shortly. "Either everyone dies or everyone ends up married somehow. A little too clever for me."
Under the surface of her clothes, Fiona is suddenly very aware of her own skin. "Yes," she echoes, setting the recorder down on the table, then curling up with the wineglass, back on the couch, perhaps relieved at the lack of pressing question. "A relaxation from conventionality," she suggests. "A chance for old habits to ... settle to the bottom, for a while, before you recirculate the water through that particular aquarium."
Taking another small sip, she allows the flavour to linger on her tongue before speaking again, driving her attention to the interview, and not its subject. "Cleverness has its place, but where art imitates life, it's a bit of a shallow ploy. How would you say your own art figures into mimicry or expose of daily living?"
He settles back, and being as he is a large man, he takes up a good portion of the sofa. But there is an effort to be polite, to give you your own space. "I do not so much try to capture life as it is, or even as it should be. I do not have an.... agenda?" he is uncertain that that is the correct word, but continues, "...with presenting the world. If anything, I suppose I try to expose the extraordinary in the ordinary. Or to find it, when I can." He sips at the wine and thinks of this. "Eh, any answer an artist gives to that question comes off as cliche or... self-important. To be honest, I do not think so much about the art. I just..." his hands motion, as they do when he speaks, "...move in it," his smile slants. "If that makes sense?"
Another swallow of the wine and he is considering you. An incline of his head and he studies the demeanor, what has changed and what has not changed. For the first time there is something of engaged interest there. His dark eyes flicker, odd and vivid blue-violet. William chuckles. "I ... hmm... well, conventionality is not something I worry about...you know..."
Fiona is curled up, not quite cozily, but certainly with a sort of dainty feminine elegance. Not quite casual, not quite formal, not very punk. "A composer, I think it was Beethoven," yes, the girl knows classical, "said he envisioned his symphonies as rooms he moved around in, and moved things around in. Perhaps something like that?"
Her expression begins unconscious of the scrutiny, eyebrows relaxed save for the slight sardonic yet amused tug upwards at one corner of her mouth, eyes intent on the answer. That concentration, the hint of determination, that's unchanged, as is the wariness - but that's much relaxed, almost entirely at ease save for the purposefulness, the working mien. The animal's wearing the human face, primordial nature caught in fine cut crystal. The lady, and the tiger... "What does worry you, then, if not conventionality?"
"Something like that... yes... or Michelangelo, when explaining his sculpture... that his process of carving it, or mine of painting...whatever... is freeing the object that is already there. That is the mechanism behind it, at least for me." William swallows more wine and thereafter the glass is held balanced on a thigh. His elbow rests on the back of sofa, his fingers resting at his cheek. There is none of the peacock posturing, none of the sultry bravado, no come-ons, no teasing you, tormenting you, annoying you.
To your follow-up question there is a quick smile. "I do not worry," he answers easily, the baritone gliding upon the syllables. It is a simple answer. And he does not elaborate. That, too, is a challenge. As much as the question, n'est-ce pas?
Almost belatedly, she becomes aware of the scrutiny, and form follows function, her chin doing that sudden little lift, lips slightly parted, eyebrow going up a millimeter. "Finding the thing which is there, uncovering truth in the midst of obscurity?", she suggests, tone level, meeting a gaze with a steady one of her own. Fiona rubs her thumb over the wineglass's stem absently as she speaks, causing the liquid to swirl and coat the insides of the glass.
She relaxes again, though it's not as though she'd gotten very worked up to begin with. "What - never?" Fiona allows her tone to carry a note of teasing skepticism, breaking into a grin which isn't entirely planned. "I find that a little hard to believe, M'sieur d'Angevin."
"If you say so," he quips, and he can't help the laughter. That smile, you know it by now. The light in his eyes, you have seen it before. The cling of that sound in his throat, you have heard it before. William finishes the wine and leaning forward sets the empty Murano glass on the table. "I do not think of it, really," his voice is lowered, genuine, truth spoken in a whisper. And neither does he back away from you. "I see the canvas, then my hands move. I ... brush against the blank space, I uncover an image beneath it. I do not think of Truth or Beauty or Meaning. That is for those who view it to... find in it. Hopefully, it is interesting enough for someone to find something in it. Art is best, I think, when it is a mirror to the self. More than a mirror to society."
