Kathy nodded.
“How could I
At ten to eight the next morning, Izzy stood on the pavement in front of 48 Stanton Street and looked up at the imposing Tudor-style house, reassured by the respectability of the neighborhood. Although she’d been told not to bring any supplies, she’d still thrown a few things into her knapsack before leaving the dorm: sketch pad, pencils, brushes, paints and two nine-by-twelve pieces of hardboard that she’d primed with gesso the night before. Gathering her courage, she went up the walk and onto the porch, where she quickly pressed the bell before she could change her mind and flee. A dark-haired woman in her forties answered the door. She held her bathrobe closed with one hand and regarded Izzy through the foot-wide crack in the door.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m, um, here to see Mr. Rushkin.”
“Oh, you want 48-B.” At Izzy’s blank look the woman added, “That’s the coach house around back. But don’t bother ringing the bell—he never answers it. Just go up the fire escape and hammer on the studio door.”
“Thanks,” Izzy said, but the woman had already closed the door.
Well, at least she now knew that yesterday’s odd encounter had really been with Rushkin. She wasn’t sure if she was happy or not about that. The idea of studying under him was so intimidating. What if, when he saw her at his door today, he told her that he’d changed his mind? What if the first thing she tried to do was so pathetic that he just threw her out of his studio?
If it wasn’t for how much Kathy would rag her, she was almost tempted to just forget about it and go to the class she was skipping. But now that she knew it really was Rushkin, she couldn’t not go. He might throw her out, he might laugh at what she could do, but if he didn’t, if he actually did let her study under him
Shifting her knapsack into a more comfortable position, she stepped off the porch and back onto the pavement. Turning down the lane the woman had indicated, she found the coach house situated behind the house. Set beside the old carriage lane that ran behind Stanton Street, the building had a fieldstone foundation, wooden siding and a red shingled roof that was covered with vines. It made such a pretty picture, with its unruly tangle of a garden out front and the old oak that stood south of the building, that Izzy had to stop herself from pulling out her sketch pad and making a drawing of it on the spot.
Resolutely, she made straight for the fire escape and went up to the landing, where she knocked softly on the door. There was no reply. Izzy looked nervously around, then knocked harder.
Remembering what the woman had told her, she gave the door a couple of good hard bangs with the heel of her fist. She had her arm upraised and was about to give it one last attempt when the door was suddenly flung open and she found herself staring into the glaring features of yesterday’s troll.
“Yes?” he shouted, voice still deep and gravelly. Then his gaze rose to her face. “Oh, it’s you.”
Izzy lowered her hand. “You ... you said I should—”
“Yes, yes. Come in.”
He took her by the arm and as much hauled her as ushered her inside. Sniffing, he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his free arm. His shirt was as dirty as it had been yesterday, his trousers as patched and threadbare, and he still looked as though he hadn’t had a bath in weeks, but Izzy found herself viewing it all differently now. He really was Rushkin. He was a genius and geniuses were allowed their eccentricities.
“You’re prompt,” he said, letting her go. “That’s good. A point in your favor. Now take off your clothes.”
“What?”
He glared at her. “I’m sure I told you yesterday how I don’t like to repeat myself.”
“Yes, but ... you said you were going to—”
“Teach you. I know. I’m not senile. I haven’t forgotten. But first I want to paint you. So take your clothes off.”
He turned away, leaving her at the door, and Izzy finally got a good look at where she was. Her heart seemed to stop in her chest. The studio was as cluttered and shabby as the artist himself, but that made no difference whatsoever because everywhere she looked were paintings and drawings, a stunning gallery of work, each of which bore Rushkin’s unmistakable touch. Along the walls, canvases leaned against each other, seven to eight paintings deep. Studies and sketches were tacked haphazardly onto the walls or lay scattered in unruly piles on every available surface. She couldn’t believe the way such priceless treasures were being treated and was torn between wanting to pore over each one and to straighten the mess so that the work was stored with the respect it deserved.
Rushkin had crossed the room to stand by one of the studio’s two easels. Northern light spilled through the large window to the left of his work area and from the skylight above him, bathing the room with its remarkable glow. He had a window open to air the room, but the smell of turpentine still permeated every corner. In front of his easel was a battered recamier upholstered in a faded burgundy brocade. The wall behind it was covered with a cascade of deep blue drapery, and to one side stood an Oriental screen.
“Have you ever posed before?” Rushkin asked as he began to squeeze paint onto his palette.
Izzy still stood by the door. The recamier, with the light falling upon it and the drapes behind it, was too much like a stage. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting in coming here this morning, but posing for Rushkin hadn’t even remotely entered into her imagining.
Rushkin looked up at her. “Well?” he demanded.
Izzy’s throat felt as though it was coated with fine particles of sand. She swallowed dryly and slowly closed the door behind her.
“Not really,” she said. “I mean, not, you know, without any clothes on.”
She’d often wanted to augment her meager finances with modeling fees, but somehow she’d never found the courage to do so in front of her own classmates the way some of the other students did. Her friend July didn’t have that problem, but then July was beautiful and didn’t seem to know the meaning of self-consciousness.
“Nudity bothers you?” Rushkin asked, plainly surprised.
“No. Well, not in life-drawing class. It’s just that I’m ...” She took a deep breath. “I feel kind of embarrassed.”
Rushkin’s pale gaze studied her until she began to shift uncomfortably under its intensity.
“You think I’m trying to humiliate you,” he said.
“Oh, no.” Izzy quickly shook her head. “It’s not that at all.”
Rushkin waved a short arm in a grand gesture, encompassing all the various paintings and drawings in the room. “Do the subjects in these paintings appear humiliated?”
“No. Of course not.”
“If we are going to spend any amount of time together,” he said, “if I’m to teach you
Izzy wanted to disagree, to argue that you got to know someone through conversation, but instead found herself nodding in agreement to what he was saying. She hated the way she so often let anyone with what she perceived as authority or a stronger will have their way in an argument. It was a fault she just couldn’t seem to overcome. By the time she did stand up for herself it was usually so long after the fact that the source of her anger had no idea what it was that had set her off.
“And what better way to get to know you,” Rushkin asked, “than to paint you?”
He fixed her with the intensity of his pale blue eyes until she nodded again. “I ... I understand,” Izzy said.
Rushkin spoke no more. He merely regarded her until she filially placed her knapsack on the floor by the door. Blushing furiously, she made her way behind the screen with its colorful designs of Oriental dragons and flowers and began to undress.
Fifteen minutes into the pose Rushkin had finally decided upon, Izzy developed a whole new respect for the models in her life-drawing classes. She lay on the recamier in what she’d been sure would be a relaxed position, but her every muscle seemed to be knotting and cramping. The arm she was leaning on had fallen asleep. She had a distracting itch that traveled from one part of her body to another. No sooner did she manage to ignore it in one
