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From: Malinov <malinov@mindless.com>
Subject: {ASS} RP Paintings by Lord Malinov
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Paintings
by Lord Malinov

<malinov@mindless.com>
~~~

Placing the brushes into the stream of cold water, David watched as 
the thick pigment infected the flow, creating a rushing column of 
white and blue which swirled and bubbled in the basin in a milky 
froth.  Paint stained fingers kneaded the bristles of the wide 
whitened brush, splashing as the silvered band emerged from the wash 
of color.  David rubbed at the thinner blue brushes until they 
resumed their former darkness and with several hard swings above the 
sink threw the water in pattering streaks.

He glanced back at the morning's work, another canvas which suited 
him in some ways.  As quickly, David looked away.  It would be a 
while before he could see the expression cooly, before he could look 
at the composition and structure without feeling the burning ache 
that accompanied the act of creation.

A knock struck the studio door.  David glanced at his watch, smearing 
away several drops of white paint that had fallen onto the crystal.  
He picked up a rag off his worktable and rubbed the glass clean.  A 
moment's irritation swept over him as he went to the door.  

"David Bloom?" asked the young man.

"Yes, yes," said David, walking away from the open door.  The young 
man followed him into the studio.

"I'm Michael Braxton, from Art World.  I spoke with you yesterday."

"Yes," said the older man.  He stopped at his table and picked up a 
brush.

"I stopped by the gallery again on my way over here.  Your work is 
causing quite a sensation."  David sat down in a wooden swivel chair 
and gestured for the young man to sit.  Michael cautiously pushed 
some towels aside and sat down on a long bench.

"I guess my fifteen minutes are here."  David pushed his thick 
greying hair back, smearing a streak of blue paint along a lock.

"Rather more, I would guess.  It's been years since a show has 
created this much of a stir.  My magazine is running a feature on the 
Wentworth exhibit and talk down at Caruso's is that most of the 
glossies are doing something similar.  You've struck a nerve."

David snorted in silent disbelief and blushed slightly.  He twirled
the camel-hair brush in his left hand and began to stare
thoughtfully at an exposed wooden beam behind the young journalist.

"Eric Hazel has dubbed your work nuevo-Rembrandt.  Given his stature, 
I suspect the label will be in the first paragraph of a dozen 
articles this month."

David laughed, smiling broadly.

"You know what they say about words," the artist said.

"What do they say?"

"Sometimes words don't say anything."

"Well, I wouldn't compare you with Rembrandt, but light seems to play 
an important role in your compositions."

"Do you think so?"  David asked, staring intently, almost into the 
dark haired young man.

Michael smiled and shrugged.  He pulled a small pad from his jacket 
pocket and turning it open, he took out a pen.

"I think I'd be rather foolish to sit here and try and tell you what
little I understand about your work.  I like what you do.  I find
them moving and powerful and surprising in their impact.  Most of
the other paintings I've seen hanging lately strike me as fairly 
empty and mundane.  Yours are different."

"Well, thank you," said David.  "I just paint them."

"My editor wants me to do some background for our article, if you 
don't mind.  We want to give our readers a proper perspective to 
approach your work from, and we believe that what's up there," 
Michael pointed with his pen toward the easel, "can only be truly 
appreciated by knowing what's in there."  He looked into David's 
eyes.

"You are ambitious," said David, dropping his brush.  He leaned down 
to pick it up.  "Do you really think you can learn enough about me to 
make them understand?  My agent can give you the particulars."

Michael pulled a folded sheet from his breast pocket and opened it.  
He read for a moment.  

"She did.  It's notoriously thin.  You never had any training?"

"I never went to art school."

"Everything we've seen is from the last three years.  Did you just 
start painting?"  Michael scribbled in his notebook as he spoke.

"No," said David.  "Twenty years."

"So you were, about thirty when you started?"

"Twenty-seven."

"You never painted before then?"  Michael stopped writing and looked 
up.  David stood and walked over to the south windows.

"No.  I didn't."

