Old Writing 3: Blood Artist

There’s a knock at the door. It’s nine p.m.

Still, I set down my book and stand up. Maybe it’s my lost DoorDash order from two weeks ago. The fries better not be cold.

I open the door. A young man stands on my faded welcome mat. Artists need an eye for detail, and without even thinking I catalog his appearance. Ashen, pale skin, with absolutely no hair. Dark, tired eyes with noticeable bags.

Perfect-white fangs poke out from below thin lips held in a slight smile. Vantablack hoodie, slightly ragged. He looks like, well, a vampire. The really old-fashioned kind, like black-and-white-silent-movie old-fashioned. His voice snaps me back to the present.

“You’re the portrait artist, right?” He asks with rehearsed coolness. His accent is much more ‘Boston’ than ‘Transylvania’, and slightly nasal.

“Yes,” I say, “And you are?”

“A potential client,” he says tersely, “who doesn’t like personal questions.”

“Alright,” I say. “That's fair. You want a portrait, then?”

“‘s why I’m here.” he says, shrugging slightly. “I couldn’t get in touch with your secretary.”

“I don’t have a secretary,” I say, “so if you find her let me know.”

We regard each other for just a moment. “Please,” I say, acutely aware that this might be the last thing I ever say, “come in.”

My home doesn’t have a large studio. It’s for personal work, mostly, because most of my clients prefer that I come to them than the other way around. I flick on dim lights and sort through carefully-arranged canvases.

“What size do you want? I’ll warn you that a big one will be more expensive and might take a while. Normally, I grab photos so I don’t need a subject to sit there the whole time, but…”

“Big,” he says, “the kind you need two hands to properly hold.”

I nod and get down a 30x40 inch canvas, which I set on an easel. The client stares at me blankly as I arrange paints and brushes, like a cat watching something mildly amusing.

I turn to him. “Have you ever had your portrait painted before?”

“It’s been a while,” he says with another small shrug.

I nod and pull up a stool. “Sit however you want. Make sure it’s something you can hold for a long time, though if you need a break just let me know.”

He gets up on the stool and assumes a neutral pose, head slouched forward and facing slightly to the left, his eyes staring at nothing in the distance.

“Do you mind if I make a few adjustments?”

“...Sure,” he says, after a slightly-too-long moment of thought.

I adjust his posture, the angle of his chin, and the position of his hands for optimal viewing conditions.

It’s a striking pose that suits him well; powerful and graceful and sharp like a pearl-inlaid knife. I try not to think about how cold my hands are as I return to the easel.

I work in silence, first sketching the lines of his silhouette and face, then slight shading in pencil. 

Most clients don’t want perfectly true-to-life art; they want art that shows off their best features and more to the point looks good. If they wanted something perfect, they could get their photo taken.

I decide on something mostly-realistic, with a slight bend towards smoother curves and sharper angles. Not too colorful, but with a slightly larger-than-life palette. I imagine what it will look like.

It never ends up quite how I picture it, but having an idea is better than not.

It’s thirty minutes before I actually pick up a paintbrush, and the sound of it gliding across the canvas elicits the first movement I’ve seen from the client since we began; a quick flick of his eyes towards me before returning to where he was looking.

“Do you need a break?” I ask.

“Nah, I’m good,” he says, still holding the pose quite well.

More silence. I spend a long time getting the mercurial glint of his eyes just right; an anchor point that draws the viewer in and serves as a reference for as I work outwards. His mouth is a bit of a challenge; his flat expression is hard to capture.

The fangs are easy, though. The curve of his face and head, the line of his jaw. Nothing past the eyes are very detailed, shading and texture will have to come later.

I pause to take a drink, almost grabbing the cup I’ve been washing brushes in. Chrome-on-oil eyes flick towards me again. “You good? We’ve been here a couple hours.”

I check my phone. It is indeed past midnight. “I probably do need to sleep, actually.”

The client nods and gets up from off the stool. I have enough to get that posture back again later, if I need to, so I don’t protest. He stretches like a tomcat. “Can I take a look?” he asks.

“I’ll warn you it’s very rough,” I say, but turn the easel so he can see.

He inspects the unfinished portrait for at least a minute. “Huh,” he says quietly, “not bad.”

I almost ask if I’ve captured his likeness. “You’re a good subject,” I say, to bite down more useless chatter, “very striking.”

The client hums. “When’s a good time for me to come back,” he asks. “...to finish the portrait?”

“It’ll take at least a couple sessions,” I say. “but you can come back tomorrow night.”

He nods, then heads back to the front door. He pauses in the threshold and looks back at me. “Actually, I have plans tomorrow,”

“That’s fine,” I say.

“You didn’t let me finish,” he replies, his quicksilver eyes narrowing. He takes a deep breath, then exhales. “I’m going out for dinner tomorrow. Would you like to join me?”

I laugh, and his sleek facade cracks. “That’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”

He stammers something, simultaneously frozen in place and trying to scramble out the door.

“I like Chinese food, though. There’s a buffet on third street that has excellent crab Rangoon.”

The facade doesn’t come back, but he regains enough composure to walk and crack a toothy smile. “Sure. Yeah. See you then.”

“I never caught your name,” I say before he leaves into the night.

“Basilicus,” he says slightly bashfully. “I know it’s kind of a mouthful.”

“Do you mind if I call you ‘Basil’?”

He laughs nervously. “You can call me whatever you like.”