The Tour de Boissy contains spacious guest quarters on the ground and fifth floor, with the first and third floors left for studio and workspace. Not one studio but a gathering of studio suites dominate the third level of the Tour de Boissy.
     The first floor is dedicated to sculpture, with broad windows that open on hinges to allow the entrance of Italian marble. It is the third floor that is devoted to the art of painting.
     Multiple rooms split out from the large, main space, each Angevin archway leading to another workspace. There are at least nine such suites. Some of the rooms are dedicated to the study and history of art, with massive tomes and sketch collections acquired over centuries. Others are dedicated to the art of engineering and photography, with scaled down models of Chinon's restoration, the restoration of the Chapel of St. David in Wales, the Cathedral of Tours, and the Santa Maria Della Salute in Venice.
     The smell of paint, of oils, is suffuse in the largest studio suite, and paintings stand covered against the wall; projects started, in progress, completed. It is a visual evolution. There are raw components that line shelves for pigments made of old (now ancient) recipes. There are modern components, tubes upon tubes and small cans upon cans, that line other shelves. There are rags, and there is, of course, the scent of turpentine and thinner.
     An easel has been set up in the center of the space, placed where it can benefit from the best lighting. What immortal artists lose by not having the light of day, William has recreated with broad-spectrum lighting, installed to mimic the way the afternoon sun would land upon the limestone, upon the easel. There are materials at your disposal -- these have not been selected in advance. That is part of what you must do. You are the artist.
     William stands behind you, some feet behind you, and leans against one of the more formidable tables. He is dressed in jeans that have lived through a painting or two, and a black, cotton t-shirt. The shoes are likewise speckled with the paint of past evenings. Why ruin a fine pair of Italian shoes if one doesn't have to?
     The table is loaded down with his own sketches. His or Leonardo's? It is difficult to tell. Only the subject matter gives it away. There is a man in modern clothing, a beautiful young man pictured here and there. It is always the same young man.
     Ian Dunross.
     "We have sketched enough, mais oui? It is time to paint," the French he speaks is modern out of courtesy to you, but the cadence, how it moves on his tongue, is far older. There are flecks of fire, drags of honeyed tones that speak of a different dialect, that adopted by troubadours. His great-grandfather had been the first such, and from here the language flowered over much of France. Modern French cannot compare in beauty to the Occitan.
     Pushing off the table, arms folded against his chest, he approaches you. "I will mostly be watching. Help yourself to whatever you see here... the tubes on the wall, oils. There are acrylics if you prefer."

     He does not wear the same clothes to paint in as he does on the street. Oh, the clothes are similar - but they are older. They have been worn to the point of shabbiness, and they show their wear. A white linen shirt which is floppy with its time served, a pair of grey linen trousers; for such a determined artiste, he wears surprisingly few colours, most of the time. Even the shoes are in the same position - the clothes could be five, ten, fifteen or even fifty years old, and like your own, they show their wounds from their time in service. Paint dripped here, dropped there, speckled and splatted.
     He is ignoring everything while he works, even you. As much as he is able to, at least, he ignores you - the light of concentration intent in those light, clear blue eyes. The charcoal, the pencil, the pens, they drag across paper when he works, they are easily set aside, charcoal wiped from fingers onto cloth. And there has been a transformation taking place.
     As Hansl works, the longer he works, the less reputable his hair looks. It begins brushed back with military precision and Beau Brummel slickness, but the longer he works, the more unruly it becomes, the more his posture relaxes, from its German 'hauptmann' beginning to the relaxed almost-slouch of the farmboy. When you speak, however, the rigidity re-enters his spine as he turns to look to you.
     Enough? He nods. "Ja, all right," Hansl agrees. "If it is the same to you, I will work with acrylics to begin with." He rubs his fingers absently together. There is something slick about acrylics; bright, bold, simple, with the complexity waiting to be built up on palette and on canvas. You have spoken, and he moves to make his selection, eyes moving rapidly to note brand names, colours, tubes and bottles and brushes.

