The Painter by Mia

I blew gently in the smeared powder on the page. The fine, chalky vibrant color lay think on the page. I backed up to examine what I have done so far. My model is perfect, the light making her fair complexion look creamy and soft.

The blue shirt is bright and fuzzy. It goes so perfectly with her blue eyes. I am a artist, and Ocean, my model, is my one of my best friends. I think when she was born, her parent's saw those big, swimming blue eyes and knew there was no way that their babies name could be anything but Ocean. Because Ocean's eye's were, obviously, the exact shade of the blue the sea.

Ocean's mom was a model, and I guess the photogenic awesomeness of being a model passed onto her incredibly beautiful daughter. I say this from a artist's point of view, of course.
"Are you done yet?" She asked. I felt sorry for her. She's had to sit that way for two hours.

"Photo shoots never take this long."

"That's because this isn't a photo shoot. Real art takes time."

I forgot to mention, Ocean's a model for some famous French magazine, so she goes out of country a lot for her oh so precious photo shoots. Man, with gas prices as high as they are, she's lucky the magazine pays for her to fly out to France. "I'm almost done!" I assured her. She groaned.

I added red highlights to her hair, and cast a slightly blue shadow under her chin, because the light reflects the blue of her shirt upwards. I was glad it was fall, because the fall light is really bright, but cold. In winter, the natural light is too dark and cold to do any really cool paintings. So the spring, fall and summer are the best times to do model drawings; especially in Ocean's case. Her skin had a very warm, spring tone.

I closed my eyes, they burned from looking so hard for so long. My back hurt, despite the ugly but comfortable "croc" shoes. My arms and fingers were covered in pastel dust, so it was impossible not to get anything dirty.

"Okay," I said. "I'm done."