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Hour 06/06

1974 | Granta

Giant Steps

By Didi Fauvé

SHE WAS COMPLETELY naked when I first met her.

That sounds more interesting than it really was. I was late getting to class and she was already posed, stretched out on an old couch we used for smoking breaks. She had one leg bent, an arm resting on its knee. So relaxed she looked like she might fall asleep.

Our new model.

I set up an easel, added fresh paint to my palette and lit a cigarette. The light was fading, but no one cared. We always painted in natural light, believing that was how the great painters worked. Fluorescent illumination only corrupted color’s purity.

We worked in silence, oblivious even to the occasional hissing and banging of the old radiators keeping the big room warm enough to keep our subject comfortable. She certainly looked comfortable. After an hour, the class’s instructor called a ten minute break. Our model roused herself, stretched and yawned. She walked over to the nearest canvas.

That struck me. I’d been drawing or painting naked bodies for more than two years, and I knew the routine. On the stand, models were shapes, colors, chiaroscuro to be reimagined as art. When that arrangement was suspended, they would become people again. They’d break the pose, step down and grab a robe or big shirt. Modesty suddenly was part of the equation.

But not with this model.

She chatted with the student, critiquing his work and teasing him about how she looked. Completely relaxed, as though it were the most natural thing, even though she was buck naked. I was impressed. She eventually made it over to me.

“I didn’t see you come in. Must have had my eyes closed,” she said, standing next to my taboret.

“Yeah, I think so,” I replied. She was petite, a head shorter than me, with wavy black hair that fell in an unruly tangle. Her breasts were small and her hips slender, and there were traces of hair under her arms and a darker patch between her legs. “You looked like you were asleep.”

“I was, almost. Hey, I like that,” she said, stepping up to the easel. She cocked her head and squinted at my painting. “That’s really different.” She turned and smiled. “I’m Nola. What’s your name?”

IT WAS 1973 and I was studying fine art at McGraw University in upstate New York. The school occupied a vast campus of some 750 acres, and its student and faculty population dwarfed that of the nearby town of Varda. McGraw is primarily an agricultural school, but it has strong liberal arts and science programs, and I’d picked it as one of my college choices. I went there during my last year of high school to interview and tour the campus, thinking I’d apply to the engineering school. That seemed like a logical choice because I liked making things and was pretty good at math. But after a few minutes chatting about test scores and course requirements with the dean, he suddenly asked what it was that I really liked to do. Without thinking, I said I liked to draw.

“Well, after we finish up here,” he said, “why don’t you go over to Franklin Hall and talk to Professor Healy?” Franklin, it turned out, was the fine arts building, and Healy was the man in charge. I made an appointment, and had a conversation later that afternoon that changed everything. I applied to McGraw’s fine arts program and was accepted later that year.

Not that I knew anything about art. I’d always been good at drawing, was always the class artist in grade school. I had even won an award in a national high school art competition. But I never gave much thought to art. To me, that was guys in smocks with berets and Van Dykes who painted pots of flowers. I liked to draw gear boxes for racing cars.

When I got to McGraw, my ignorance suddenly became a liability. I’d gone to a few museums as a kid, and I knew who Rembrandt and Van Gogh were, but that was about it. Names like Johns, Rauschenburg, Kline, Rothko and even Pollock were unknown to me. The Impressionists I knew were Rich Little and David Frye. I’d never stretched a canvas, never painted with oils, had never heard of gouache and didn’t even own a paint brush. Gesso, rabbit skin glue, damar varnish – these were all mysteries.

The other students in the program were mostly from the fine arts high schools in New York City. They knew all about art. They could also draw. Many of them better than I could. That was a new experience.

I had never questioned my ability before. It was always a given, part of who I was – the kid who could draw. But that first year at McGraw, I was suddenly one of many who could draw, and one who was not very good at the kind of drawing that qualified as art. My life sketches were tight, labored. My paintings were flat, their colors muddy, their compositions awkward. The professors largely ignored me, focusing their efforts instead on the more talented students. We’d all hang up our best work for critique sessions at the end of each week, and that’s when my deficiencies became all the more obvious. I felt like an impostor, a pretender. Not an artist.