     "It is all the same to me. Whatever you prefer," William drawls. It makes no difference. Not the materials, not the style. Right now, the point is to witness your energy as it leaves you and lands on the page. He does not smoke here -- for one, there are flammable chemicals in this room, and as he is wont to point out: he is not flame retardant. But it is also a respected place. There is no room for ashes on the floor here. It would be like spitting in church.
     As you prep your materials (there is no expense spared on the quality of paint or brushes), William wanders to the center of the room, tossing down some material on the floor -- soft rugs, ermines and other furs. Opulent castaways they are, but castaways nonetheless.
     The door opens as he kicks out a rug with his feet, rearranging it slightly. In the breeze created by the door's opening comes the scent of recent baths -- bath salts and the scent of spring water -- and following that scent, the figures of two men, gloriously naked.
     "We have a new artist," William announces in fluent Italian, "You will behave, yes? Put aside the towels and relax there." Looking to you, he gestures to the Italians. First to the larger of the two, he with the dark hair and dark eyes. "Marco." And to the other, he of the reddish brown hair and the Aegean eyes. "Amadeo." Lastly he points to you, "Hansl." With that, introductions are done."
     "Buona sera," both young men grin. Amadeo's smile tends toward the sweet; Marco's toward the fiery. Tossing their towels to land in a casual pile, Marco and Amadeo begin arranging the furs and rugs to their liking.
     "They are experienced models. They will do whatever you ask. Today, they will be doing whatever I ask. Eh, Bea Ragazzi?" They smile to William with understanding and familiar knowledge, then turn their beautiful faces to you. "They have formed the basis of many of my works over the last few years," William explains. "Good models are hard to find. I have decided to keep them," he smirks.
     With a wave, he gestures them to take a position. The young men stand upon the furs, flush together, and instantly form a knot of male flesh, arms around bodies, interlocking. Droplets of their bath's condensation bead on their skin, and in the lighting they easily transform into naked twins Romulus and Remus.
     Taking a position behind the easel where he can watch you and direct the models at the same time, William folds his arms. Marco and Amadeo make small adjustments, directed by some invisible, inaudible command. They turn their faces toward one another, noses nearly touching.

     Hansl blinks - there is a brief double-take at the models, a flicker of pale, uncertain eyelashes. But he has seen naked men before. He has painted them. And it is little surprise that you would treat them well, and offer them the best of the best, the same as any other whose skills you value. These things, they fit in with his view of the world as he understands it, and so he accepts it with simply a nod.
     "Good evening." They speak in Italian, he answers in Italian. It is one of his languages. If it is a Romance language, he has probably been forced to learn it; his English isn't so fluent as his German, as he remains unaware of some of the nuances of what he says, his French and his Italian however as good as his Latin; which is to say exquisite. His sire forced that into him. He bobs his head almost as if not really seeing the models, though the pale eyes do in fact flicker rapidly over their every inch, with only a faint reddening about the ears to betray any reaction other than cool, artistic dissection. He acknowledges them, and then he acknowledges your words, and he moves to the canvas. It is time to work.
     Romulus and Remus - it is evocative, and something he can work with. He is focused on them, and he begins by mixing the colour of light hitting Mediterranean-inspired skin. It is not a direct approach, but it is where he begins. He begins with the curve of the shoulders where they face each other, the shoulders turned towards him, eyes seeing them but looking somewhere else as well.

     Indigo eyes move from the spreading colors you mix, to the shape of shoulders beginning to take shape, to the models you paint. Nothing is spoken to any of you. There is the presence of his attention, his focus, that is there like another spectator. William does not interrupt his study to guide any of you...
     Romulus and Remus, meanwhile, hold each other to make a physical symbol of Gemini. They are not still, not as models typically are. Their motions, however, are subtle. The slight turn of a head, the flexing of fingers, the sliding of hands -- these motions, individually, would be easy to miss, but they form a larger organism of movement, of energy.
     Indigo eyes return to the artist. William pivots his attention from the male display in the chamber's center to the spectacle of colors on canvas. The colors are only a small part of what he sees. The colors themselves are irrelevant. It is how the artist is approaching the subject, how he holds himself, how he conveys the energy of what is transpiring as well as his own force of emotion or intellect. Arms folded against his chest, William watches without expression, his placid features carved into the marble of his aspect.
     His presence remains but he begins to become just another part of the studio. The focus changes quite clearly, beaming in the false sunlight in the chamber's center.
     Marco tilts his head, his mouth parting his lover's in a kiss. The slow but constantly moving hands begin to twist and clasp, the one man to the other. Fingers begin to press, creating creases in muscled flesh. They do not speak. They do not look at you. It is as if you and William were not here at all. Intimacy between familiar lovers is revealed. This is no Romulus and Remus of legend or history, but of the fevered minds of poets.
     William does nothing to stop it. His attention is solely on you. But the weight that his look, his attention can bear is softened, his energy couched and held behind him. Rather than overwhelm, he barely seems here at all. He could disappear from view altogether, in truth, but it is not necessary.
     The models lower to the carpets and furs...