And then he smiles again, settling back, he opens his hands outward in a gestured shrug. "I do not worry. Maybe I am foolish not to. Sometimes I have been afraid, but I never worry."
Fiona nods, slowly, considering the words and preparing the next question. This sort of conversation takes a quick mind - as an interview, she can't waste more time, lest she lose the topic, and the subject of the interview himself or herself, all at once. Whatever discomfort she has, she hides to the best of her ability, unfolding her legs with a whisper of fabrics, and swallowing the last of her wine before speaking.
"Automatic writing requires, they say, opening up the mind while leaving it blank, to invite in what might come. Perhaps something like that, that the spirit of the work you create might enter into you, and express itself?" And she laughs, a real sound, even as she leans back against the arm of the couch. "Which sounds ... awfully pretentious ... "
Alert again, then, she tilts her head. "Fear, then, is not the same as worry, to you. All right. What makes you afraid, and how does that influence the future of your work? Or ... doesn't it? One day at a time, existing in the here and now without care or concern towards the days which may come?" The French words lend themselves to eloquence and poetry, it seems, or perhaps it was the wine. She brushes her hand back along her cheek, chasing an invisible strand away.
William grins slowly, "I think art is best seen or... done. It does not sound...sincere when people speak of it, even those who, myself included, are passionate about it." Passionate. When he says that in French, his face shows it, he feels it. It is a pity the recorder cannot pick that up. "More wine?" he wonders, before getting to the rest, and William sits forward, reaching, taking the bottle, unstopping it and tipping the bottle toward you.
"Fear is not the same as worry, not to me. To me, fear is ... fear. It is a real feeling. Worry... entails spending fear on something that is not real. When I am afraid, it is for a real reason. Not a bogeyman."
... I am the bogeyman. Other people worry about me...
"I think it can be... good for work," comes the languid baritone of his voice, his French elongated by his accent. His French lends itself to sensuality, as all things with him. "Fear, love, hate... powerful emotions, they each have their place. As for what things inspire that in me? Loss of my lover," that was easy and spoken freely. "But for the most part... I do exist in the Now. I try to," he corrects. "The Now and ... plan for the future. Fortunately, I do not have to ...worry," there's that word again, "...about the day-to-day. That frees me...from a lot, hmm? But my fear, back to that," he has not forgotten. He pours a glass for himself. He pours a glass for you after all. "I think what it provides, like any emotion, is a spark, inspiration, motivation. Whether positive or negative, I do not think that matters so much..."
She stretches forward again, picking up the glass and holding it out acceptingly. "Impetus," Fiona suggests, watching expressions intently, while trying to separate herself from them. It would be easy, as it is easy for so many, to be a moth, drawn to that vivid flame...
"Inspiration strikes, whether it is birthed by fear or enjoyment or any one of a thousand other hungry emotions, and from there, the process becomes made ... not simpler, but it becomes possible. Rather than to force art out where there is nothing but dry-as-dust ennui." She understands, to some degree, the process, as a writer, though not as a painter.
Her gaze flickers, not quite faltering, and she adds with a dry bite to her humour, "So long as the process does not end up chaining you to the bottom of the river."
"Sometimes, inspiration is a bitch, non?" He says as if he understands. But how could he. He doesn't know. But perhaps, at last, you have found your approach to him, and your common ground. "It comes... sometimes slowly, sometimes in pain, sometimes like lightning, sometimes like an orgasm. Whether one slashes, trembles, thrashes or quivers on the canvas, still... the result is..." Art. Painting. Something.
William looks to you and he sits close, not in apparent or obvious teasing, but in interest. His demeanor is different. It is serious, but it is not without humor. It is engaged, his gaze intense, his attention palpable -- as if he were touching you. "What I have struggled with more, I think, and struggle is not the right word, it will make it seem like I am being too dramatic... but it is as... close to what I mean as I may express... I struggle with understanding what it is I do and why. It is as if I am moved by a thing or a force I do not know... and the result, when the result is challenging or when others accuse me of stealing their souls... I do not know how to react to this. For it is not the intent when the hands are compelled. I find that part of the process to be very strange. How meaning is attached to it... how it has affected people. Maybe it sounds... arrogant, I do not mean it in this way, think what you will. I have been painting... creating... a long time... most of my life. Still, I am always surprised by the result..."
