Chapter Fourteen
Marama
Friday
I spend the morning working. First, I assess Spencer’s portrait in the early sunlight that streams into the studio.
It’s good; I’m pleased with the proportions and the initial base colors, and it’s a good likeness.
I’ve managed to capture the intensity of his gaze, and a shiver runs down my back as he seems to look right out of the painting at me.
Later, when he’s sitting for me, I’ll start on the finer details, but for now I put it to one side.
Next, I prop the other sketch I did last night on the easel.
I chuckle as I stand back and observe it.
He’s sitting in the chair, legs wide apart, completely naked.
I only managed to get the basic pose down before he got to his feet, intending to leave, so you can’t really tell it’s him, unless you’d seen in real life the magnificent cock that juts out of the figure. Wow. Mmm. The man is truly marvelous.
I could stand and stare at it all day, but I take it down and put it to one side.
I’ll have to hide that somewhere! Now, I want to take some time to think about the first piece I’m doing for the Maramataka exhibition.
Genevieve has texted to say she’d like to do a Zoom call at one p.m. to discuss it, and it would be great if I had something to show her, however basic it was.
First, I go through my blank canvases. The portrait I’m doing for Spencer is eighteen by twenty-four inches, so a decent size, but I want to go even bigger for the Maramataka painting.
I pick up one that’s thirty by forty inches and place it on the easel, turning it so it’s portrait.
I feel excited by the size of it. I want the space to be free with my brush, and to be able to create a suitable scene around the figures I intend to portray.
I make myself a coffee and some toast and bring it back to the studio.
I wave to Joe as he passes outside the window carrying a bag of compost for the vegetable patch, and he nods and smiles back.
He’s more than happy to take tomorrow off as paid leave, and although I saw a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes, he didn’t ask why.
I’ve already done some preliminary sketches, working on a composition that’s pleasing to my eye. So I’m ready to start, and I choose a piece of charcoal and begin marking a light grid, then drawing the outlines of the major shapes.
For the first hour, I’m easily distracted, checking my phone, looking out the window, daydreaming, and sketching and re-sketching.
But gradually I enter what I call ‘the zone’—a magical, spiritual realm that most creative people will recognize.
The real world fades away, and I become one with the canvas, descending into a focused plane of existence where all that exists are me, the canvas, and the charcoal in my hand.
This happens to me frequently when I paint, and I’ve learned to go with the flow and enjoy it when it happens.
It’s with some surprise when I finally check my phone and realize it’s 12:45.
I put down my charcoal and wash my hands, then come back to the canvas and observe the drawing.
It’s good. Getting the basic shapes of figures and animals is one of the most important things; there’s nothing worse when you stand back and realize you haven’t got the proportions right, and you have to start all over again.
To the left stands the atua wāhine —Hina Marama, the Māori goddess of female power and the moon. It’s a self portrait, partly anyway, modeled on me, her body visible through a starlight-filled dress, her long hair lifting in the breeze and studded with stars that are going to form the night sky.
A wolf stands before her, large and powerful.
Her hand rests on its shoulder, and its head is raised as it howls at her—at the huge full moon in the sky above them.
I can already see the colors of the night sky—deep blues, purples, and greens; I’m going to draw on pictures from the Hubble telescope of far-off galaxies, and use silver and gold paint and glitter. I’m excited to start. I can’t wait.
I make myself another coffee, then set up my laptop for Genevieve’s call.
“Good afternoon,” she says when I answer. She smiles. “How’s my favorite artist?”
“If you mean me, I’m very well thank you.”
She chuckles. “Of course I mean you. How are you doing? Did Spencer turn up on Wednesday?”
I nod, hoping I’m not blushing. “I made good progress on his portrait.”
“That’s good to hear. You have two weeks, of course, but it’s always good to get stuck in.”
“Oh, I’ll definitely have it finished by then. I’ll do some more this afternoon.”
“Is he sitting for you again?”
“No,” I reply, surprising myself with the lie, “I’ll do the rest from memory.” Why did I say that? There’s nothing wrong with admitting that he’s going to sit for me again.
But I realize I don’t want her to know he’s coming over.