     At first, he notices nothing. He is rapidly absorbed into his work; there is nothing for him but the act. It is a tunnel vision which plays against him in the long run.
     Paint slaps onto the canvas, following those joined arms, building strength there. From shoulder to bicep, bicep to elbow, elbow to forearm, it begins taking form. A dashed curved line forms the graceful arch of spines, and Hansl murmurs something soundlessly, not in English or in Italian or French or even German. When he paints, he speaks in Latin; he prays.
     He is unaware; he is not unaware. As seamlessly as he'd lost track of his surroundings, there is a sudden click as he rejoins the world in front of him, as he notices - things have changed. Are changing. He looks up, he stares with blue eyes going wide and the mirror of the seas. Brushes rattle as he fumbles one-handed towards the supplies he'd brought to his station, and he jerks his attention back to what his hands do, a crimson flush staining his cheeks as he bends over to select a #4 sable by sight instead of feel, ducking as if it will help him to hide his blush.
     He knew that things would be different. He did not realize how difficult that could get. Hansl tries to return to his work without showing his reactions - forlorn hope, that; tries to distance himself, detach, even as he begins to turn the portrait into a montage, a series of images instead of the one, though the one image remains at the center. Here, hands stroke against an expanse of male flesh at the small of a back, the base of a spine; there, lips bend to kiss an exposed stomach. Below, strong thighs slide against one another to the point of tangling; the images build up around the central one, like urban sprawl around the city's core.

     An eyebrow quirks at the Latin, and he resists the urge to say: And also with you. You murmur your prayer by rote; your lips move though it is possible you do not even realize it. It has become a mantra, a chant, a way you focus yourself to your task. He mumbles Latin, Langue d'Oc, Gaelic, even Arabic and a smattering of Greek at the most intimate of moment. William's mouth upturns slightly, a curve of sympathy for your prayer.
     Peace be with you. And also with you...
     Hands are in motion, mouths in motion. It is a squirming of colors, of tones, of musculature. The beauty of both are revealed, at their best -- inspired by the other. Mouths then descend, one between the thighs of the other, and thighs splay. There is nothing lewd about it; flesh unfolds as naturally as linen sheets in the sun.
     A flare of blood hits the air -- it is the perfume of your blush. Though you focus, you stare upon your work, to will it to fade, it trumpets against your pale flesh, a herald in bright colors. William watches you, the trembling of hands, the reddening of skin. His placid expression neither reveals enjoyment or amusement. If he noticed, and how could he not you may wonder, he says nothing. He does not draw attention to it. He merely strolls to the side.
     The lighting shifts slightly, the afternoon tone softened to something more like twilight. He controls even the illumination here. And how it changes the look of what is transpiring on the furs and the carpets. Now, these lovers are cloaked in half-shadows, illicit and secretive.
     "Giri la vostra faccia, Amadeo," William softly commands. And Amadeo behaves, turning his face slightly toward the artist, his mouth surrounding the fullness of Marco's length. "Sempre all'artista. Marco, metta la vostra mano in suoi capelli." Marco likewise obeys -- he is helpless to do otherwise.
     William comes to stand behind you again, his gaze on your work over your left shoulder. "It is not the image but the energy that is important." His voice is quiet, rich in its low tones. "I like what you are doing... continue..."
     That mouth that conveys sin and beauty in equal measure spreads in a grin as he glances to the models. "That goes for you, too. Piu. Piu. More, more. Give him a challenge."

