SunshineGirl
member
solntse vizhu!
Joined: 10/27/08
Location: Texas
Posts: 2,068
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For my Creative Writing class, we had to write a story about why Mona Lisa is smiling. Here's my version.
[Mona Lisa]
He had been wanting to paint me for several months, and I wanted him to paint me, but I had been very busy. A helpless husband, helpless children, a helpless household. That day, I finally had some free time. I went to the painter and asked if he would like to paint me. He answered with a delighted "yes". He led me to the room in which he would paint my portrait and told me to make myself comfortable. "I want to really get to know you first," he explained, "so I can portray you properly."
We started talking. He asked me a few simple questions at first. "Where are you from originally?" "What is your family like?" Before I knew it, I was telling him everything. My hopes and dreams. My every thought. And he seemed genuinely interested. I was not used to this. My husband never acts like that anymore. I hadn't seen such love in a man's eyes in years.
When there was nothing left of my story to tell, he asked if I had any questions for him. I was silent a moment, thinking. "Why?" I asked. "Why do you want to paint me? Surely there are better subjects? Women with skin much fairer, hands much more delicate, eyes much brighter."
"No," he replied. "There are none better than you! Your skin is golden, like your heart. Your hands are worn because you've labored for you family. In your eyes, there is a fire, that cannot be extinguished. No, no, there are none better than you!"
I didn't know what to say. He spoke as if he thought me beautiful. I never thought of myself this way. I always refused to. In the beginning, my husband, very lovingly, tried to convince me of my beauty. In the beginning.
As I said, I was quite speechless. For a moment, he simply gazed at me. I blushed. I felt my ears burning. I suppose he noticed I was becoming embarassed, for he asked if I would like to get started. I nodded.
I followed him to the other side of the room, where there was a stool in front of a window. In front of the stool, he had his things set up. He asked me to take a seat. As I sat down, he went to the canvas and started choosing brushes, mixing paints.
I sat uncomfortably, rigidly, unsure of how to pose. "Relax," he said.
"I'm sorry," I responded. "I just...how do you want me to sit?"
"It's up to you. Just please, don't look like this is such torture!" he teased. I took a deep breath. "Alright," he said gently. "Start with your shoulders. Relax them a bit." I tried to loosen up. "Good. You still look so serious, though. I don't want serious. I want happy, I want love. Pretend you love me." To pretend was unnecessary. I wanted to say so, but I held my tongue. However, he looked up just in time to see my face change. He noticed the smile.
"Perfect," he whispered, and began painting.
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