The Study of Art
The tunnels sang with childish giggles and excited pronouncements as they created their colorful artwork. Catherine had brought down an array of watercolor paints, and Elizabeth came to guide the young artists’ learning. Catherine’s smile seemed constant; she couldn’t help the joy she felt watching the children have such fun. Vincent held little Melissa, who was a recent addition and had adopted Vincent as her protector. She sat in his lap, paint-laden fingers running in patterns all over the paper. Vincent looked over at Catherine and smiled. He felt such joy in the room from everyone, he couldn’t help but feel it himself. Melissa needed a change of color, wiped off her hands, and stood on Vincent’s lap to reach behind him to the paint sitting on the shelf. One of the lids hadn’t been tightened, so naturally it was the one that Melissa grabbed. Horrified, she watched it slip from her hands and send a cascade of violet rose running over Vincent’s head. He leapt up, holding Melissa away from him. She began to cry, fearful of what she had done.“It was an accident, Melissa.” Vincent quickly let her off the hook. You could have heard a pin drop, the chamber was so silent as all present watched the paint spread over his head. It was beginning to run down his face in rivulets. A giggle escaped, followed by a snort, until everyone was laughing but Vincent. He stood perplexed at what could be so funny about paint dripping. Catherine walked up, took him by the hand, and waved a cheery “Carry on, children” as she led Vincent out. They walked in silence toward the bathing chamber. “You didn’t have to laugh,” he admonished. She risked another glance at him. “Oh, yes, I did!” she said, and proceeded to laugh again.“If you could see yourself, Vincent, you, too, would be laughing. But I will help you wash your hair and I promise not to laugh anymore.” She directed him to lie on his back with his head over the side of the ledge next to the warm springs. She walked over to get some shampoo in the community supply area, and grabbed some towels. When she returned to her charge, she noticed him eyeing her. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “I’m perfectly capable of washing my own hair.” “Consider it penance for my laughing at you, then. Let me do this for you.” She began pouring water over his head with a cup to wet his hair and get a good portion of the paint out. Then she applied the shampoo to her hands, and began to rub his head. She noticed the shampoo made his hair slicker, but she could still feel the coarser hair closest to his scalp, and feel how it tapered to soft fine ends as she pulled her fingers through. She massaged his scalp with the shampoo, not wanting to leave a trace of the paint, or, at least, that’s what she told herself she was doing. She would run her fingers through his hair and return and massage his scalp, repeating the action over and over. Finally, having not seen any more evidence of paint for quite a bit, she rinsed his hair a final time. Then she dipped a towel in the water, and began dabbing at his forehead, down the side, and to one cheek where a tendril of paint had dared trespass. Over and over, she wet the towel, dabbed his face. Of course, she held his face still by cupping his opposite cheek with her free hand. This gave her sufficient time to admire his face - his soft whiskers, the lines of his cheekbones. Such a fine face, she thought. My face. With her subject still relaxed, but clean, she couldn’t help herself. She leaned down and kissed him, thinking he’d hardly know, so relaxed he seemed. That thought left her head the minute his hand came up to cup the back of her head, trapping her for a longer, more thorough kiss. When she pulled away, smiling, Vincent opened his eyes and said, with a wink, “Remind me to loosen the cap on the paint next time we have art class.”
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