The Essence of Art

June 11. The Najbreit Estate.

I stand in the garden, looking out at the first rays of sunlight peeking in over the perfectly trimmed foliage. With its low stone walls, wee hopping rabbits, and babbling brooks, the Fantasie Courtyard looks like it could have been lifted straight out of a fairytale.

Salome steps outside, twirling a small parasol over her head. She’s wearing a long yellow dress that does little to conceal her generous curves. Spotting me in the garden, she gives me a bright smile and walks over.

“I hope I’m not late for our first lesson,” she says. “It’s only a couple minutes after sunrise…”

“An artist is never late,” I say. “You are not yet an artist, however. Today, you are simply late.” I check my watch. “But no matter, perhaps you are just precocious.”

“So what’d you have me get up all bright and early for?’ she asks me cheerfully, unfazed by my banter.

I can’t tell if she doesn’t get it, or if this is just her way of navigating the inescapable power plays present in every little interaction in this life that she lives. When I was younger, I used to think it was the former, but could anyone really remain so innocent for so long?

“We begin the lesson at dawn to capture the rise of the sun on our canvas,” I say, pointing at the easel set up in the middle of the courtyard.

A large blank canvas is set up on it, pure white and full of promise. There are two chairs placed next to the canvas, alongside a palette full of colors and a collection of brushes and water. Salome walks up to the easel and examines it thoughtfully, before looking at me.

“Do you want me to just start painting on my own?” she asks.

“I would like to see what you can accomplish on your own, without my instruction,” I say. “Call it an initial assessment.”

I take a step back and gesture towards the brushes sitting in an empty glass jar. Salome bends down to pluck out a brush, exposing the hazel skin of her ass as she bends over, and I relish the opportunity to steal a glance at that sumptuous behind. A second later, she’s standing in front of the easel, balancing the palette on her hand.

“You’ve painted with oils before,” I remark, even before she sets her brush to the canvas.

“How could you tell?” she asks, sounding amazed.

“Your comfort with the palette and the brush,” I say.

She looks at me hesitantly, as if expecting a further comment or suggestion.

I elect to stay silent, offering her a small smile and then a glance at the canvas.

She dips her brush in the burnt sienna, and then pokes her head over the side of the canvas, staring at the rising sun. She mixes in some alizarin crimson, and then starts putting broad strokes of paint onto the canvas, long rays of sunset stretching over the horizon.

Over at the far side of the garden, one of the staff is busy trimming a bush. He shoos away a rabbit nibbling grass at his feet, and it comes hopping towards us.

Salome, absorbed in her painting, doesn’t notice the rabbit until it nudges by her foot, brushing its furry head against the bottom of the easel.

“Oh!” she says, delighting in the little rabbit. “Hello there, little one!”

She bends down to coo at it. She brushes its furry head, murmuring something endearing to it.

The rabbit hops away, seemingly oblivious of the attention being directed at it.

Salome drops her brush, moving as if to chase after it, but then she glances back at me and blushes.

“Sorry,” she says, sounding awfully guilty. “I got distracted by the bunny. I’ll get back to focusing on my art…”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “You miss the essence of art. Art is about chasing your passions and seeing where the creative process takes you. Chase the rabbit. See where it take you.”

The bullshit that comes out of my mouth must sound at least somewhat inspirational, because Salome smiles and goes to run after the rabbit, leaving her paintbrush on the ground.

Either that, or she just really wants to cuddle that bunny.

I take a moment to put her brush back in its place, and then follow Salome down the winding garden path the rabbits gone down. The Colombian beauty is bent down on her knees, her bountiful ass sticking up in the air, engrossed by the rabbit twitching its nose in the grass in front of her. I allow myself another quick second to lust over her behind, and then kneel down beside her.

“Isn’t he cute?” she says, brushing the top of its head. “The staff say they’re a pain to deal with, but I like them too much to get rid of them.”

She scoops the rabbit up into her arms, holding it against her buxom chest, the thing look startled as it wriggles against her tits. Oh, to be that rabbit.

“It seems to like you,” I say, watching it rub its head against her dress.

“Of course it does!” Salome laughs. “And oh! I want to capture it in my painting, do you think you could hold it for me while I paint it?”

“Why not do something a little more out of the box?” I ask.

“Like what?” she asks, cocking her head to the side, the rabbit still wriggling in her arms.

“Well, if we painted its paws and let it run on the canvas…”

“Ooh, and we could finish painting the sunrise over it, call it something like Running Into the Light,” she says excitedly, her tits and the rabbit bouncing as she starts to get animated.

“That’s the idea,” I say, smiling.

Will this work? I have no idea. Something, however, tells me that the actual outcome doesn’t matter so much as the fact that we’re doing something interesting.

We make our way back to the painting-in-progress, and she looks at the rabbit in her arms, and then at the few brushstrokes that she’s laid on the canvas.

“Sorry little bunny,” she says, holding the bunny by the scruff of its neck.

I lift up the palette of paints up in the air, and she presses its paws against the mix of reds and yellows. The paint goes flying off its paws as it wheels in the air, looking mildly traumatised by all this being carrying around. Some of the paint splatters on the canvas, and some of it lands on Salome’s own dress, giving it a dash of extra color, though sadly, it doesn’t seem to make it any more transparent.

“Want the canvas on the ground?” I ask.

“I think the bunny’s been tormented enough,” Salome laughs. “I’m not going to press it up against the canvas like a brush. The ground would be better.”

“Your wishes are my commands,” I say, laying out the canvas on the ground.

Salome leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek as I get up, winking at me as she sets the bunny down.

“Now run fast and run free!” Salome says, and the bunny’s off with a pitter-patter of footsteps left across the canvas, leaving a streak of footprints that extends into the grass.

We survey the end result together.

There’s not much paint on the canvas—just a few long rays of sunlight radiating out of the upper end, and a dash of paw prints running across the long diagonal of the painting, the bunny seeming to have hopped into the sun that Salome’s painted in the corner.

“Perfect,” I say, clasping my hands together. “I’d say this captures the sunrise better than any regular painting would have, wouldn’t you?”

Salome nods eagerly, picking up the canvas. She holds it up and smiles, examining it with a genuine grin on her face.

“You know, I’m going to sound so self-centred saying this, but I don’t care. I love it!” she says.

“I love it too,” I say, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Now, is there a place in this house where we could frame it and put it up?”

Salome thinks for a moment, seemingly unaware of my hand on her shoulder.

“We could try the Barrel Room,” she says. “Have you seen it yet? No? Oh, you know what, I’ll take you on a tour of the house, and then we can put the painting up afterwards!”