BUT IT WASN’T all bad that first year. There were parties in the dorms, lots of cute girls and plenty of booze. Drugs, too. Most weekends I was pleasurably high on one substance or another. There was also music. The latest rock albums could be heard at any time of the day or night in dormitory corridors and student lounges. Every residence hall had its own jam band, and electric guitars were more common than slide rules. The Grateful Dead were in ascendancy and, if Eric Clapton was God, Jimi Hendrix was the psychedelic Jesus. Female student housing favored the folk-rock sounds of Cat Stevens, Carol King and Joni Mitchell. It was the Age of Aquarius, after all.

Toward the end of my second semester, I got a part-time job in College Town, a neighborhood of seedy bars and restaurants just off campus that catered to students. A record store chain had opened an outlet earlier in the year on Academy Street, College Town’s main drag, and I was hired to work as a clerk on weekends. Because the store sold albums at less than list price, it was called EconoDisc Records, and was the retail division of one of the big record corporations. Our College Town venue, though, was anything but corporate.

Behind the counter with me on most Saturdays was another student, a third-year architecture major who had been hired when the store first opened. He showed me how to write up sales and work the register, how to restock the bins, box up returns and place special orders. He also gave me a crash course in art appreciation.

His name was Chet Arcadian. A wiry, no-nonsense twenty-year-old from Garden City, Long Island, he had a wrestler’s body, a dry wit and a charismatic intensity. He also had none of the affectations that students in my art classes had. Once he learned I was an art major, he went to work on me.

“Hey, man, they just got a bunch of remainders in next door,” he told me one Saturday morning as we were opening the store. “Cabanne’s ‘Dialogues with Duchamp’ for a couple of bucks. Check it out. You should know this guy.” I had no idea who Cabanne was, or was it Duchamp I was supposed to know? On a break, I went to the bookstore next door to check it out.

“You know Mondrian, right?” Chet said on another morning between writing up sales of King Crimson’s latest. “Here’s De Stijl – these guys wanted to recreate the world as a unified aesthetic whole, simplify everything to form and color. Heavy shit.” He opened a big book on the countertop and flicked through its pages of color plates. “Furniture, art, buildings – everything. Deep, man!”

Arcadian introduced me to the Surrealists – particularly Jean Arp – and to the visual and aural cacophony of the Futurists. His favorites were the Dadaists and his enthusiasm for Max Ernst was contagious. Because he was studying to be an architect, he also explained Frank Lloyd Wright and Mies van der Rohe to me, and delved into the mysticism of Le Corbusier – “Corbu,” as I was taught to say.

Arcadian also schooled me in aesthetics between trips out to the bins on the main floor to find a copy of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 22 or to retrieve a replacement for a defective copy of Sabbath’s “Paranoid.” I began to understand that the ability to draw was only part of what made one an artist – and probably not the most important part. Pretty pictures were one thing, but Chet’s lessons impressed upon me the need for art to have an intellectual dimension as well. The idea was an essential ingredient, too.

I began to be excited about art. Maybe I really could be an artist.

THAT WAS TWO YEARS ago. Since then, I had developed an approach to painting and drawing that took inspiration from the many things I learned from Chet and from my understanding that art wasn’t only about facility. At the easel, I ceased trying to recreate the scene before me and instead used what I was seeing as a departure point. I tried to think about the energy of lines and shapes, about how their dynamism interacted on the canvas, and what that meant. I ceased trying to make a picture of a thing – the picture was the thing. My work gradually became looser, its colors more vibrant and its lines more assured, assertive.

But still, I wasn’t satisfied.

Something was missing. Many of the drawings and paintings I was now making pleased me, and they often drew praise from my classmates and professors. But despite my progress, despite the things I had learned and the insights I had gained, my work sometimes felt forced. I’d finish a piece and suddenly think that it looked contrived, formulaic. Out of frustration, I’d start another in the hope of capturing the spontaneity and invention essential to a successful artwork. But those qualities seemed too often to elude my best efforts.

It was around that time that I met Nola.

NOLA LIVED IN College Town, in one of the run-down frame houses on a steep, narrow lane called Williams Place. I would occasionally see her on the street or at one of the neighborhood’s many weekend parties. My initial impression of her as an independent, self-assured young woman was reinforced by the fact that she seemed entirely at ease wherever she went, even though she often went there alone. That notion was confirmed when one of my professors showed me a canvas he had been working on, a painting of a female nude with her hands on her hips, her eyes staring defiantly back at the viewer. I recognized Nola right away.