"A bitch, indeed," and though she looks as though butter couldn't melt in her mouth, the crudity comes out nonetheless, an almost impish amusement as she says it. The same glee with which she then adds, "Bollocks to it, anyway, it's a necessary part of it." In that, there is agreement, though the sexual metaphors, the particular warmth of it, makes her posture grow slightly prim, and she cradles the wineglass in both hands as she takes a swallow, moisture lingering on her lower lip where wine's almost spilled over the rim.
A pause, as Fiona adjusts the position of the sapphire hovering at her throat, then : "This will of course sound horribly unprepared for someone who's supposed to be interviewing you, but I've never seen any of your work. I prefer to ... go in cold, as it were, au naturel to work with the person, rather than against them. Do you have anything on hand that I might see how you've stolen away the soul of it?" And that, too, has an edge of mischief, amusement, to it, fending off intimacy with a question equally intimate in tone.
"And what would you say the most surprising result you've received has been?"
That is easy. "I was painting a series of portraits... for a friend of mine," you've met him, actually, but he doesn't go into that. "The portrait was of his lover, as a gift for them both. I did not think anything of it. It is the most... common theme in art. Portraits of lovers. And so, with photos, I did this. The surprising result of this? I was rushed and if he did not love me, and if I weren't me," he chuckles at that, "...he would have punched me. He was furious." Now, he can laugh about it. It wasn't funny at the time. It was actually disturbing.
"It was not until I came outside when they were visiting me sometime later... and happened to walk in on them mid-kiss... that I realized what I had done, what I had truly done. I did not paint a portrait, it could never be that simple. It was as if I had been eavesdropping. Spying. A voyeur. I have not painted a portrait since."
He takes a swallow of wine, finally sitting back. "That was the most surprising. One of the most. I have been cursed, yelled at, paid well, loved, I've had women and men lay down for it... it is..." his eyes sparkle, "...strange. No matter the response." William inclines his head and his smile spreads. "Hmm... I think I have something here... let me... dig around?" A black eyebrow lifts, arching in question, even as he rises to do just that. He sets his glass aside.
The lady nods, rising to her own feet with a movement both smooth and graceful. There's some of the arch animal here, but it's less feral, more subdued - less anger boiling underneath. She is composed. "Of course."
She puts her wine down as well, checking the spool in the recorder for a moment. "And you've not painted any portraits since?", she echos, curiously. "You got tired of the overpassionate responses, from either extreme, then, or ... tired of looking, to draw the inside out to the surface?" And despite her curiosity, she avoids looking at the artist as she asks this, making a miniscule adjustment to her butterflies.
"Oh... for a variety of reasons. Portraits are best when commissioned," and paid for. He slants a slight grin to you and he moves to a stack of canvas against the wall. "But... in a way... I suppose that is true. And a little boredom with the subject matter..." He pauses, and his grin goes suddenly wicked. "I should speak the whole truth. It is a fair question. I do not paint... portraits per se... but there are ... fragments of portraits... my lover's stomach, back... he would recognize them if he saw them... but it is not as if he intentionally sat for those..." A chuckle. "He falls asleep, he is fair game, mais oui?" The smile spreads and he tilts his head as he crouches, eyeing the selection. For such a tall man, and broad man, he balances himself quite gracefully. There is an agile familiarity with his body, how it moves, he knows it so well.
"It was at his suggestion that I turn to the inspiration of Cezanne and Van Gogh and paint a little still life fruit." He doesn't bother to explain the joke. He merely chuckles at it. "So... I have been doing that..." and as he rises, he brings a couple of unvarnished, still drying canvas over, propping them on surrounding chairs...
Liquid realism. Hyper realism. The pomegranates and pears are incredibly realistic. As if you could pluck them off the canvas and eat them. But the colors are extraordinary, not natural. Unreal. Aquamarines for shadows, blues and golds and sepia tones. there is strength in the strokes, and finesse in the lines. The table the fruit rests upon is covered in the representation of cream and burgundy damask. An arched window, stone. All so real. But such a shimmer of paint. As if it would dissolve if you looked at it long...