I don’t want anyone to know. What Spencer and I have is nobody else’s business.
I don’t want her mocking me, or trying to turn it to her advantage somehow.
And anyway, I wouldn’t be surprised if he changed his mind and didn’t turn up, and I don’t want to make a fool of myself.
“I made a start on the commission for Maramataka,” I tell her, wanting to change the subject. “Would you like to see it?”
“Oh, please!”
I turn the laptop so it faces the canvas on the easel and let her look at it.
“Ohhh…” She says it softly. “That’s beautiful.”
Relief fills me. “I’m so glad you like it. I’ve already planned the colors, and I was thinking I might even add some collage—pieces of net, beads, and sequins for stars and planets.”
“I’d love that. It would give it a kind of 3D effect, right?”
“A little, yes.”
She nods. “What about the poses, are they final?”
I study them. “Pretty much. Why, do you have other ideas?”
“I’m not sure about the wolf…”
“He’s howling at the moon,” I point out.
“I understand. I’d prefer to see him looking at the ground. Maybe even sitting, head bowed. She’s taming him, right? He’s at her feet, subdued, subjugated.”
I look at the picture, feeling a twinge of unease. That wasn’t how I saw it.
“Female power and sexual agency,” Genevieve reminds me. “Women subduing men, remember? That’s what Hariata requested: powerful goddesses taming beasts and overturning male power.”
I nod slowly. Te Whaihanga Toi Foundation is putting up the money.
And it’s Genevieve’s gallery. When you’re given a commission, you paint what’s requested.
It’s been the same all the way through history; even artists like Michelangelo and Monet struggled with patrons and establishments, and I’m hardly in their league.
I’m just an upcoming artist trying to get seen, and I have no leverage to argue against their requests.
If I start getting precious about my work, they’re likely to tell me they’ll find another artist to back.
“Of course,” I say, “that’s a great idea. I’ll make some changes.”
“Excellent.” Genevieve beams. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’m so excited about this, Marama. I think we work well together. Good things are going to come from this, I can feel it.”
I’m not quite sure what she means by that, but she sounds happy, so I nod and smile, and she ends the call.
I stand there, looking at the canvas. Hmm.
Thoughtfully, I go into the kitchen and start preparing dinner. I make the dessert and place it in the fridge. Then I start a basic tomato sauce by browning garlic, a chopped onion, a bay leaf, and red pepper flakes in olive oil, then adding tomato passata, or pureed strained tomatoes.
While that’s simmering, I make the meatballs.
I combine minced beef, pork, and veal, then whizz up some fresh breadcrumbs and let them soak in some full-cream milk for five minutes.
I grate some sharp, salty pecorino Romano cheese and crush a garlic clove, and add that with some egg yolks, seasoning, and fresh parsley to the soaking bread, mashing it to make a coarse paste.
Finally I add the minced meat, mix it all together with my hands, then form it into meatballs.
It’s an Italian recipe I picked up on my travels.
I brown them in hot olive oil, then place them in the crockpot. Finally I pour the sauce over the meatballs, turn on the crockpot, and leave it to cook while I tidy and clean the kitchen.
After making myself a sandwich, I fetch a water bottle from the fridge and return to the studio.
Taking a bite out of the sandwich, I study the canvas, thinking about what Genevieve said.
Putting the sandwich aside, I pick up a kneaded eraser, then lightly rub out some of the wolf.
I don’t need to erase it all—I’ll be painting over most of it anyway.
I consider the composition thoughtfully.
Then I go over to the laptop and search for a picture.
I find one of a real wolf, seated, looking down, head bowed.
That’s perfect. I pick up the charcoal and study the canvas. Then I begin to sketch again.
It takes me an hour, but eventually I get the proportions right and the wolf in the right place.
I step back and take the whole picture in, stretching my back.
I think Genevieve and Hariata will be pleased with the pose.
I’ve made the wolf large, but the goddess’s hand looks as if it’s keeping him in place, pressing his head down.
Spencer the wolf, subdued by a woman—exactly what they wanted.
Quelling the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach at what I’m doing, I wash my hands, then take the canvas, turn it around, and place it behind some of my other works in progress. I don’t want Spencer spotting this one yet.