“You know why I picked that pose?” said the prof, laughing. “When I asked her to take her clothes off so I could see whether she would be right for the picture, she undressed and then snapped at me, ‘So how do I rate on the Richter Scale?’ I thought that was marvelous!”

Nola rated pretty high on the Richter Scale, as far as I could tell. I observed her casual independence with more than a touch of envy, and whenever she posed for one of our afternoon studio classes, I struggled to capture the striking blend of delicate femininity and brusque insouciance she seemed to embody. I also found myself trying to paint something she would like.

One evening, Nola came into the record store. I was busy with a customer, but her cascade of fine black hair caught my eye right away – they were tresses I had painted more than a few times. She wandered distractedly up and down the aisles for a while, and then made her way over to the counter. As she watched me writing up another sale, I suddenly found myself feeling more than a little self-conscious.

“Hi there,” she said after I’d closed the cash register drawer. Her smile made me smile in return.

“Hi. Nice to see you,” I said, and laughed. “Or see less of you.” When she frowned, I quickly added, “That didn’t sound right, did it? Sorry! But you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” she said, smiling again. “I wonder if you would do something for me?”

“Sure. You want to order something?” I said, playing clerk. “I can get you pretty much anything you want.”

“I’m sure you can,” said Nola. She stepped up to the counter and brushed back a strand of hair. “But I don’t mean a record. I want you to do something special for me.”

I said nothing, wondering what she meant. Her eyes were large and very black. I’d spent many hours staring at her in the studio, but I’d never really noticed them before.

“There’s this place,” she continued. “A place I love to go. When I want to be by myself.”

“A place?”

“Yes. Down in one of the ravines. There’s this incredible waterfall there.” Nola closed her eyes and was silent for a moment. Then she looked at me and said emphatically, “I want you to paint it for me.”

Surprised, I felt a rush of pleasure. I started to say something, but she interrupted me.

“I mean, only if you want to.” Her tone became apologetic. “You’re probably busy with school and everything, and I know it’s asking a lot. But I, well, I really like the way you paint, the things you do of me, and it would mean a lot if you’d do a painting of my special place.” She reached out and lightly touched my hand. Her fingertips were cool.

“I … guess I could do that,” I said, taking in her request. “Sure, I think I could definitely do that. Sounds like it might be fun!”

“Oh, I knew you would!” she trilled. Her eyes were bright, her smile brighter. She stood on tiptoes and leaned toward me over the counter. Her skin was fragrant from the day’s warmth and her hair softly brushed my ear. “Tell me what day’s good for you, and then here’s where we should meet,” she said quietly, as if sharing a privileged confidence.

Five minutes later, Nola was gone. I sat behind the counter, distractedly watching customers peruse the bins. Plans had been made, and I was going to paint a special place. That I’d been selected for that task meant something, and that it was Nola who had selected me meant something more. At the moment, though, I had no idea what that might be. I simply lit a cigarette and thought about the way my model’s body looked fully clothed.

THE TOWN OF VARDA lies in a valley at the southern tip of one of New York’s five Finger Lakes. It’s surrounded by rolling hills etched through with streams sending run-off into the lake. Those streams, gushing torrents during the rainy season, had carved deep ravines over millennia, picturesque cataracts that were favorite destinations for casual tourists and sightseers as well as for serious hikers. The McGraw campus lay between two of the deeper ravines, chasms carved by the Riller and Cascata creeks, and students could frequently be found during warmer months splashing about in one or more of the many pools formed by the descending waters. More often than not, those pools were fed by a series of waterfalls, steep inclines punctuated with dramatic rock outcroppings and massive tumbled-down boulders coursed over by roaring blue-green freshets. One of those spillways was near the bottom of Cascata Creek. The basin at its foot, a rippling shallows of momentarily quieted waters, was Nola’s special place.

Early one afternoon, I met Nola on the bridge that crossed over the Cascata at the lower end of College Town. I had with me a small canvas I’d stretched earlier in the week and my paint box with a few brushes. The day had dawned sunny and warm, and I was expecting it to get hot, so I’d dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Nola arrived not long afterward, a cloth bag slung over one arm. She was wearing a floral print sundress, her tanned shoulders bare and freckled. A floppy straw hat shaded her face, and her eyes were hidden behind tortoise-shell sunglasses.

“Hey,” she said warmly. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” She pointed with her free hand. “The path we have to take is over there under the trees.”

