Joel made the move to Taiwan
when life as an artist on the beach in Thailand ceased to feed him. He had
been away from England so long that it was no longer home to him. I was invited
by a friend to Joel’s vernissage one night. It began at 11pm and was expected
to wind up around 7, when everyone would go to breakfast. I was intrigued, but
first I needed a nap.
Breaking up with The Norseman had been harder on my physical
self than my brain was willing to admit. I had lost a lot of weight, and needed
new clothes that fit. What to wear to an artist’s vernissage? Finally I settled
on a silk halter top that my Chinese teacher had given me as a birthday gift. I
paired it with second-skin, pocketless jeans and slave sandals, rolled my
newly-straightened and blackened hair up in a bun and secured it with the chopsticks
clip. From the back, I could pass as Asian. I was kind of mesmerized by the
image in the mirror.
When we arrived at the café there was already a big lineup
at the door. Most of the people were Western, and I took my place in line and
listened to the variety of accents. South African was easy to distinguish with
its Dutch influence. Australian, Kiwi…was that Bostonian? And Scottish. Then we
were being ushered inside, to a completely white room with white sofas, black
tables, black bar with matching stools, and mirrors everywhere. Gauguin-esque paintings
of naked women embellished with tropical foliage were the only colour in the
room. I was standing there marvelling at the effect when I felt a warm hand on
the bare part of my back. A voice in my ear. “If I am the Sun, you must be the
Moon.” Well that’s a new
one.
Joel smiled and introduced himself. He kissed me on both
cheeks and said, “Murray told me he was bringing his Canadian friend, Diana.
Goddess of the Moon. Happy to meet you.” I wanted to shave the tiny little tuft
of hair sprouting from his chin but other than that I loved his face,
instantly. And I loved that he wore one green sneaker and one red. “I have
another pair just like them at home,” he smiled as he walked away to put his
hand on another bare back.
A few weeks later I had the great honour of sitting for a
portrait by Joel. I was one of the only models he had ever painted with clothes
on. It took all day, but gave me time to think as his brush traced the
negligible curves of my body in my bikini top and sarong. We ate mangos and sat
under the banana trees on his rooftop porch as the sun went down, after hours
of work. He called the painting “Mother of the Far Away Other.”
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