If you have 20 francs in technique

A spiral erupted from his brush across the still canvas. It was guided by the nude on the chaise-longue. Her legs were luscious, her hair at both ends was ravishing. He has placed drapes at odd points to elicit the sense of mystery of a faraway age. Her eyes looking backward at him wonder if the easel would come before the easy.

He let her wonder. In fact, he had decided that only money would be exchanged. Money in exchange for the technique that he would learn to cover her skin at a distance. He knew he wanted her, and he suspected that she would not mind his attentions.  Especially with a brush. But it was the brush of the easel not the brush of the hair which would dominate.

This was, partly, because the patron was coming over tonight to observe the paintings working out. He wanted to be sure that this would be worth the completely prestigious price that the painter had quoted for it. It had buried him when he first heard it, like fiery steeds of war.

He leaned back and studied the brush strokes that he had just made. Examining them for the fluidity that needed to match the columns in the background. There was a reason why the painter was going to entitle this the “Rape of the Sabine Women” because there was no raping going on but the lascivious pleasing of a lute. The patron was only to observe what the painter was achingly close to. He could feel and working in the cheap perfume off of her back.

And that meant, in a perverse sort of way, that no texture-to-texture contact was going to occur between painter and model.  It was another remove.

If you have 20 francs in technique invest five sous more.