     Peace? He has never known peace. He does not know it now. Not when he was a boy in Germany, living on a farm with the body of a farmboy and the soul of an artist, not subsequently in his abruptly interrupted training; not in the war (who can know peace in war, after all) and not after that, either, and certainly not now. He tries not to twitch, tries not to react, even though he struggles with the effort to remember not to breathe.
     Breathing is difficult, right now. That he does not need to does not prevent the urge.
     His hand lifts to his head, fingers raking through his hair. It becomes discordant, chaotic, and he does not notice, work proceeding apace, faster and faster, like a dancer in The Red Shoes. The shift in lighting does not put him at ease; it only makes things harder. In more ways than one...
     Hansl hears the Italian, and understands it - he absorbs it, but does not pay it too much attention. Or so he wishes it were true - in truth, he is entirely too aware of it. Entirely too aware of the models. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, trying to be subtle. But nothing is lost on you, is it? And the images grow apace.
     In shadowed tones, now, between and dimly overlapping the edges of the other images. Purple hints, blue notes mark it as nightfall, the more explicit imagery; the blatant sprawl of a hip, ardent mouth sliding forward with cheeks rounded and hollowed to make obvious what is hidden. Fingers, gritting into that reddish-brown hair, curling with the intent of relaxation but the growing urgency behind it. Is it the model who likes pulling hair, likes having his hair pulled, or is it the artist's passion in that? A hand curves possessively at a hip, close to the curve of the ass, pressure indenting moonlight shadows on that Aegean sun-kissed skin.
     He does not stop. Perhaps he cannot. Though there is no overt indication that he has heard you, Hansl continues to paint, even with paint dripped down his wrist to bubble onto one shoe.

     The transition from foreplay to intercourse occurs with a sudden slap of skin, like the snapping of laundry on the line in a sudden gust. It is sudden, but not unexpected. And you are here, a Peeping Tom witness to a secret tryst. What things God must see, when no one expects him to be looking...
     Slow steps guide William from his watchful gaze at your back, at your work, to the morality play in its first act on the floor, on the rugs, on the furs. It is no different from still life -- he arranges it no differently. A foot gently guides Amadeo's face to an upward tilt as Marco covers him from behind, draped across his back. At some unvoiced suggestion, Marco lifts onto his knees, his hands scrawling over the landscape of his lover's back and revealing the twists of musculature at his shoulders, chest and torso as his body moves forward and back, in and out.
     "Stretta," William commands. His voice is quiet but it carries a command that resonates through both lovers. They halt their motions, their faces twisting with the pleasure and the agony that stillness brings. But they do not move. "There is your picture, yes?" he continues as he moves toward you, that languid stride that carries him effortlessly from one side of the room to the other, no matter how vast the space.
     You can see the Italians breathing, you can see their bodies making slight, squirming motions, compelled to move by the beating of their hearts and the necessity of lust. In the dimmer light, their desperation is incandescent.
     But they do not move. They do not disobey.

     That slap of skin almost draws an agonized cry from him. It is kept inside, except for the brief exhalation, expelled breath given to the night. And he begins, shakily, obedient to the last, to build the image on the canvas.
     If he were mortal, he would be sweating right now. But though he mimics life in so many particulars, that far, he does not; knowing eyes can see the flush, can hear his breathing. Can even hear the irregular, distant, quiet heartbeat that ghostly echoes in his chest. It is not so loud nor so fast as a living man's; but right now, it is fast enough. Other men are haunted by the shadow of death.
     Hansl is, as he has ever been, haunted by the shadow of life.
     He shares their agony, their desperation, even at this distance. He focuses on his work, uses it as a shield against what is in front of him, the muscles in his neck standing out with as much tension in them as steel cables. Meticulously, he builds up the image of the two, superimposed over and around the original, central image; it can be seen through and over and under the new focal image, the rutting, copulating lust of it leaping off the page. Amadeo's face to the audience's, Marco's tilted up and back, their bodies tangled, as tensed as his own - caught. Unable to move forward; stuck. Incomplete.