"Mr. Bloom, I've done some research, public records and stuff.  Do 
you know which artist you remind me of?"

"Gauguin."  David sighed.

"Fascinating.  Exactly my point.  You were married when you were 
twenty-seven."

"Still am, I suppose."

"No, Karen Walker Bloom divorced you in 1989.  The court presumed 
you were dead."

"I was hard to get ahold of."  David smiled slightly.  Michael 
laughed.

"Yes, I would say that was true.  You were an accountant, doing 
audits for the beef industry in Chicago."

"That's what they told me."

"Pardon me?"  Michael laid his notebook on the window sill and 
scribbled furiously.

"I have forgotten."

"Was there a woman?  I mean, another woman?"

David turned abruptly and stepped back, weaving his way into a 
clutter of boxes at the back of the studio.  Michael followed him, 
curiously.  

"A woman?" David said, opening one of the cardboard boxes.  "Was 
there a woman?"  He pushed the box aside and tore the tape which held 
another closed.  "We could say that there was a woman."   Ashen 
faced, the man pulled out a handful of papers.

David handed one of the watercolors to the young man.  A blonde woman 
with a radiant face.  David handed him another.  The same golden 
hair, the same beautiful smile.  Michael sat down to study the 
portraits.  David piled forty pages into his lap.

"I was maybe thirty-three when these were done.  My skills were weak, 
but I had a vision."

"I'll say," said Michael, flipping through the paintings.  He blushed 
slightly.  A nude.  Another.  She held her pink-tipped breasts in her 
delicate hands.  She leaned back, lifting her full bosom.  She sat, 
her legs slightly spread.  She knelt, her back turned, her round 
bottom gently curved.  She teased the curls of her pubis.  She 
fingered her pussy.  She rode a thick, dark cock.  The paintings grew 
more erotic and more obscene with each page.  Yet there was an 
unearthly radiance to the flesh, an almost sacred quality.

"I've never seen anything like it.  Who is she?"  Michael said, 
slightly flustered and aroused.

"Look at this," he said, opening a book of prints to a page marked by 
a yellow tab.  "Titian," he said, pointing.  It was the same woman, 
yet a painting of the madonna.  "Here," he said, his white splotched 
finger aimed at one of Van Eyck's.  "And here," David said, flipping 
quickly to one of Lippi's virgins.  Michael turned his head slightly 
and smiled.  Each print portrayed the same woman, more or less.

"Who is she?" Michael asked, rising.  David shook his head.

"I don't know.  I found these pictures just recently."

"Your recent works, they're the same, except abstracted?"

"Years have taught me to see more deeply into her."

"Can we print some of these?"  Michael held up the handful of 
watercolors.

"No," said David, taking them from him.  "You may not."  Michael 
watched the aged man gather the remaining prints into his hands, 
observing the way David's eyes seemed to caress the woman's 
loving image.

"I guess I understand," he said cooly.

"And now, I must work," David said with a sigh.

"All right.  Can we resume our discussion later?"

"Perhaps," said David.  "I think that would be all right."

He closed the door behind the youth and picked up a blank canvas. 
Carefully moving the morning's painting against the wall, he dipped
his brush into a mason jar of white paint.

He remembered driving, thinking about the dinner party Karen had 
planned, thinking about the invoices he had left in Weller's office, 
thinking about the night before and thinking about the dull frown 
Karen had given him and then he saw the tree and the smack clatter 
bam.

Everything was gone.  A woman, gold and brilliant, blinding in her 
presence, leaning over him, kissing him, her skin white as china, her 
piercing eyes blue and loving.  He remembered the warm touch of her 
hands and the heat in his cock as she straddled his hips and the wet 
heat of her cunt as she buried him inside her soft furred lips and 
the kiss of her rhythm, the bounce of firm breasts, the rich gleam of 
excitement, the circles of nipples pressed into his mouth and the 
gold of her hair and the white of her skin and the red coral lips and 
the pearls of her smile and the azure lapis sky blue sea of her 
loving enchanting eyes.

And caressing the canvas, all David ever wanted was to feel that love 
again.

~~~
Paintings
by Lord Malinov

<malinov@mindless.com>

---
Power belongs to those who dare . . . Sapere Aude
<http://www.gslink.com/~dcain/xanadu/erotica/>


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