We crossed the street and walked down the hill to what looked like the entrance to a small park. A sign on a tree read “Cascata Ravine Trail” with an arrow pointing toward a gap in the foliage. Nola ducked under a few branches and disappeared into the opening, the bag brushing aside leaves and bumping against her thigh. I followed, my eyes adjusting slowly to the shade after the brightness of the street. The trail – a dirt path partially covered with wood chips – led through the woods for a dozen yards and then veered sharply downhill. I could see light and a bit of the stream up ahead, but Nola suddenly stopped and waited for me.

“We go this way,” she said, moving off the path and detouring around a big maple. “Watch out for the prickers.” Hugging the canvas and paint box to my chest, I came along, dodging the wild raspberry bushes on either side. The track was clearly improvised, made by many feet over time, but not part of the official trail. As the foliage became denser, my companion slowed, picking her way over stones and roots. When I stumbled and nearly went down, she turned and laughed. “You shouldn’t have worn those boots,” she said, shifting the bag to her other arm. “But don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

The trek through the woods took us slowly uphill for a distance and then leveled off. As we made our way through the undergrowth, I could hear the sound of falling water. The light in the trees overhead began to brighten, and then, down a slight embankment and through a parting in the bushes, we emerged onto a gravelly sandbar. The sudden brightness made me blink.

“This is it!” Nola said, turning toward me and raising her voice to make herself heard. She dropped the bag and then made a grand sweeping gesture. I took in the scene.

We were standing on the edge of a pool, almost a small pond, at the foot of a great rock chasm whose stone cliffs were overhung with vines and riven by tenacious saplings. Trees and dense vegetation rose up on either side, giving the expanse a close, secluded feel. Afternoon sunlight played through the treetops, illuminating the sandbar with startling brilliance and creating lush shadows in the woodsy depths on the opposite bank. At the far end of the chasm, a natural stone staircase, a variegated jumble rising some thirty feet, had water cascading down its profusion of steps and into the pool. There the cataract churned the water’s surface, sending up a gauzy mist and filling the ravine with a drowsy hum. At the far end of the sandbar, excess water gurgled around several fallen tree trunks and escaped the pool, continuing on down the creek and toward the big lake on the other side of town.

It was a stunning tableau.

Nola took in my reaction. “See? I told you,” she said, taking off her sunglasses. “This is a special place.”

“Yeah, wow! It’s really … beautiful.” I set my paint box down and leaned the canvas up against it. “How did you find it?”

“I just found it,” she said. “There was that path, and I took it. Just to see where it went. And here’s where it went. They call the waterfall the Giant’s Steps.” She kick her sandals off, stepped over to the water’s edge and dipped a toe in. “Oooh! Cold!” She turned and laughed.

I watched her. She was completely at ease, moving effortlessly. The sun played over her dress, its pattern vivid against the backdrop of shaded greenery across the way. I suddenly felt inspired.

“So, do you want to be in the picture?” I asked, hoping that she did.

She faced me and put her hands on her hips, reminding me of my professor’s canvas. “No way!” she said emphatically. “No posing today. This is where I come just to be me. Not to work.”

“OK, alright,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment.

I knelt down and opened the paint box. While I selected colors and took out jars of linseed oil and turpentine, Nola dug into her canvas bag and pulled out a rolled-up beach towel. She began unwrapping it carefully.

“I brought this along to lie on,” she said, dropping the towel on the gravel. “And this” – she held up a large bottle of wine – “this I brought along for inspiration!” She made big eyes at me and then laughed again. Pleasantly surprised, I laughed, too.

Nola stuck the bottle in the shallows where it would cool, and then spread the towel out on a sunny part of the sandbar. I went in search of a suitable stick to prop up my canvas. Birds were singing in the leafy canopy overhead as I poked around in the underbrush. When I returned, my companion was stretched out, her straw hat and cloth bag to one side. She looked like she might be sleeping, just as she had that first time in the studio. The sound of falling water covered whatever noise I made setting up my makeshift easel and, deciding not to disturb her, I began to paint Nola’s special place.

IN MY EXPERIENCE, the creative process has always been an unruly, capricious lover. There are times when little or no wooing is required – her caresses come as easily as those from a practiced paramour. Then there are times when creativity suddenly becomes a spiteful and remote courtesan, refusing to acknowledge even the most ardent importuning. Too often it seems the artist is adored one moment, jilted the next.

