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Show Hannah Mae and the Mona Lisa 71 I lifted my chin. He continued to attack the canvas, whistling the whole time. The easel rocked and the canvas jumped. I held my peace. After a time, Mr. Morris calmed and began to paint more carefully. His whistling stopped. Or "I can't paint you at night," Mr. Morris confessed. I can't paint anything at night." He leaned around the canvas and smiled. "I learned to paint with natural light, and that's the only way I know. And I detest working from a photo." "No photos," Miss Larkin emphasized. Mr. Morris continued to paint. Miss Larkin watched. I could feel the minutes rushing by. I figured Mom and Colby were nearing the farm. Soon, Colby would be heading up the fence road toward the market. Finally Mr. Morris stopped whistling. He stood. "Come here Hannah, I want you to see something." I stood and walked toward the easel. Miss Larkin followed. "Remember," Mr. Morris began, "I've barely started." He unlocked the wheels on his easel and spun the canvas. The canvas was a mass of slashing brush strokes, thin and thick, dark and light. Already, he had captured my outline, especially my face and head. No details, of course. Except for the eyes. I could see myself in the girl's eyes. A few strokes formed my eyebrows. Another, the curve of my nose. But it was the eyes that caught my breath. "Those are my eyes," I whispered. "Extraordinary eyes," Mr. Morris said. I needed to sit down. Miss Larkin pulled over a chair. |