She’d named her studio after him, but she’d never been sure if it was out of respect for what he’d taught her or relief for having been able to escape from him. A bit of both, she supposed. It had been over ten years since he’d vanished without a word. He was dead. Everyone said so and she wanted to believe it herself. But then how many people had thought he was dead when she’d been studying under him? No, implausible though it might appear, she knew that he was still out there, somewhere, waiting for her.
If he was still alive, if he did return when she began to paint once more, utilizing what he’d taught her
... what would happen to her, to her art? Would she be strong enough to resist him? She’d failed before.
What would make this time any different?
She realized that she just didn’t know and that was what scared her most of all.
The Bohemian Girl
The way I see it, everything is science versus art. I definitely fall on the side of art.
—Mae Moore, from an interview in Network, December 1992
“And where do you think you’re going with that?” Rushkin demanded.
It was just after lunch, two weeks before Christmas, and Izzy was getting ready to leave the studio for a class she had that afternoon at the university. She looked up from where she’d been putting a small canvas into her knapsack to see Rushkin glaring at her. The subject of the painting in question was a still life of three old leather- bound books and a rose in a tall vase, surrounded by a scattering of pen holders and nibs. She’d finished the piece a few weeks earlier and had been waiting for it to be dry enough to take home.
“It’s a present for my roommate,” she said, not hearing the warning bells that rang faintly in the back of her mind. “For Christmas.”
“For Christmas. I see. I’d thought we had a certain set of rules concerning the work you do while you are in this studio, but I can see I was mistaken.”
A hollow feeling settled in Izzy’s stomach. She read the warning signs now, but knew she was seeing them too late.
“N-no,” she said nervously. “You’re not mistaken. I ... I just forgot.” Rushkin had been adamant from the first that everything she did in the studio remained in the studio until he said otherwise. He wouldn’t explain why, and he wouldn’t allow any exceptions. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t.” She could see the rage building up in his eyes, hear the growing vehemence in every word. “I’m merely here to provide you with a workspace and supplies so that you can shower your friends with the pitiful fruits of your labor that exist only through my largesse.”
“It’s not like that ....”
“You certainly aren’t
“But—”
He strode across the wooden floor and tugged the canvas from her hands. He held it gingerly, his severe look of distaste giving the impression that she’d rendered it in dog shit.
“My god,” he said. “Will you look at this? It gives a whole new meaning to the concept of naive art.”
Izzy had thought it the best piece she’d done yet. It had been the first time that she really felt as though she’d managed to capture light in one of her oils: the way it fell across the various textures of her subjects, the glowing sheen and pronounced shadow on the leather of the books, the delicacy of the rose’s petals, the sparks of highlight on the pen nibs. She’d titled it
“What could you have been thinking of?” Rushkin wanted to know.
“I ... I just thought Kathy would ... would like it,” she said. “She’s a ... writer ....”
“A writer.”
Izzy nodded.
Rushkin lowered the painting and studied her. His fierce scowl did little to ease the unhappy feeling that had grown inside her. She felt sick and dizzy and all she wanted was to be anywhere else but here.
“You think me unfair, don’t you?” Rushkin said softly.
Izzy knew better than to reply.
“Did you ever stop to wonder
“But, it’s just my friend Kathy,” Izzy protested before she realized what she was doing.
“Fine!” Rushkin roared.
He threw the painting at where she was sitting on the floor, looking up at him. A side of the small canvas caught her in the midriff. Surprise, more than the actual force of the blow, made her lose her balance and fall backward, gasping for breath.
“Take the painting!” Rushkin cried. “Take it and yourself and get out. But don’t you dare come crawling back to me. Do you understand me?”
Izzy lay where she’d fallen, arms folded over her stomach. Her body shook with an uncontrollable trembling.
“I ... I didn’t mean to—” she began.
“Stop contradicting me!”
Suddenly he was standing directly over her. She tried to scrabble away from him, but her hands and feet could get no purchase on the smooth floor and he was too quick. His shoe lashed out and he caught her in the side with its hard leather toe. Pain flared, white and hot. Tears sprang in her eyes, blinding her.
“How
Izzy curled up into a fetal position, trying to protect herself from his foot, but he kicked her again.
And again. She heard a voice crying for mercy and only recognized it as her own when the blows finally stopped.
“Oh my god,” Rushkin said. “What have I done? What have I done?”
She tried to escape his touch, but he knelt on the floor beside her and gathered her close to his chest, stroking her hair, his voice choked and filled with horror until he could speak no more and all he could do was weep.
They seemed to hold that tableau forever, but finally Rushkin’s grip loos-ened and Izzy managed to extricate herself from his embrace. She moved away from him, but didn’t feel strong enough to get to her feet. Her torso and legs were bruised and every movement she made hurt. It even hurt to breathe. She wanted to get up and flee, but the most she could manage was to wrap her arms around herself and stare at the pitiful figure Rushkin cut, her vision still blurry with tears.
Rushkin knelt in front of her, head bowed down to the floor. He had stopped weeping, but when he finally lifted his face, his cheeks were glistening.
“You ... you should go,” he said, his gravelly voice strained with emotion. “I am a monster and I don’t deserve to be in the same room as you. God knows why you’ve put up with me.”
“Why ..... Izzy began. She paused, rubbed her nose on her sleeve and cleared her throat. “Why do you ... hurt me?”
Rushkin shook his head. “I wish to god I knew. I ... A blind rage comes over me, as overpowering as my need to paint. Sometimes I think it’s the dark side of my muse: the side of her that craves destruction and despair.”
His gaze fixed on Izzy, but she remained silent. What he was telling her only made her feel more confused than ever.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he went on, lowering his gaze once more. “I’m making excuses, rather than