That afternoon on the sandbar, I found myself struggling with the beauty of the scene before me. I wasn’t trying to recreate what I saw – conventional representation was no longer a part of my aesthetic vision. Instead, I was looking for the lines, shapes and colors that would reveal the waterfall’s dynamism, the pool’s cool passivity and the sheltering quiet of the overarching trees. But the more I worked on the canvas, the more those elements eluded me. After an hour, I began to feel frustrated.

“How’s it coming?”

I turned and saw that Nola had awakened. She was sitting up, squinting in the bright sunlight. When I didn’t reply, she smiled. “Maybe you need a little inspiration?”

“I guess it couldn’t hurt,” I said, trying to sound upbeat.

She stood and stretched. I could see sand glistening on her calves where they’d extended beyond the towel. After a yawn, she stooped to retrieve the wine and then brought the bottle over to me.

“Here, you open this while I get some cups,” Nola said. The bottle was wet and cold, and it felt good in the heat of the sun. I cracked the seal and unscrewed the top. Nola fished a pair of Styrofoam cups out of the cloth bag.

“This one’s for you,” she said, holding out a cup. I poured the wine, and then she raised the other. “This one’s mine.” She smiled, her teeth white in the afternoon light.

“To your special place,” I said, holding up my cup.

“My special place,” Nola replied.

We touched cups, and I took a sip. The wine was clear and surprisingly sweet. It felt cool in my throat, and I realized I was very thirsty. I took a long drink, and then sighed. “Nice. I needed that!”

“I usually bring something whenever I come,” she said, taking the bottle from me and refilling my cup. “It just makes being here that much better. Can I look at what you’re doing?”

Without waiting for a reply, she stepped over to my makeshift easel and crouched down in front of the canvas. I watched her face for any sign of disappointment. The sound of falling water suddenly filled my ears, and I looked toward the waterfall. When I turned back, she was standing next to me. She said nothing for a moment, and then, placing her hand on my arm, said softly, “I can see what you’re trying to do. I really can.” She gave me a squeeze. “I like it. Thank you.”

“No, no, thank you,” I said, relieved. “For bringing me to this beautiful place, I mean. Your place. I think I’m beginning to see it, you know, see how to interpret it. Get it right. For you.” In the heat of the afternoon, the wine had gone right to my head.

“Oh, I know you will,” Nola said, brightening. She took another sip, and then pirouetted. “I’m going to dip my feet in. It’s too hot!”

“It is hot,” I agreed. “I think I’ll join you.” After draining my cup, I sat down on the towel and yanked off my boots. As I rolled up my pant legs, Nola stepped tentatively into the pool. She shivered and then felt her way into the stream up to her calves. I followed, mincing on bare feet over the sandbar’s pebbles. The water was cold, but in the bright sun it was refreshing. I waded over to her, and she grabbed my arm to steady herself. We stood for a moment, watching the downwash of the Giant’s Steps across the pool. Then a gentle updraft of cool air caught Nola’s sundress, and it ballooned like a floral parachute. She laughed. “Oh, that felt good!”

It did feel good. And I felt good. I felt very good standing there in the heat, in the water, in the beauty of Cascata Ravine, with my model on my arm.

Suddenly, Nola let go and waded back out of the stream. I turned to watch, curious. On the sandbar, she pivoted to me and grinned coquettishly. “That felt good, so … why not?”

Before I could reply, she grabbed the hem of her sundress, pulled it up over her head and dropped it on the towel. She stood for a few seconds in her panties, hands on hips – the familiar pose. Then she pulled them off and tossed them triumphantly aside. “There,” she declared. “Much better!”

I’d watched Nola undress and dress many times in the studio. For long hours, I stared at her naked body, familiarizing myself with its every curve, dip and hollow. I thought nothing of it. But now I wasn’t seeing a body. I wasn’t seeing shapes and lines and colors. I was seeing Nola. For the first time, I realized.

“Well …?” she said, adopting the pose again. “Well?”

I stared, not knowing what to say. She splashed into the water and grabbed my pants by the waistband. In a heartbeat, she had them unfastened and the fly unzipped. Then she dragged me up onto the sandbar and pushed the jeans down to my ankles. “Doesn’t that feel better?” she said, smiling coyly. “Now you do the rest.”

