The Reader

A month already that I had been working on this canvas. I had no one to blame but myself. I—the impressionist, the fauvist, the color enthusiast—had challenged myself:

“I bet you’re not capable of painting realistically.”

“Well, game on, I can do it,” my alter ego had replied, always loving a challenge.

So, I got to work. I had decided to paint a portrait of a woman reading. To do this, I asked Sophie, one of my childhood friends and neighbors, to pose for me.

*

Tiny and cute, a brunette with azure eyes, Sophie is always dressed to the nines; her cheerful and playful nature charms more than a few... What I appreciate most about her is her energy, so much so that when we were kids, I dubbed her “Jack-in-the-Box”—which earned me, more than once, the painful red imprint of her hand on my cheek. Yes, between her and me, it’s a lovely story that goes back to early childhood. We’ve always been very close and see each other often; I can’t go to the market without running into her, as she runs a fruit and vegetable stall there, as colorful as my palette. And on her side, as soon as she has a spare moment, she drops by the studio to chat about everything and nothing, local news, the latest rumors.

Much more extroverted than I am, she often finds clients for me. In short, she’s my public relations officer and one of my most devout admirers. The latter shows refined taste, and my immense modesty.

The only flaw I know of in Sophie is her constant need to talk; it’s as if she fears silence or finds it painful. To sum it up, as they say around here: you say “Hello!” to her, and she tells you the rest...

Even back in kindergarten, our teacher never stopped scolding her and putting her in the corner for her incessant chatter. Even her mother, who adores her, told me the other day: “Jean, you know Sophie was very late to start talking?! You could say she’s certainly made up for lost time since.”

That said, her flaw comes with a virtue. You should see how she attracts shoppers and keeps loyal customers.

For someone like me who is rather reserved by nature, Sophie is a godsend. Plus, when it comes to mind-reading, she’s incredibly gifted; she asks you a question and answers it long before you can. Being a fan of the path of least resistance, that suits me just fine.

Thus, during our sessions, she would often call out to me:

“Jeannot, am I holding the book like this?... No, a bit higher, right?... Like this?... Yes, it’s better like this.”

As for me, completely immersed in my work, I contented myself with nodding or shaking my head—except for certain times when, having no other choice to make myself understood, I opened my mouth to say:

“Soso, turn your head slightly to the right... Yes, right there. Don’t move... And above all, don’t talk anymore.”

At this last request, she would purse her lips, and the studio would fill, for a few minutes, with a refreshing silence that her voice would always end up shattering:

“So, my Jeannot, what’s new with you?... Have you come out of your cave a bit this week? You big bear... Hey, did you L'Assommoir (The Drink Shop),see they’re going to build a new hospital?... With all the good-for-nothings and worn-out folks in this town, it won’t be too much... By the way, my mother sends her regards... Oh! This morning at the market, I saw François again... You remember François?... You know, François, that ugly little kid who lisped in eighth grade and whose mother waited for him outside high school in the evening... Well yeah, his dad was a cop and drank like a fish... You don’t remember?... Pff! You really have the memory of a goldfish.”

*

I was amazed. Seriously, truly! I, who was used to sketches and quick studies, would never have thought myself capable of such work... What I admire most in realistic painting isn't so much the final picture—in all honesty, I've never really understood the point nowadays of reproducing a landscape, objects, or a face exactly as they are; might as well take a photo, right?—as the mastery of technique and the treasures of patience deployed by the artist. It’s slow, precise work, requiring extreme concentration at every moment—a true challenge. I tone down my nature as a colorist, break my pure colors with their complementary ones, touch up the shade until I reach the natural local tone. As for the drawing, I hold myself back and constantly check myself so as not to add anything or stylize. I must stay faithful to what my eye perceives.

It’s painstaking, exhausting, and without real pleasure, because here, it’s no longer my heart in charge, but my head.

“Can I see, Jeannot?” Sophie asked me.

“Well, look at that, Soso, I’ve just finished,” I said, pivoting my studio easel.

