“Huh. Never heard of one of those, but okay. So why not just do the same for this rich guy?”
“But he’s asking me to draw his girlfriend. He wants to give it to her as a present, and I can’t paint something generic.”
“Didn’t he give you photographs you can work off of?”
I sigh, frustrated that Devlin’s right, and doubly frustrated that I can’t talk about what’s really wrong without revealing what’s wrong with me. I like him treating me like anybody else, rather than saying stupid things like “So, who do you think that is?” or “Look to your left and tell me the last time you ran into that person.”
“He did, but they aren’t… Look, I’m really just not a portrait kind of artist.” Which isn’t really lying. Self-portraits don’t count.
“But art is art.” Devlin gets up and turns off the music. “Come here. I’ll show you something.”
I follow him into the den. He pulls out his phone and searches for something, then hands me the phone. “Just hold it until I say hit play.”
“Okay,” I say. He’s a musician, not an artist. Whatever he’s trying
to drum isn’t going to cause sudden enlightenment.
He sits down at his drum set and picks up a pair of sticks. “Hit play.”
The second I do, he starts drumming softly, beats steady and regular. He’s keeping to the tempo of the music, which is familiar, but I don’t know the name of the piece. The music isn’t jazz or anything contemporary, but it doesn’t sound like Beethoven, either.
I’ve never seen him perform, but I can understand why women go wild for him. Devlin’s utterly relaxed as he taps on the drums, the muscles on his forearms flexing. It looks like he’s having easy fun, the corners of his lips quirking upward. But I know it’s taken years and years of dedicated practice and work to make it appear that effortless. And the fact that he’s so amazing at what he does is super hot.
“What is this?” I ask after a few minutes. The music doesn’t seem anywhere closer to an end.
“Boléro, by a guy named Ravel. Pretty famous. A classic. You need an orchestra to perform it, and a drum to keep the beat.”
“I’m not seeing how this relates to my problem.”
“Although I’m not classically trained, I can use my skill as a drummer to play the beat to the music. And because I’m a rocker, I can also add my own flair, rather than going strictly by the score.” And he does do some impressively fancy stuff—still keeping the tempo perfectly—spinning the stick in his left hand between beats. “Hear that?”
I nod, becoming mesmerized by the performance.
“If your billionaire dude wanted to re-create his girlfriend exactly, he would’ve hired a photographer. An artist is supposed to put her own flavor on a portrait. I’m sure he’d be disappointed if you gave him something that looks like a snapshot.”
I look at him, feeling like smacking my own forehead. I don’t know why I didn’t think about that. Every artist has their own spin. Degas’s paintings starring dancers are nothing like Dali’s. And theirs don’t look anything like Picasso’s. Catherine has seen my self-portraits. She knows I don’t draw people’s features precisely. I capture moods.
I feel lightheaded, almost giddy with relief and joy, like finding a clear path after being lost in foggy woods for a night.
“You grok what I’m laying down here, hep cat?” Devlin starts adding riffs and extra beats, still fitting the music perfectly.
I have to laugh. “Yes. Thank you.”
He puts down his drumsticks. Then he comes over, stops the music and wraps his arms around me.
I hug him back, feeling like all the weight has been lifted off my shoulders. But more than that, I’m thrilled and relieved to be with somebody who understands my struggle. Most people think it’s weird to get paid to paint. They also don’t understand when I share why I’m having trouble with my work. But Devlin… He’s like a psychic who just gets it.
I run my fingers along the tattoo on his forearm, tracing every letter of the phrase That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
“You like that?” he murmurs.
“Yup.” I stroke my love again. “Is it from a song you wrote?”
He laughs. “I wish. It’s Shakespeare.”
Then he softly recites it.
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,