The Little Teashop in Tokyo by Julie Caplin Page 0,8
more emerged creating a slight but definite unsettling awareness.
Exquisite eyebrows framed the woman’s almond-shaped eyes and the camera highlighted her flawless magnolia skin, but when you examined that beautiful bow-shaped mouth for a second time, the smile held a knowing hint of provocation. Although the composition of the picture was fresh and wholesome – a pretty girl in the flowers – when you looked deeper there were hints of secrets and sexuality, mystery and suppressed desire. All was not what it seemed. Fiona could almost imagine the serpent writhing alongside in the blooms. Eve, the temptress.
The small label to the side of the print called it Girl in Blossom by Gabriel Burnett, 2016. Beside that was a small biography of Gabe which included the information that the model in the picture, Yumi Mimura, was his long-time muse and favourite subject.
Fiona moved around the room and came to a second picture. This time, the setting was a party and Yumi, wearing a deep blue, satin cocktail dress with a tiny nipped in waist and wide skirt, peeped out from behind two sober grey-suited men with their backs to the camera. Holding a martini glass, she possessed an Audrey Hepburn-esque elegance and sophistication combined with an elfin appearance and a sense that she was planning some mischief quite at odds with her glamorous appearance. Fiona smiled; the composition was quite enchanting and very different from the previous picture.
Intrigued now both by the subject and Gabe’s undeniable skill, she focused on the pictures he’d taken of Yumi Mimura over the years. In some she wore western clothes, in others Japanese kimonos, and sometimes she was tastefully nude revealing nothing she shouldn’t in terms of flesh, but in each picture there was always an additional, subtle depth that conveyed an untold story or an emotion. The pictures all highlighted Gabe’s incredible skill. Coming at last to the final picture, Fiona examined the composition. In it Yumi wore a sophisticated white silk dress which hung beautifully, the folds draped over her exquisite body. The way it was lit made her appear as if she were glowing with angelic beauty but then Fiona paused and suppressed a sudden wince. Triumph. That was what she saw in the composition. Inviolate confidence and self-assurance. Sure of her beauty and her place in the world. Exactly the sort of person who made Fiona all too aware of her own short comings.
Gabe was, she realised, nothing short of a genius. Every bit as talented and celebrated as Yutaka Araki. What had she been thinking of, deliberately goading him earlier? He’d earned his arrogance. Now she felt humble. Who was she to question him? She could learn so much from him if she could keep a civil tongue in her head. If she were honest with herself, she was indulging in teenage sulks that she should have grown out of. When was she going to grow up and forget about that stupid class? He clearly had. In fact, she guessed now, with the sharpened vision of hindsight, that the episode had probably never registered with him. He didn’t even remember her name.
***
With half an hour to kill before she was due to meet Gabe in the foyer downstairs, Fiona toyed with having lunch in the museum’s restaurant, but the unfamiliar menu, with foods she’d never heard of, and the prospect of having to eat in public with chopsticks, put her off. She was going to have to ask Haruka, who had been kind enough to refrain from laughing at Fiona’s ineptitude over dinner last night, to help her master chopsticks, otherwise she was going to have to get very used to cold food.
She took her time going down the stairs to meet Gabe. Having seen his work, she felt shy and uncertain … but also inspired, and she couldn’t wait to get started. For the first time, she acknowledged to herself that when she’d signed up for his class all those years ago, like every other student she’d been starstruck by his celebrity status rather than a real admirer of his talent.
Outside, she spotted him studying one of the huge pictures outside the museum – ironically, a scene of Paris.
‘I love this picture,’ he said idly as she drew alongside him, without so much as looking at her. ‘It captures that je ne sais quois of the French perfectly. Are you all done?’
‘Yes.’
‘Enjoy it?’
‘Yes.’ She paused, waiting for him to ask more questions or solicit her opinion on what she’d seen.