The other is more abstract. It is only after study that one may see the lines of a masculine back... not his... a sleeping form, the arch and bend of a back... but the face and rest of the form hidden. The rest is crumpled sheet, with all the resonance of silk...
"These are just small studies. Most of what I have is... elsewhere..." he notes, and then he takes seat on the sofa again, leaning forward, retrieving his glass.
She paces over, for a moment intensely irked at her own high heels. She's used to them, she knows how to move in them, but it lacks that connection with the earth she moves over - and Fiona still, for all her lightness, is not an airy sort of sprite. "Still life fruit," she echoes, turning her own turquoised gaze to the canvas.
She stares at the first one first, her right hand placed loosely on her left shoulder, jade and aquamarine butterfly hovering at the divide between black cloth and pale skin. She frowns for a moment, but her gaze is caught less by the fruit than by the window beyond the table, at the edge of the cloth covering the table. Her gaze is intense, as if Fiona is trying to somehow push herself into the painting, take a piece, lift it to her lips, and bite down into it.
She moves on, then, to the other painting, without saying a word, and fixes the same concentration onto it. Poor painting. At first, it's the same sort of gaze, as though Fiona intends to step into the canvas, but then a slight pink flush tinges her cheeks, and she steps back slightly, chin going up. Looks like she just 'got' it. She resumes her scrutiny, but with a sort of assumed detachment that colours her expression, making it more impersonal, more neutral.
Finally, Fiona turns back, tilting her head. "You're very good." She says it without pretense or preamble. "I can see why you collect ... groupies ... outside of the obvious, I mean. Do you still do commissions, or is it more of a labour of love than of finance? Or a bit of both, perhaps? Commissions which interest you, only." It's half the interviewer, and half something else, doing the asking, expression for a moment lost in some other place, some other thought.
"Both... it depends. I am paid well by those who can afford to. But every artist has a sliding scale," he mentions, a warm quip, a sudden lift of humor. The smile is genuine, and is chased by a swallow of good Bordeaux. Very fine wine you have been served, actually. Full-bodied that Bordeaux, with a hint of pepper and berry. "I have to eat. You see where I live. It's expensive," he winks. "But... that is not why I paint. I paint because I need the release... I paint because I love it... and hate it...to be perfectly French." William winks and takes another swallow of the wine.
"Thank you," he says at last to the compliment. And he isn't so disingenuine as to wonder what those 'obvious' reasons might be. He knows those.
And yes... that is his lover's back... nearly the entire backside visible, but for the swath of silk...it is an intimate moment. A parting of a curtain. A peek into the lord's bedchamber...
Fiona smiles, slowly, chin down as her eyes light up with a furtive sort of gleam for just a moment, in response to the words. "And if someone came to you and said ... money is no object, paint me what you see - you'd do it? Or would it depend upon the person who's doing the asking?"
She returns to the table, collecting her glass for an apparently much-needed swallow of the wine, eyes hooding for a moment, as though to hide her thoughts behind an obscuring veil. "Your art is a demon and an angel, coaxing and demanding, giving you its gifts when it chooses, not when you do," she comments. "Whether it is seduction or rape, depends upon the moment."
Indigo fastens, watching your reaction. Reading it in part. Studying the way your stance has changed, the timbre of your voice. Tiny motions. "If someone came to me and said paint me... what you see... I do not think price would be an object. I would agree..." If it were a poor woman or a poor man, it would cost them nothing. If a rich woman or a rich man, let them barter for it once it's done. "Do you have something in mind..."
There is little difference between seduction and rape. Seduction is when I make you believe you want it, whether you do or not. In many ways, it is more insiduous. "Angels.. devils... who knows," William murmurs, turning to you. "But it does coax, it does demand. I get no rest," his voice upon his smile smoothens. "If it is not art that twists me, it is my Subject," do you remember the golden haired young man? Oh no, that was not you but Isabel who saw the one named Ian Dunross. The owner of the back in that one painting. "Do you wish to look into the mirror, Fiona..." William whispers...
She's silent for a long moment. Tempted, certainly, indecision moving in her eyes as she considers her response. "Part of me does," she says finally, neither turning away nor stepping forward. With each portal there comes another ledge to step onto, and wonder whether or not to jump. "But part of me suspects the cost would be too high."