I did the rest. I peeled off my T-shirt and stepped out of my jeans and shorts. Nola stood watching, arms folded across her chest. Once I was completely naked, she nodded in approval. “Now we’re equal,” she said triumphantly. Taking my hand, she led me over to the water’s edge. We stood gazing out at the waterfall, and the warmth of the sunlight tempered by the cool air rising off the pool felt delightful on my skin. After a moment, Nola said softly, “We’re like Adam and Eve… in the Garden of Eden.”

Then she giggled. “I’d better go get the apple.”

She went over to the towel, knelt and poured more wine into the cups. “Forbidden fruit,” she said, handing one to me. I drank, and though it had warmed, the wine still tasted very good. When I’d finished the cup, Nola stepped close and looked up at me. “Well. Now that you’ve taken a bite, what are you going to do with all that knowledge?”

Without thinking, I pulled her to me and kissed her. She arched her back and pressed in, her arms circling my waist. I could taste the wine on her lips and her body was fragrant in the heat. The sound of the falling water again filled my ears, and I felt myself responding. Nola pulled back.

“Oh, my,” she cooed, her eyes wide. “Look at that. We’d better do something about that.”

WE MADE LOVE on the towel, aware of nothing beyond the intense physical pleasure of bodies in communion. She was by turns assertive and compliant; I was alternately seducer and seduced. It was an embrace that stopped time and passed in an instant. It was pure freedom, and it was intoxicating.

The wine, too, was intoxicating. In the blur of our passion, I thought I saw two teenage hikers on the opposite bank watching us. But I didn’t care. I was a little drunk, and the beauty of the moment, its light and color, the water sounds, the heat, the smell of our bodies and the taste of desire – these overwhelmed my senses. Nothing else mattered.

Nothing else!

WE LAY SIDE by side on the towel, sharing my last cigarette. The sunny part of the sandbar had retreated toward the embankment, and I shivered as the sweat on my body began to dry. Nola blew smoke that caught the remaining sun in curling arabesques. She passed the cigarette to me without looking. As I took it, her fingers briefly held mine.

“Isn’t it perfect?” she said. Before I could reply, she turned on her side and nestled into me. “This picture of yours? Isn’t it perfect?” She plucked the cigarette from my lips and took a last drag.

“Mmm … this is perfect,” I murmured, pressing against her. “But my picture is far from perfect. It isn’t even finished.”

“Oh, yes it is,” Nola replied. After a moment, she sat up, and bracing herself with one hand, looked down at me. “It’s definitely finished,” she said quietly, her words nearly indistinguishable from the sound of the rushing waters across the pool.

“What do you mean?” I said, looking up at her. Her eyes were darkly earnest, her face in shadows, framed by the cloche of her black hair under a brilliant canopy of summer sky. The afternoon, those sights and sounds, the heat, the smells of woods and water, of linseed oil and spent bodies, suddenly merged into a living tableau. A canvas of far greater cohesion than the one propped up by a stick on the other side of the sandbar.

Nola leaned down and, brushing a few grains of sand from my cheek, kissed me gently. Then she whispered, “Don’t you see? It’s all in your painting. All of this. Every time you look at it, you will be here.” She closed her eyes and rested her head on my chest. She felt small and warm, a physical presence both inviting and beyond invitation. I thought I heard her sigh.

Then, after a moment, Nola sat up and ran her fingers through her hair. “What time is it?” she asked as she twisted her riotous locks into an impromptu braid. As I roused myself, she stood and crossed over to the water’s edge to retrieve her clothes.

“I don’t know,” I replied, propping myself up on an elbow and watching her dress. “Maybe a little before six?” Her change in mood was as disconcerting as it was sudden. “But … where are you going?”

She turned and smiled. “I’ve got to go to work. I’m modeling for a painting class this evening.” She hitched up her sundress, straightened it and then slipped her sandals on. “Don’t you have to work at the store tonight? You’d better get dressed, too.”

I collected my clothes and pulled them on while Nola rolled up the towel and stuffed it along with the empty wine bottle into her bag. My head felt heavy as I packed up my paints, and I realized I was still more than a little buzzed. The insistent noise of the Giant’s Steps seemed louder now, and the damp, musty smell of pond water was suddenly overpowering. My skin felt sticky in the moist air, and the day had become uncomfortably warm again. I was starting to sweat.

