Lady in Fur Hat and Boa

The brush was gliding across the canvas in showers of Jupiterian rain. My hand, steady, performed a sort of ecstatic waltz, leading the brush with definite motions across the close-knitted mesh of the canvas. And so, I had completed my latest painting: Danaë.

I stepped back to admire the finished work; I was never quite satisfied with my final product; it always seemed to me that what had spurred from my original idea, escaped, and wandered away, leaving me with only a translucent trace of what I had desired to portray. It was getting late; the clock on the mantelpiece struck eight and a beastly hunger, that I had thus far ignored, crept up on me.

Outside, it was a typical Viennese evening; street lamps decorated the alleyways with their play of light, bringing forward the otherwise imperceptible expressions of those haunting the streets. A woman, her eyes bountiful with tears, held her shawl close to her chest, breathing out a cloud of steam into the brisk air. I couldn’t help but imagine her in my studio, immortalized in one of my paintings. I had so far painted mythological women, that all can’t help but reverence, but what I truly wanted was to encapsulate that divinity in a regular woman, make her my muse, my goddess. I walked towards the Museum Café, where through the window I could see Schiele at his usual table, his eyebrows furrowed as he was perfecting one of his sketches. I went in and walked towards his table when a young red-haired woman bumped into me. “Entschuldigung,” she whispered, briefly looking into my eyes. I nodded, and she ran away.

She spoke German with an accent; that “Entschuldigung” sounded foreign, not quite right, and I couldn’t help but wonder what her story was. “Egon, do you happen to know that woman who just bumped into me?”

“Gustav! I didn’t see you, my friend!” He said, loudly. “I’ve seen her before. She comes here on Wednesdays around this time. She always orders a slice of Sachertorte, and keeps the plate on the table, untouched, while longingly looking out the window.”

“Every Wednesday you say…” I said pensively. “I will be here next Wednesday.” I thought, making a mental note of the woman.

That night, after I had returned home, I prepared my studio for when I was going to paint the mysterious red-headed woman. I put the stool in the center of the room, hung some black fabric on the walls, and adjusted the easel to the correct height. I already had in mind the composition of my next piece, now all I needed was to run into her again.

Wednesday finally arrived, and I was sat in the café, near where she bumped into me the last time. It was 6 p.m. I wanted to be there in case she decided to come earlier than usual. Unmistakably, at 8 p.m. sharp, she walked in. Her hair was half hidden under a big black and blue hat that contrasted her crimson locks beautifully, while the bottom part of her face was concealed by a feather boa that accentuated the redness of her cheeks, blushed by the cold. I didn’t know how to approach her, so as not to scare her away. I pretended to look at the menu, waiting for her to sit down by the window with her usual slice of Sachertorte. After a while, I mustered up the courage and headed her way. “Excuse me, miss? I believe we’ve met.”

She turned towards me, a blank look over her face:” Pardon me, but I believe you are mistaken, Sir.”

“You bumped into me last Wednesday by those tables over there,” I said, pointing to the other end of the café.

Her eyes widened: “Oh! I am terribly sorry! How could I have forgotten.”

I reassured her and told her my name. She said she had recently moved here from Ireland, and she liked to sit at the café and look out the window in the evening. Then, I took a deep breath and blurted out:” Would you allow me to paint you, miss?”

As my words reached her ears, she started. “Oh, Mr. Klimt, I am not sure this is appropriate…” she said, looking around.

I assured her I didn’t mean anything else by it. I wanted her to be the subject of my next piece, but she refused several times. Defeated, I paid my goodbyes and left. Walking home, I halted several times, debating whether to go back and try to convince her, but ultimately, I decided against it.

During the following months, I started painting every woman I had met in the past year, some from memory, some from photographs. Desperate brush strokes on expressionless eyes, hands that would not sit still, hair that would not be kept in place. Painting after painting, nothing satisfied me. No other woman could communicate that which I so ardently wished to portray. Utterly enraged, I kicked the easel and slashed through the canvas with a knife. I was done for. My career was over. “I will not go on living until I paint that woman.” Was all that rang in my ears from dawn to dawn.

Ingeniously, one Wednesday night I decided to sit on the bench near the church; I could easily glance over at the Museum Café from there, and make out the faces of those cuddled up inside, away from the chill of the evening. The church bell rang 8 times, and the red-haired woman entered the café. I clumsily took my sketchbook out of my pocket and held my charcoal pencil tightly over the paper. As she sat by the window, I started drawing, line after line, the outline of her face, her hat, her lips. I was a thief. I was stealing glimpses of this woman without her knowing. She would never forgive me. But I simply could not stop, line after line, she was there, on the paper, looking at me. I ran home, my head held low, my eyes on the pavement.

I slammed the door open, put a new canvas on the easel, messily dipped the brush in the oil paints, and started painting. A madman, that’s who I was. Orange and red curls. Jet black feather boa. She will never speak to me again. Red lips. But I will be acclaimed! Crimson on the cheekbones. I will be acclaimed.

I was indeed acclaimed. Lady in Fur Hat and Boa was exposed in the most prestigious galleries of Vienna, but the red-haired woman never returned.