Her lips curve again, in rueful self-mockery. It's plain she's forgotten about the tape. "One comes to a bend in the road, and doesn't know what's around it. I am less inclined to charge in where even angels might fear to breathe," a nice paraphrase, that, "than even I used to be."
Her eyes clear, gaze sharpening to a moment's ferality, a fox or a cat under human-seeming skin. "Is that what you wish me to do? Turn and look, and turn the key in the lock?" It's said without snap, but not without a slight edge, a tremor to her lips that is half laugh and half snarl, a bit of demand for the answer rather than placid waiting. "Answer me that, then, and I will answer you."
Death and the Maiden. So to speak. So much for the lady and the tiger. Wineglass set aside, William settles back, fingers laced against his stomach. A casual half-sprawl of long legs. His gaze is intent, however. Relentless, as Life is relentless. "I only hold the mirror, cher," he murmurs. "The eyes are yours." William inclines his head again, his eyes drifting over you. "You wish to see. You fear what you may see. Tell me... is the price of seeing more costly than the price of being blind?"
William sits forward after a moment. Turning to you, he looks at you. Close at hand, you can detect the scent of cinnamon. Woody, spicy. An oil worn upon his skin. "If you wish me to paint you, I will do it... no expense to you. Any other payment... you will have to work out with God..."
Has he ever seemed more dangerous? Was there a time by the fire that you feared for yourself? What about now? No distraction of a large fire. There is him. You. The door closed. The wine potent. The paintings no less. And his gaze is unhindered. There is no shelter to be found in the imperfection of a beard. Clean-shaven, his face is beautiful. No less potent. But his dark eyes are not teasing, they are not satisfied gleaming, they are merely open... awaiting your answer...
That relentless gaze is uncomfortable, but no less uncomfortable than the self-absorbed inwards stare which sometimes drives her to ridiculous lengths. Whether it is more ... Fiona can't quite answer that, or decide. She fiddles with her butterflies, her right hand still curling round the fragile stem of the wineglass, her left moving from the resting duo perched on her hair to the charm at her opposite wrist, and finally settling on the cool stone at her throat. "That depends on what I see, isn't it. It's more the price of admission that worries me."
"No expense? That is very ... gracious of you." Fiona's mouth curves, despite itself, again into that somewhat sly, somewhat rueful smile. Without the teasing, hungry gleam, if anything, the danger to herself seems more palpable, more real, and less escapable. It is easy to pretend and to slough it off when there is that look. It is much harder when there is not. "If I accept your offer ... what will I need to do?"
"What are you prepared to do to see yourself? The question is yours to ask, and yours to answer," comes that languid baritone, its intonation of French a seamless glide from a tongue and mouth born to speak it. "I know you are brave," and now he smiles a little, his mouth showing the curve, but the truth of it is embedded in the indigo. Fathomless that color seems, and yet when one might be swallowed whole by the blue, there are the flickers of violet there, catching light, throwing it back. "I know you have that in you," William murmurs. "The surest way to see the self is to... face fear and stand anyway, even though your legs want to give out."
He sits back and the look you are given is both bemused and studious. He inclines his head, a raven eyebrow lifting. "You want my opinion? You want the truth of what I think...?" Guillaume d'Angevin, William Plantagenet will let you answer that. It is not a rhetorical question.
And as he pauses, giving you your opportunity, he leans, his hands taking the recorder. And he switches it off. Off the record, now.
Maybe the interview will begin again after...whatever happens, happens... but for now, the interview is paused...
He sets the recorder down and he smiles. His demeanor does not suddenly change now that you and he are 'off the record'. In fact, nothing about him changes. He seems no more, no less himself. Arm on the back of the couch again, he props up his head with a hand to his temple.
Do you study him at all? The hands, both large and fine. An artist's finesse, you may assume, but there is strength there. The beautiful features which can be both cold and aloof, but warm and open -- you have now seen both. The body? Well, Sin. Easily. But there is something to the strength that seems to ... know itself? Not just in the carriage, but in how it is carefully placed. A surprising grace.
The mouth that speaks to you. The eyes that wait for your answer. There are matters of Life and Death here. But there is, at the least, a surface appearance of truth....