“Oh, how beautiful it is!” she exclaimed, both hands crossed over her chest, forgetting to close her mouth. “It looks like a mirror.”

“Personally, I prefer the original.”

“Flatterer!” she replied, blushing.

“No, I’m being realistic... Well, at least for this canvas... I’m infinitely grateful to you for posing for me and enduring such an ordeal... You’re a real sweetheart, my Soso... For your trouble, pick out another canvas for yourself.”

“Really?! You’re not joking?! You’re giving me one?”

“Well yes, of course! Go on, take one! Don’t you want that one with the three polar bears?”

“No, I’m freezing just looking at it... I’d prefer the one with the Camargue horses over there.”

“Ha ha! Ma'am is a connoisseur.”

“Well, what did you expect?! You wannabe painter.”

Sophie was happy as she left, her canvas under her arm... I was too, and for two reasons. Firstly, for having won my bet against myself—my alter ego pouted at me for ages—and secondly, for bringing so much joy to Sophie.

*

Short, thin, with sparse, short dark hair, always wearing fine double-breasted suits with distinction, Mr. Rigau is one of my favorite clients... What am I saying? He’s more of a friend than a client, because even when he isn’t buying, he drops by to say hello and check on me. What I like about him is his simplicity; what he appreciates in a painting: just beauty. He’s not one of those snobs who talk about your work using psychoanalytic or academic terms—which often leaves you thinking:

“Well now, did I really mean to say all that? Great Scott, I’m actually intelligent after all.”

He simply tells me:

“Hmm, very nice, that one! Magnificent warm tones you used there... I like this one less... Ah, yes! Hats off, Jean! What a lovely blue dominance!”

You’ll have understood. He’s one of those people who look with their heart.

That day, he entered my studio all excited...

“Tell me, Jean, is that superb painting in the window yours?”

“Yes, Mr. Rigau... A moment of madness. I tried my hand at realistic painting.”

“Well then, my dear Jean, bravo! ... For a trial, it’s a masterstroke. The young woman looks alive... Though she seems lost in thought, I feel as if her pretty lips are going to move, as if she’s going to start reading again, turn the page... It’s divine... What is the name of this piece, Jean?”

“Oh, it took me a good week to find it, Mr. Rigau... The Reader,” I called out, slightly mocking.

“Joker! What’s the price?”

“It’s high, Mr. Rigau. You see, I spent over a month painting it... Believe me, it was no piece of cake... I’ll let you have it for a thousand euros.”

“A thousand euros?!”

“A thousand euros, and tonight, she reads to you... You know, it was a very long project, and in all honesty, I think it will remain my only work in this style.”

A few days later, Mr. Rigau entered my studio with The Reader under his arm. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes, a pallid complexion, and a haggard look. Surprised, I asked him:

“Mr. Rigau, what’s happening to you? You look quite ill... You’re working too hard, aren’t you?”

“Ah, my dear Jean, I can’t take it anymore. I’m sorry, I must return this canvas to you... You have no idea the ordeal I’ve endured for the past three days.”

Seeing him so exhausted, I had him sit in my leather club armchair and poured him a glass of Fine Napoléon cognac to revive him.

“Come on, Mr. Rigau, tell me what’s wrong... Why on earth do you want to give it back to me? ... Don’t you like it anymore?”

“Oh, I do! I adore your painting. It’s perfect, but haven’t you noticed anything strange about it?”

“No. Why?”

“It talks. Your canvas talks, Jean... It talks all day long. All night long. It never stops. It’s a total chatterbox... It started by reading its book to me, then it wouldn’t stop rambling about all sorts of things... Three nights I haven’t closed an eye. I can’t take it anymore... At the bank, I fall asleep on my desk... You have to take it back, Jean.”

“A painting that talks, Mr. Rigau?! That’s never been seen since the dawn of time... People would know... In my opinion, you must be a bit overworked. Take a few days off and everything will get back to normal... I’ve told you already. You are work-ing too hard!”

