The Witch of Painted Sorrows

Chapter 31

Make of the blood, a stone. Make of a stone, a powder. Make of a powder, life everlasting.

It meant nothing to me, and yet it stayed with me, a recurring thought I ruminated on that night and all the next day, even at the École. There was no question it was what the woman in my dream had said to me so long ago. The same words she’d said to my father.

I was trying to do what Moreau had taught me and use my consternation and fear as I painted the female model. She was lying on the podium on a chaise longue in need of new springs, but I had placed her in my bell tower, on the daybed, surrounded by ornate pillows, cast in shadows, lit by candles. Moonlight from the windows illuminating her eyes.

“This style of yours intrigues me, Mademoiselle,” he said when he came up to me. “The loving way you render the skin so that I can almost touch it, the ability that you have to caress it with your brush and make it come alive… it’s almost alchemical.”

I felt pinpricks of shivers. That word again. It seemed to be following me.

“The opulence and the sensuality is powerful, but I still think you can go further to claim it. Our job,” he said, continuing, “is to see the world in all its storied wonder and synthesize it through our personal vision and then give it back to others on canvas. Look at Matisse, with his bold colors and the way he flattens out the figure. Or Rouault-” He was pointing across the room to his two favorite students. “They are painting their version of reality. Just as you are. What I am saying is that I want you to make this even more your own version. Exaggerate the things that interest you. Make the blacks blacker. Make the skin more luminous. Exploit the sensuality.”

After all those weeks of studying with Moreau, I suddenly completely and totally understood what he meant, as if a switch had been turned on in my head, and for the next four hours I painted in a wild frenzy.

At the end of the day, Moreau stopped by to see my progress. He stood watching me for several minutes. Then nodded. Once and again. Finally, he said just four words, and it felt as if I’d waited a lifetime to hear them.

“You have found yourself.”

I bowed my head.

“Now you are ready to give some thought to what you are going to submit to the Salon,” Moreau said.

“I didn’t think I was ready.”

“You might not have been before, but you are now. Your improvement has been remarkable. Truly remarkable.”

A few easels away, I saw Serge Mouton glance over at us.

“Do you have a suggestion?” I asked Moreau.

“I would never suggest a subject. This is one of the steps you must take on your own on your path to becoming the artist you are meant to be. Your choices at every juncture make a statement, and it is through those choices you will speak to us. Make a woman look like a statue, or make her look like a harlot. Paint the light as if it were healing and holy, or paint it as if it were flat and damning. Use the paint as harsh reality or as fantasy. Make red violent or as generous as a rose. Every choice speaks of who you are.”

I looked at the painting I was working on. What did it say about who I was?

Moreau seemed to be looking, too.

“Choose wisely and paint a sketch this week for us to consider. Many of my students work on the Salon submission all year… but your best work, Mademoiselle Sandrine, is not labored. Use your darks and your lights and your feelings, and paint me something. Make me some magic this week.”

“Don’t you think there is something curious about Mademoiselle’s work, Maître?” Serge asked. He’d walked over and was standing to the right of Moreau. “Suspicious perhaps?”

Our teacher looked surprised by the interruption.

“Suspicious? What an odd choice of words. By all means, Monsieur, what do you think is suspicious?”

“These paintings are nothing at all like the paintings that Mademoiselle showed in order to be admitted to your classes. I saw those-we all saw them. These paintings, this style, everything she has created since she’s been with us has been markedly different. While she uses the same Renaissance-era chiaroscuro, the new paintings are looser and more contemporary.”

“Her style has changed, of course.” Moreau frowned.

“It’s more than just change,” he countered.

“What are you suggesting? And be careful, lest you make an accusation you can’t back up,” Moreau said.

Several of the students had stopped what they were doing and gathered around. The silence in the large high-ceilinged room was extreme. I was afraid they would all be able to hear my heart beating so loudly in my chest as my fear escalated as I waited to hear Serge’s accusation.

“I charge Mademoiselle Verlaine with using paintings that weren’t hers to gain entry to the École.”

Moreau looked from Serge to my canvas. He cocked his head. Studied my work.

“You are right in that her style is markedly different,” Moreau said.

I had just been invited to enter a painting into the 1894 Salon. Was that honor to be snatched from me so quickly? “Yes, different,” I said. “I’ve studied and grown under your tutelage, Monsieur Moreau.” My voice trembled-did they all notice?

“All that matters to me is this work-the painting you are doing now,” Moreau said.

I held my breath. Was it going to be all right? Was he dismissing Serge’s charge?

“But would you be so kind as to bring your admission paintings with you next week so that I can take a look. I don’t expect a problem. I have a feeling about you. I have faith in you. But an accusation has been made, and as distasteful as this is, investigate I must.”