Nola crossed the sandbar, scrambled up the embankment and disappeared into the woods. I followed, tucking the paint box under one arm and holding the still-wet canvas by its wooden frame. The air was cooler under the trees, and I felt a bit less drowsy as I caught up with my companion at the creek trail junction. With her eyes now hidden behind sunglasses and her face shaded by the big hat, Nola seemed remote. As I reached her, she shifted the bag to her shoulder and, without a word, continued on up the trail. After a few minutes, we emerged from the half-light of the woods into the fading afternoon sunshine at the trail’s entrance. On the sidewalk, Nola turned and smiled.

“I’m going that way,” she said with a nod. “I want to go home before I go to work.”

“OK,” I replied, not knowing what to say. “I guess I’ll head up the hill. To the store, I mean.” I realized I was holding her painting. “Do you want to take this?” I said, offering the canvas. “I mean, you asked me to do it.”

“Oh, no – you keep it.”

“But it’s your special place,” I said, confused. “I … I did it for you.”

Nola put her hand on my arm. “Yes, you did it for me. Thank you. I’ll always have it, and so will you.” She gave me a gentle squeeze. “The picture is only one part of this afternoon’s art. Don’t you see?”

She leaned in and kissed me softly on the cheek. Then she turned and crossed the street. I watched her walk away, her sundress now dazzling, now dark as she passed through patches of waning sunlight filtering through the trees. She had become my model once again. She was no longer Nola, and I understood that the painting was now complete.

IT WAS HALF PAST six when I got to the record store. The hike up the hill to Academy Street in the late afternoon heat had combined with the lingering effects of the wine to leave me sweaty and more than a little woolly headed. But the chill of the store’s air conditioning offered some relief as I stowed my things behind the counter.

“Hey, man, you’re late,” said Chet Arcadian. Turning from the sale he was ringing up, he peered at my canvas. “Looks like you’ve been painting al fresco? Yeah – and I can see you got a little sun.”

“More than a little,” I replied, straddling a stool. “But I just had the most amazing experience. I’m not sure I can explain it. It really just knocked me out.”

“Well, art can be like that,” Arcadian said, bagging the customer’s LPs. “When it’s good, it subsumes everything – the total experience.”

“Right. Only I don’t think I really understood that before today,” I said. “Thing is, the experience was so total, I’m not sure I’m gonna make it through my shift.”

The architect looked me up and down, and then laughed. “Oh, you’ll make it alright,” he said. “You just need to top off the experience with an aural nightcap.” Arcadian ducked down behind the counter and began rifling through the store’s play copies. After a moment, he pulled an LP, slipped the record out of its jacket and placed it on the turntable. Then he pivoted to me and grinned, pointing to his ears. “The total experience, man!”

The music began on the downbeat. A tenor saxophone cycling through changes, the melody spilling out over a bulwark of rhythm provided by piano, bass and drums. Nothing less than an aural waterfall. I knew the tune right away, and my response was immediate.

“What’s so funny?” my coworker asked, surprised by my reaction.

“Oh, man … nothing,” I said, stifling another laugh. “You are so right, though. This is the total experience. More than you know!”

It was John Coltrane’s “Giant Steps.” At my insistence, we played the album all the way through a half dozen times that night.

IN MY FINAL YEAR at McGraw, I occasionally saw Nola around College Town. She never spoke to me, and I said nothing to her, thinking it better to leave well enough alone. I had come to understand that any interaction between us, any change in how we’d left things, would alter that afternoon we’d spent at the foot of Cascata Ravine – would, in fact, spoil the painting. It was something Nola knew from the moment she’d left me there at the trail entrance.

I graduated with an art degree, but I knew I would never again capture on canvas an experience like the one I’d had in those few hours. No matter how successfully I applied colors, how deftly I arranged them or how insightful their depiction might be, there would always be something missing. It was a deficiency that had frustrated me as a student, even as I became more skilled as an artist. My pictures were never going to be the total experience.

Eventually, I gave up painting altogether. I went back to school and got a degree in engineering, and that has been my life’s work ever since. I still draw, but my sketches are mostly technical renderings, representations of things firmly rooted in utilitarian realty. My drawings are not meant to replace those things.

I never saw Nola again after I left McGraw. I have no idea what happened to her, or if she is happy, or even if she is still living. But, just as she once told me, I have only to look at the seemingly unfinished painting made on that sultry afternoon long ago, and she is once again lying in the sun, appearing to be asleep, the light playing over the floral pattern of her sundress. And I can hear the ceaseless thrum of water cascading down.