Peter Stamm - All Days Are Night

It comes and goes, he said. Painting from photographs is definitely easier. Then he stopped talking; a little later he swore. It’s not possible to render a three-dimensional object on a flat canvas.

By the object do you mean me? asked Gillian.

I don’t even know what makes people try, he said, ignoring her. I only know I can’t paint what I see. It would be better just to look at people instead of painting pictures of them.

So why do you do it?

He groaned.

Gillian imagined a museum with empty walls. People walked through the rooms, stopped in front of one another, took a step back, circled and scrutinized each other.

Hubert snapped his fingers. Hello? Anyone home?

The worst were the first few minutes after each break. Each time Gillian would think she couldn’t possibly hold her pose for another forty-five minutes. Her mouth was dry, she needed to clear her throat, somewhere she had an itch that she would give anything to scratch. As time passed, she got used to sitting still. She still felt the pain in her back and bottom, but it had become part of her. She became stiller, stopped wondering what she would look like in the picture and who would get to see it. The painting would exist independently of her, it wasn’t a copy, not a depiction. Every snapshot would contain more of her than this painting. The next time the egg timer went off, she walked around next to Hubert and looked at what he had done.

If you want, she said, you can paint me naked.

For two days Gillian had been going around with the proofs of the second book by a rising young novelist. She had taken the train out to Hubert’s studio and had read another dozen pages. When she looked down at her cell phone during one of the breaks, she saw that her editor had sent her a text, asking if the book was worth devoting a slot to, and if she had an idea for how to do it. It wasn’t easy for books to get coverage, you couldn’t get interesting images out of writers. Think outside the box, the series editor said every time, I don’t want to see another shot of a moody author tramping through autumn leaves. Gillian wrote back to say she wasn’t far enough along yet, but she’d know by tomorrow. After dinner, she went on reading the proofs and wondering how the young author could be produced for television. She was glad of the distraction. At eleven Matthias came into her office and said he was going to bed. By midnight she had roughed out a concept for a film, no walk in the woods but a retelling of the novel with some archive footage, and a brief interview with the author on the difficulties of a second novel, and a couple of clips from a reading, with comments from readers. That should stand a chance in the editorial meeting. She went to the bathroom and got undressed. She looked at herself in the mirror for a long time. She turned and looked over her shoulder.

Normally, Thursdays weren’t too strenuous, but Gillian spent almost the whole morning editing a piece. In the afternoon it was okayed, and she made a couple of phone calls to advance the concept she wanted to present in the editorial meeting tomorrow. She still hadn’t gotten to the end of the book. It was an eccentric story with lots of humorous inserts, but even so — or maybe just because — she was bored by it. If you asked her, most literary publications were superfluous anyway. Perhaps it was her fault, but it was more and more unusual for her to be caught up in a book. When writers complained that they were never invited to be on the program, she often felt tempted to say, write better books.

She was already thinking of canceling the proposal, but when she met her boss by the coffee machine he said he was looking forward to hearing from her. She went home at three. She read a bit more of the proofs, but she couldn’t concentrate. She had told Matthias at breakfast that she was going to see Dagmar that evening.

When she set off a little before six, it was raining gently, and it felt colder than in the morning. She looked at the other passengers in the streetcar and tried to imagine them naked. Old women, businesspeople, mothers who had collected their little ones from day care — all naked. A young, smartly dressed businessman whose upper body was densely haired, a man with such a big belly that you couldn’t see his penis, a big-breasted woman, a young woman with thin reddish pubic hair and a genital piercing. Pleats of skin, wrinkles, light and dark skin, spots, freckles, and moles. Gillian felt reminded of medieval pictures of the Day of Judgment, tiny little people doubled over with pain and guilt. She tried to remember the name of the painter who had persuaded hundreds of people to take off their clothes for him and all lie down on the ground.

She had to change at the central station. The big hall was full of people. Gillian wriggled through, the proximity of so many others was suddenly disagreeable to her. During the train ride, she remained standing by the door.

By the time she got there, it was almost dark. She hadn’t taken an umbrella, and her face and hair were wet as she strode quickly down the passageway of the studio building. She walked in without knocking. Hubert was on the sofa, reading the newspaper, beside him on the floor was a bottle of beer. He put the newspaper away and looked up at her. She dropped her coat on the sofa beside him. He looked apathetic. He got up and kissed her on both cheeks.

Are you ready?

Gillian stooped to pick up the beer bottle, took a long drink, and set it back on the floor. She looked at him and nodded. Hubert said she could leave her things on the sofa and went over to the easel to fix the backboard.

The floor’s not very clean I’m afraid, he said with his back to her. Sorry.

In front of the easel stood the empty chair that Gillian had sat in yesterday, with a small electric heater by it.

She pulled her sweater over her head with both hands. Underneath she had on a sleeveless linen blouse. She undid the top two buttons, hesitated briefly. All the time she hadn’t taken her eyes off Hubert. He stood in front of the easel, turned away from her, busying himself with his sketching things. Even so, she turned her back on him when unbuttoning her jeans. They were quite tight, and she had to wriggle to get them off. She thought how silly that must look. She took off her thin kneesocks, and undid the rest of the buttons on her blouse. Then she asked Hubert for a hanger. At that stage he had to turn round, but he kept his eyes on her face.

Linen creases so easily, she said, smiling, when he passed her a wire hanger.

Now she had the feeling that the situation was under control. In her underwear she sat down on the chair.

Do you want me to sit like yesterday?

I thought …, Hubert began, but he didn’t finish the sentence.

Gillian stood up, turned away, and quickly took off her bra and underpants. When she walked naked through the room, she moved differently than usual, slower and more erect, a little stiffly. She was sure that Hubert was watching her now. The thought that he had already seen and painted so many women naked unsettled her. She folded her underwear under the other things on the sofa and sat down on the chair in front of the easel.

Do you like what you see, then? she asked, and right away was furious with herself.

Hubert didn’t reply. She had taken the same position as the day before and was happy at the way her crossed arms were shielding her. Hubert walked around for a while, and then very slowly approached her, repeatedly stopping to look at her. She tried to sense what was in his mind, his expression was serious and intent.

Do you mind if I take some photographs?

Gillian hesitated, then nodded.

He clicked in a roll of film, then went in very close with the camera. He seemed to have more courage when he was able to hide behind the equipment. When the film had been shot off, he put it in an envelope and sealed it. Then at last he started sketching.