Interior Monologue
Assignment: Write an 800 word interior monologue from the perspective of an artist’s model, posing while his or her picture is taken. Written while abroad.
Would you look at this place? He must be successful. Wait. He’s an artist. She must be successful. She’s blending something in the kitchen. I can here the awful noise in here—because they are trendy and good lighting is necessary for art or something they live in a studioapartment. That’s how she said it. One word, studioapartment.
God I bet she’s putting kale in that blender. This space is too open for me not to see her back moving in the kitchen. It’s weird to call it a kitchen. It’s just the side of this massive room with an oven and a fridge and the ever so chic “countertop island.” I wonder if that’s what she sells, kitchens. Turn around, turn around. Aha! Frozen kale no less, I can see the dark green better now. Ka-chunk ka-chunk, until the noises slide into slightly smoother ones. Still, she is the reason I agreed.
The blender is taking turns with the outside ambience. I consider the sounds of cities. Sometimes you can only pick up individual sounds, like honking or jackhammers or something, but even when you can’t, you just know the sound a city makes. It’s the windy rush of teenagers with big headphones between skyscrapers and scuttling engines between traffic jams. He adds, in a small way, to city sounds, making a tut-tutting sound with his teeth against his lips when he paints. He probably doesn’t notice it himself. He’s using acrylic; I can smell it from here. Sharp. Reminds me of art school, and a million other people who dreamed of studioapartments like this. I wonder how he’ll paint my nose.
It’s bright in here but not dusty. When she introduced herself this morning, I imagined it dusty. Artists never get rid of their dust completely, right? Instead, it smells like lemon Pledge. Absent are the smells of children and pets and dust. I imagined dust fragments trickling down from the high ceiling of the studioapartment through the sunlight. I think it’s rather rude of her to deprive an artist of dusty sunlight.
I’m probably going to start a trend. Does that make me like kale? Ugh. The place he chose for me to look at on the floor is little more than a faded spot where the leg of a chair used to be. He didn’t give it much thought. Just, point, there, stand still, won’t take long, guests will be arriving within the hour. Maybe I chose the spot, because it was the closest real thing to where his finger pointed. I can hear her preparing for the party now, although her back is still to me. The fridge door opens and pauses and closes in conjunction with her moving elbow in my peripheral. She moves and bends and the oven beeps several times. I can’t imagine anything but tiny hors d’oeuvres going into that oven.
This is not a big meal kind of event. I bet she’s in marketing. Why else would I be here?
Before they even introduced themselves to me I could have guessed she’d try to sell me on something. I saw her first; people always see her first, with her bright lipstick and matching chunky necklace. She held her other accessory, him, gently on her arm.
Wait, I can’t be a trend. I told them my name was Gail. I’m going to try and wiggle my fingers. He must be close to stopping soon anyway. I wonder if he’s tired. I wonder if he loves her. I bet he’s thinking about fucking the neighbor. It’s funny how cheap the paint is on this wall, compared to the rest of this place. If I scratch it just a little, I’ll get white paint underneath my fingernails. I could totally take a piece of the studioapartment home with me.
It’s definitely marketing or sales. She was so coy when she introduced the idea.
Market her husband through a live painting session. Let him paint me all afternoon and in the evening, when the guests arrive, wait for him to finish, let them ooh and ahh and then mingle, make connections. Connections are important to a rising artist like yourself. I mean, we’ll pay you if you want, but this seemed more advantageous for you. And we’ll make sure you’re duly credited when the piece is finished. Doesn’t that sound nice, Gail?
She lifts up his paints and reaches around him. He glances up at her with totally gross love in his eyes. Ugh. Fool. You’re supposed to be thinking about fucking the neighbor. She’s using a washcloth to scrub the fallen paint off his worktable. There, it’s like the painting just happened. When the guests arrive I think I will leave.