“I was sure you wouldn’t believe me, Jean... Well, I’m going to prove it to you... The book your model was holding was Zola’s L'Assommoir (The Drink Shop), and I can tell you that because on the first night, she literally knocked me out with it by reading it to me in its entirety. I’ve had it up to here with Gervaise!”

“Well, I’ll be damned... How did you guess the book? You can’t see its cover.”

“Ah, you’re starting to believe me, huh?”

“You’re pulling my leg, Mr. Rigau, aren’t you? You met my friend Sophie, and the two of you are trying to set me up, right?”

“Jean, I swear to you I don’t know your friend.”

“Alright, listen, given the state you’re in, I’ll keep the painting for a little while to clear up this mystery... As for you, do what I told you... Re-st!”

“Oh yes, I’m going on vacation.”

“There you go. Very good... Come back and see me after. If you’re right, I’ll refund you, or you can choose other canvases... Otherwise, you’ll take this one back.”

“You’re an angel, Jean... Thank you very much.”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Rigau.”

Shortly after my favorite client left, I couldn’t help but think about him. I had never seen him like that before. This vacation was going to do him good.

Still, what he had told me deeply troubled me, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe such a tall tale.

*

That evening, as I was preparing to close the studio and washing my brushes, I heard a voice very clearly that I recognized as Sophie’s:

“Good evening, Jean. How are you?”

I looked around the studio... No one... I took a glance outside... No one there either. I was beginning to wonder if the smell of white spirit was getting to my head when, once again, Sophie’s voice echoed very distinctly in the studio:

“Hey, Jeannot, I’m talking to you!”

Startled, I turned sharply toward the source of the sound, and before the sentence was finished, I distinctly saw the lips of my Reader moving.

“My God!” I said. “Good God Almighty! Mr. Rigau was right... The wench talks.”

“Say, Jeannot, is that how you address your best friend: 'the wench'?!”

Caught off guard, I resolved to engage in conversation and asked her:

“Who are you, anyway?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?! Are you blind or what?!... I’m Soso, of course.”

“No, you’re not Soso... You’re an image, a representation of Sophie... You’re a Reader or a Woman Reading... Besides, you shouldn’t talk, you should just content yourself with reading.”

“Listen here, my sweetie, don’t you remember that I hate Zola?”

“Wait, how do you know that?”

“Well, once again, because I am Soso,” she snapped. “Couldn’t you have given me In Pursuit of a Dream by Barbara Cartland instead?! Now that is real literature.”

“And then what else?! You don’t want me to serve you two fingers of port and turn on the TV for you, too?!” I replied, somewhat annoyed. “First of all, since when is this a thing?! Since when do paintings start talking? I’d really like someone to tell me... No, seriously, are we in The Twilight Zone here?! I’m going to start hearing the theme song any second... You are not Sophie. You are just a collection of pigments spread on a linen canvas... Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Well, my friend, you certainly have a high opinion of your work... Actually, on one point, you’re almost right... I’m not Sophie... I am a spiritual representation of Sophie, and all of this is your fault... You sought perfection, and you found it. You put all your heart into me, and your gaze captured every single one of her traits... With brushes, canvas, and your eye for detail, you recreated a Sophie.”

“Oh Lord, preserve me from ever wanting to paint realistically again!” I cried out, clapping my hands. “I’ve created a monster.”

“What?! Well, just wait! When Soso comes by, I’ll repeat that to her... I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear it.”

“I won’t give you the time, witch.”

*

“Ah, Mr. Rigau, how glad I am to see you again... Well now, you look great... That tan suits you wonderfully.”

“So, where is it? May I see this marvel?” he asked impatiently.

I slowly pulled back the white sheet covering the painting on the easel and, stepping back, observed Mr. Rigau’s face... I read first astonishment, then reflection, and very quickly, a familiar smile illuminated his face... I had touched up my reader, but apparently, he still liked her just as much.

“Ah yes, excellent,” he told me. “Looks like a Magritte... So the problem is solved now. What do you call this piece now, Jean?”

“The Muzzled Woman, Mr. Rigau.”

Jean-Louis Bouzou