Sonya's Visitors

Some mornings I talk to Matisse before breakfast. It's very casual, pajamas and café au lait, and in no time I have ideas, so many he helps me stash them in a secret cupboard only we can find. Then he's off to meet his Algerian muse or his Hungarian model. He waves to me from the sidewalk and leaves his footprints in the freshly fallen snow. Paul Klee sends an angel with a small breakfast. He's so generous, this Swiss magician of the left hand. But sometimes he forgets his promises. 'I'll visit your studio next Saturday - ' And he's off without even waving. Saturday arrives but not Paul. One of his angels, looking sheepish, is at the threshold, wanly smiling, and waving before lifting herself into flight. In late morning I have tea with Erna. Her eyes are heavy with lost sleep. 'Every day is the same.' She tries to smile. 'Kirchner won't settle down. He's a bundle of nerves. His palette is a mess of colors. Lately, he stirs and swirls them for an hour or more, then sets it down and disappears. He's so good at vanishing. What should I do, Sonya? What can I do? ' I pour more tea. 'Where's Picasso? ' It's Apollinaire, by himself which is already a crowd! He's in a white suit with a fresh flower in the lapel. 'Marie gave it to me, last night, ' he says quietly. He walks up to my wall of nudes, stares at them from a distance. He fixes his eyes on the one with smooth pink skin. 'This one and Modigliani's.' Apollinaire twists his body, his eyes still fixed on the nude. He collapses into Robert's chair and sinks into his heavy thoughts. Minutes go by. Suddenly, he shakes himself violently and springs up. 'Where did you say Picasso is? ' I recall something Breton wrote. 'He's nearby, Guillaume. He's hunting in the neighborhood.' Apollinaire is satisfied. As he ambles off, he hands me a letter. 'This was wedged in the door.' 'Dear Sonya, it's late, so much later than I realized. you know - I can't wrap my hand around the brushes anymore. My fingers won't close tight like a fist or loose like - like what? They're putting their paint on my 'Blind Man's Bluff'! I'm sure it's for the best. But I feel so helpless: every day I need to renew my trust. As ever, Max.' I refold his letter and place it next to 'The Ice Skaters.' The afternoon is rushing into evening. I am finishing a watercolor I started after lunch with Van Gogh looking over my shoulder. He never says much but his presence is like a vase of irises that shine brighter as night encroaches. I worry about Vincent, but he just rubs his huge calloused hands together and smiles: 'Sonya, I'm so glad you're a painter, too! ' It's past five pm. Robert has just finished with his last client. They are saying good-bye in the hallway. I hear the quiet murmur of conversation punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. So this is the life of an artist today! Day in day out, I put brush to paint, paint to canvas, canvas to wall. And it is enough.... Matisse is coming again tomorrow!