     There is the focus of a hunter in those of us who paint. We stalk our subjects across canvas, across marble, over wood, in paint and with the ember-bones of fires long dead. It is that moment before the strike, that moment on the edge of greatness.
     "Do not stop yourself." William's voice sounds near your ear. Quiet and deep, it is your guide through this experience. "Do not hesitate. That part of you that is not sure, that part of you that wants to stop now, that part of you that wants to be perfect. Where you must go is past that moment. This moment. Hunger, longing -- these things belong here."
     He reaches with his hand, a finger sliding against the paint, against the canvas. A swipe of his finger lends a visceral stroke to your work. Rather than mar it, that physical presence of Plantagenet adds a moment of very real drama to the work. One touch can change everything.
     When he leans forward, the energy that extends from him can be felt. You can sense auras, can you not? His comes with a resonance, that scent. There is no one in this room who is not suffering from longing. William does not need to say so; it is everywhere evident. In the spasming muscles of the models holding their positions, to the denim he wears, and the linen you wear. "Keep moving," comes the languid baritone, syllables rolling and vowels elongating. "Keep painting, even though your hands are trembling."
     Stepping back, William gives you your space again. He strolls to the center of the floor, pacing around the models holding their place. Marco's swollen lust is at its tortured peak. He mutters gasping Italian, his hips shaking in the effort it takes not to move. William looks down at his creation, his indigo eyes fiery in his own stirred desires. "Now...go," he commands, his foot planting itself on Marco's rear and pressing him into Amadeo. "Before you explode." That mouth curves into a smirk as he paces away.
     As William's slow stride brings him toward you once more, Marco's and Amadeo's groans and cries seem to echo from his steps, providing a soundtrack for his motions. Behind him, the models throw themselves the one into and on the other, their bodies jerking with completion.

     He is trembling, though he wills himself to stop. Why can he not control himself to a molecular level? Why must he be anything less than what he aspires to be - perfect? The thoughts almost leap off his skin, the instinct of ego and id at war. You speak, you reach, and he catches and holds his breath with the effort made not to reach out, to seize your wrist.
     He does not. He cannot. He maintains those invisible walls, though they are made of glass, eyes darting between you, the models, the very walls, the very air. And you command...
     The order you give to Marco is almost taken for himself. He half-lifts from his seat, drops into it, twisting in his own agony as he shakes his head violently, drags the brush against the canvas. Everything jerks; everything clatters. Nothing is quiet, nothing is withheld, he could almost tear through the canvas with the force, the thrust, the vigor of his strokes. Where is his self-control?
     Where is your control, Hansl? Where is your art? It is running out of you. You are a failure. You will have proven yourself thus by a thousand degrees...
     The brush he is clutching, clenching, it snaps, and there is a muttered oath in coarse, thick German as it falls to the floor. One half lands on his trouser leg, sticking with wet paint. The other half falls and bounces, rolls away, and he ducks his head again, violent in his agitation, reaching for another brush. Continuing. Enduring, somehow, even though he cannot look at you, cannot look at the models, can barely look at his own work.
     Completion? He knows nothing of such an ideal.

     The artist may see failure, but his mentor sees success...
     The clattering noise is heard, the fragment of the brush seen as it claps on the limestone, and behind it all melodic Italian in murmurs and chuckles as the lovers relax. William folds his arms against his chest again and he watches you as you work, as you fight through your own emotions, your own longing, and all of the distractions. For the first time, he sees the strength for himself, the perseverance. Even if it is only stubbornness, it is a start.
     On the furs and carpets, Marco and Amadeo gently kiss, their bodies returning to the gentle caresses that began this art, that formed the first part of the portrait. Marco's hips still lift and lower, but there is no urgency. There is the easy intimacy of old lovers. He and Amadeo have been a couple for some years. To be able to ignore everything else, to make love for spectators, and to be alone with one another in the same moment, to be able to ignore everything but themselves. Amadeo sighs and reaches to bury his fingers in Marco's dark hair.
     "That is the picture I want," William murmurs, glancing to them and motioning them to hold their pose. "Soggiorno ancora." Not even Amadeo's fingers curl against his lover's scalp. They hold the pose, Marco's head bent, his lips grazing Amadeo's skin; Amadeo's fingers in his hair.
     Indigo eyes return to the view of the painting, their gaze fixing intently upon the work. Past the work, even, and to the motion of your hands. He watches you, and he watches the work unfold from you, escape from you.

