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Show 200 skin, limbs arranged so, muscles and deposits of fat, texture and color and line . . . Ha! I might as well have been a bowl of fruit." "Ummm," I said, and smacked my lips. I signaled for more coffee, I wanted more time with her, more of her. Like a fool. "How good an artist are you?" I asked. I wouldn't mind posing for her. She shrugged. "When I was a student I won a couple of competitions but I wasn't really good. A flash in the pan-the kind that usually wins competitions. Usually it's the shallow talents which develop fastest." "Don't knock yourself." "I'm not. I had a certain talent, it went this far, and no further. That's why I quit painting." "Quit! But I thought ..." "That's why I do commercial art." "Huh? But Amelia said ..." "Dear Amelia. I'm not a painter, Chess, an artist. I draw for a salary." I was shocked. "So after all it was Mark who became the artist." "No. He doesn't want to sculpt as much as he wants to be known as a sculptor. To live the life." "At least he kept on trying. He didn't sell out." "He doesn't have anything to sell. He makes junk. Are you implying that I sold out?" "Didn't you?" "I have to have money, I like the work." She seemed amused by me. "You didn't want to be a real artist?" "Sure. Till I found out I wasn't one. Oh, come off it. Money buys clothes and pays the rent." "And of course looking chic and living in a bourgeois apartment is |
