a canvas untouched

 Once again, an idea tugged at her thoughts. It was time to experiment and see what the outcome may be. It was time to give him a shout and ask him to critique what he saw. 

Instead of viewing the end product, she would ask him to be a part of her canvas...that pristine white background, untouched...and watch what may come of it as her brush swept, darted , lined, mixed and contoured colour giving rise to a theme envisaged in thought.

Her fancy rested on sailing yachts, colourful masts, waters still, reflecting the array of vibrant cloth waiting to be carried by an elusive wind.

She could imagine the bodies of yachtsmen laying languid on the floor of their sail boats , falling prey to laziness as the heat of the sun warmed them into slumber...the race forgotten.

In all the time he watched, not once did he interfere with her process...not once did he comment...he didn't want to. It was perfect...the whole scenario...the artist and her work.

His pleasure lay in watching the freedom of her brush strokes, at times a slight impatience when colour and shape did not gel with what the image may have been in her head.

And most of all...he loved the way she dressed for their sessions...he knew it was for him...near naked and uninhibited in her display...she was a wonderful canvass to feast his eyes on. 

The celebration and affirmation of her work was enjoyed in the same room where the framed piece was hung.  RB.