     The tension in his shoulders could support a bridge across the Andes. Even now, he can barely watch the lovers; it is excruciating to him. Painful, and he could not if asked even begin to explain the source of his pain. He is obedient; he paints what he sees. Above the montage, there is the image forming as they are now holding position. Below, however, he works from memory and from imagination; Amadeo on his side, Marco behind and above him, cradling the auburn head with a gentle hand. Amadeo reaches to clasp his lover's hip, gentle pressure implied in shadows; a connection, a circuit completed, that Marco looks to Amadeo while Amadeo's eyes are closed and he sees by feel.
     Balanced. Above and below; to either side and around; the two central images which rest over and around one another. It is difficult. He calms himself by slow degrees through the work, blue eyes locked now onto paint. Each stroke of the brush again becomes measured, his heartbeat again slows to the distant, haunting echo of a living being. But the tension does not lessen.
     Hansl lifts his hand, absently smearing paint across his forehead and into his hair, pausing in his painting to stare with a frown. Angles and shadows. Slowly, he sets the brush down, reaching with a fingernail, scratching faint lines through shadows, suggestive of imperfection, of movement.

     He sees you struggling. He sees your shoulders become boulders of tension. He does not reach out to you. You need the struggle. You need to fight your way through your own issues to reach the center of who you are as a person, who you are as an artist. He knows the look of it. He has worn the look himself.
     But for the first time in your work, he sees something that grabs him. He sees your emotion splayed there. It is not safe. The struggle is there in the colors and lines, etched there by your fingernails. William pivots toward the young men, murmuring to them: "Quello e abbastanza per ora. Rinvii al bagno."
     The models lift slowly from their poses, and they rise naked and flushed from their activity, their bodies gleaming from it. Marco glances back with a smile to the artist and to the master as he wraps Amadeo in a robe. They go as they came, quietly and beautifully.
     "Stop where you are," William murmurs to you, turning the full of his attention back onto you. He comes to stand beside you, and he looks over the work. The twisting of bodies. The motion. The stillness. The intimacy. The struggle. "Very good," William says quietly to you again, turning to look at you. "You are hard on yourself." It is easy to see. "Every artist worth anything thinks he is worth nothing. Just ... try... to not let it choke out good work, to keep you from progressing. We are going to work on this, you and I. But it is a good beginning, Hans."
     His hand lands gently on your shoulder and he leans in. "You should go into town, into Richelieu. Go to the disco." You need to eat. Among other things. His hand pats and then withdraws.

     Qui est? He does not look at Marco or at Amadeo as they leave, still intent on putting in the lines, each one careful, meticulous, even though he moves quickly. There is something to it as if he could, and almost would claw through the canvas entirely - but he restrains himself. He holds himself in check. When you tell him to stop, he does - jerking his hands back as if struck. It is only then that he looks up.
     I - you - what? You think it is good?
     It is not telepathically communicated, but the thought is there, the bewilderment plain to behold. Hansl nods, obedient to the last. "I am glad that you are pleased," he murmurs, the words pulled from him. Duty, always duty. You speak, you touch him, and he almost flinches under that touch, as if it burns him somehow. If he were human, he would be bathed in sweat, coated in perspiration. "Ja, all right." Town. Disco. It seems, somehow, a very good idea. Even if he is burning like a human torch.

     "It is genuine," he notes, responding to the question on your face. "It is who you are. You will see it eventually. This is the first time I have seen even a glimmer of your voice... and not the voice you think I want to hear or see." His mouth quirks in a slight smile. The Mona Lisa has nothing on him, and neither do you. "So... we will begin again in two nights. I want you to study this in the meantime. Make notes. But not tonight," William cautions. "... Do not look at it again until tomorrow."
     With his instructions given, William turns from the painting, from you. He kicks the rugs and furs until they roll up together. You can hear a door closing from down the hall. A servant is on the way to take them for cleaning.
     "Give my regards to Richelieu. There is only one club there. You cannot miss it," he chuckles. "I will have the driver ready and waiting for you downstairs. Enjoy yourself." He pivots to look at you from the open archway of the room's entrance. "And that is an order, ne c'est pas?" William grins. It is a devastating look. A slight smile makes him look grand. A full grin makes him resplendent. "Bonne nuit..."
     Downstairs, a limousine is prepared. It circles the back of the chateau and rolls out to the courtyard just outside the castle walls...

Posted by rowan at June 04, 2007 10:35 PM