Even though off the record in truth, started for her some little time ago, Fiona starts slightly as the recorder's turned off. Even if she'd forgotten it, it still stood as some unconscious defense, now stripped away. Drancy would have blustered, or feigned anger until she was angry in truth. She no longer has that to draw on, so easily.
"Truth is one of the only things left at the end of the long day, so I am prepared to do quite a lot," she answers, quietly. She already has done quite a lot. Her hands are there, and she does not know what to do with them. With a slight tilt of her head, cocking it to the side, she regards you, eyes slowly warming from sapphire to a pale, answering lavender blue. "And yes, I would like your opinion, though I don't promise to agree with it."
There is a study in her eyes and expression, not aloof enough to pass over without a judgement being handed down, of one sort or another. But does Fiona dare to speak that judgement, in her current state? It was easier, before. And harder, but in different ways. "I would like to see what result you produce. But I am not as feline as to have nine lives to give to that."
There is a softening of his expression, or perhaps a warming. That you should think of your life while sitting on a sofa with him -- he's touched, it seems. "I do not need a single pound note, nor do I require a life's sacrifice." William rises, and his smile lingers, from the hint of the previous moment to a smile more actualized. "This is what I think," he murmurs, and in the quiet of this room, his murmur nearly echoes.
"Strip off the pretense of your family," he says, "... the pretense of the masks you wear... the punk," and here he pauses and here he smiles, "...and the princess. Remove the pearls of what others expect of you... and the sneer you have used as your shield. Come to your mirror, and to this experience... as you came to life. With nothing but your soul. This... is what I recommend."
Yes, he has just asked you to remove your clothing...
Standing, he pushes out the table, slowly moving it back and away. To give you space, him space. To make it seem less clautrophobic. "I speak as an artist," he explains, "...and not as a man who wishes to see what you are hiding. I speak as one who has had to do this himself. A man who has worn masks. When they outlive their usefulness, they should be set aside. It is You who is beneath that. It is You, you wish to see. The truth can only be seen when there is nothing else to get in the way."
Even in the privacy of her own home, her own space, she is rarely completely unclothed. She goes from bedroom to bath in shirt or terrycloth robe, she sleeps in a shirt or in something finer, only occasionally as God intended. The mere idea makes a fire burn in her cheeks, the embarassment of it. For someone both refined and rough, it is an odd sort of sheltered life.
A moment's hesitance, then a slight nod, and she leans forward to pull off the heels, first. She never liked them, anyway, the defiance to her shoulders suggests as they come off. Earrings next, placed on the low table, and bracelet draped around them like a corral, and pale hands lift to the chain around her throat, so nearly invisible in its fragility. It, too, becomes a corral, outside the bracelet.
"You ask a lot," Fiona mutters, as she rises to her feet, turning round so that her back is to you as she seeks out a cunningly hidden zipper with clever fingers, pulling it down so that the dress at first slowly sighs away from her shoulders, then suddenly falls away entirely. Demitasse lace and silk of pale drowned violet cover breasts and cling to hips, thighs gartered to hold up smoky grey stockings, hair still held up from her face with those two butterflies, blue jade versus drowned flowers.
"I am relieved," she shoots back with a bit of slightly tense humour, "to hear that you separate artist from man. There's nothing quite so off-putting as a painter who grabs his hard-on instead of his brush by accident." Ahh, she needed that. But she's still here, and while she's flushed, she's not run yet. A miracle.
"I do not have brushes that big," comes his dry response, "...as to get confused, mademoiselle," and he nearly laughs at his own joke. It is held, caught in the slant of his grin, in the dark of his eyes. "If you were a young man, I ...of course... would not make such grand promises of pure, artistic motive."
As William begins to put his hands to charcoal, to gather supplies together, he looks to you. The smile spreads to see you rise to the challenge. So to speak. You have earned respect for your bravery. "I am very demanding, as you can perhaps imagine. Well... as you yourself know, n'est-ce pas?" A chuckle and without shock at seeing your form and without that edge of lust, he turns back to you. "I suggest ... the sofa," he murmurs. "You should be comfortable... when we find a pose that... gets to it, hmm? You will... have to stay there for a while." He makes a motion with his hand to your undergarments.
You should lose those, too...
Posted by Criseyde at June 07, 2003 09:45 AM
