Die Liebe

Nobody noticed the old woman standing in the museum. Groups of children on field trips scampered past her. Tourists chatting in foreign tongues strolled by her, gesturing with their brochures and maps. Art students intricately studied the masterpieces hanging on the
walls hoping to one day emulate their greatness. They paid no attention to her and she did not care. She stood alone in front of the painting, staring at it until her eyes were sore, and she remembered.
It took her breath away and her withering lungs struggled to catch it. She felt her eyes moisten and did not reach up to dry them, as her hands ached relentlessly now from the pain of her age. The deep grooves of her wrinkles would channel the tears away anyway, if they would come. She did not think they would, did not think they could anymore. She had aged but they had not, the couple in the painting was still in the same position. The same surrendering look on the woman’s face, the same lusty gaze in the man’s eyes. She remembered the white dress, the honey colored hair and the gold ring. They were still young and beautiful and immortal. The eerie faces in the upper section still stared out at her and gave her chills. She shuddered and readjusted her grip on the black cane that bore her arduous weight. The emotions came back so strong and suddenly now. They transported her to the forgotten realm of her youth, back to the Vienna she grew up in, back to him. Now she could virtually feel the warm summer air on her face as the lines and wrinkles magically smoothed. She could almost smell the delightful scent of rose flowers as her senses heightened. She could nearly hear light footsteps on the walk beneath her as her joints began to soften and grow lighter. She felt a sensation in her belly as it flattened and the deep scars disappeared. The butterflies in her tummy fluttered about faster as she rounded the corner in her mind. There it is! The studio. Its white stonewalls and mahogany trim, partially hidden by large trees came into view now. Something wet rolled down her chin and she gasped silently in surprise, Ah! So the old carcass managed some tears! But she knew that these were not fresh tears. These were the ones her body had saved for this day in particular. These tears belonged to him as most of her still did. The old woman standing alone in the museum inhaled deeply, closed her tired eyes and let the memory take her…

Back to the day of the grand parade, Father, Mother, Helene and I were all dressed in our finest. Helene and I weaved in and out of the crowd playing and giggling the way only young girls can.
“Emilie, Helene!” we heard Father calling us from a distance and skipped over arm in arm, smiling merrily. Helene’s gait halted abruptly when we reached Father. I tried to let go of her arm but she would not release me. When I looked at her I saw she was staring at something, her eyes wide with what looked like fright. I followed her gaze until my own eyes fell on him and grew wide themselves. Father was talking good-naturedly but rather animatedly, gesturing wildly with his arms. The stranger was listening coolly and nodding. He must have noticed us staring for then he turned to examine us. My father introduced him as Gustav Klimt, the artist. His skin was tanned and his eyes were small and dark. His hair was curly and wild and stood up beyond the top of his head. He had a long thick beard and mustache and a heavy frame like a former athletes. Mr. Klimt had just been commissioned by the City Council to paint the old Burgtheater, Father boasted as if Mr. Klimt was one of his own children. As he looked at me, I felt my cheeks flush and my face grow hot. His stare was intense and unsettling. Helene and I stood, our arms intertwined tightly while Mr. Klimt acknowledged us with a flicker of smile that flashed over his face. Mother nodded at us in satisfaction and we scampered off.
Later when Father told us that Mr. Klimt was to paint our portraits, I said nothing but Helene scoffed and pouted. Mr. Klimt must have sensed her hostile position. He sent her home on the first day. I was hesitant but quiet, and he seemed to appreciate my silence. He studied me with an absolute concentration that I was scared to break. He was intimidating, and I was somewhat uncomfortable at first, but Mr. Klimt perceived this in me, and on the second day of sitting, he looked up from his canvas and smiled genuinely. It instantly warmed the room. I grew to feel more comfortable in his presence. He had a gentle, friendly smile and an unpretentious nature. He was an engaging conversationalist when he wanted to be but sometimes he was content to sit in silence and paint. I began to make up silent games to play, counting how many times he stroked the brush and for how many seconds he could paint without looking at me. When he announced that the portrait was finished, I was surprised to find myself sad. But when he knelt before me and asked me if I would like to receive drawing lessons, I smiled and nodded eagerly.
Mr. Klimt cleared out a corner of his studio and set me up a small table and stool. He started me sketching the studio and his brushes and easels. I enjoyed just being around him and he seemed to regard me with a likewise affection. He provided me a comfort that my loud boisterous father and my stern protective mother could not. I identified with his quiet introspectiveness. Later he let me sit behind him and sketch his beautiful models as he painted them, but he never let me see them nude. He would send me to fetch more paint for him or another brush because he had worn his down. I began to spend so much time there that Father and Mother grew resentful towards Mr. Klimt and resorted to giving me curt looks of disappointment. One day with no explanation, they prohibited me from returning to the studio and paid Mr. Klimt his final fees. I was disheartened and missed him terribly.
Time passed and I grew. When I was 16, Mother and Father announced that Helene, who was 18, was to be married to an older artist named Ernst Klimt. I got chills at the mention of the surname. I looked at Helene and she nodded modestly. Helene was going to marry Mr. Klimt’s brother and I was ecstatic to see him again. I was the maid of honor, and my place during the wedding ceremony was standing next to Helene in front. I searched the crowd on my tiptoes until I caught sight of his wild hair. He had a beautiful woman on his arm, but smiled wide and waved at me regardless. I blushed and bowed my
head smiling gracefully. At the reception I approached him.
“Mr. Klimt,” I said offering him my hand. I wanted him to see the grown up Emilie that I was now, not the child he had mentored so long ago.
“My dearest Emilie,” he said kissing me on my white lace glove. “Please call me Gustav.”
“Gustav, then,” I curtseyed to him.
He had since been awarded the Golden Cross of Merit for his famous Burgtheater paintings and the Imperial Award for his work on the staircases of the Art Museum. I wanted him to see how far I had come, and when I showed him my drawings, he beamed proudly and placed his hand on the small of my back. His touch excited me. He whispered in my ear that I could come use his studio any time I wished. I felt his balmy breath tickle the back of my neck. I was thrilled. I kissed his cheek goodbye and as I turned to leave, I caught Helene’s curious gaze and ignored it.
A year later, before the ink on Helene’s marriage certificate had dried, Ernst and his father were killed in a building collapse. Gustav was devastated and lost within himself for months. For the first couple of weeks, he painted nothing, went nowhere, spoke to no one. I stayed with him and nursed him back to health. I hugged him tightly, rocking him in my arms and humming in his ear. He came around eventually, with my help. Helene scolded me for caring more about him than my own sister. I was ashamed and began to stay at the studio over night to avoid her.
By the time I was 19, I had practically moved in. Mr. Klimt set up a drawing table behind him and as long as I didn’t bother him he let me work and watch him work. He tried to send me out of the room whenever he prepared to draw a nude study, but I just ignored him and kept silent. Often in the middle of a painting, he would appear to get flustered and tell the model to go and rest in his bedroom. Then he would follow her out and not return for hours. I grew comfortable with his bohemian way of life. He had an uncanny talent for coaxing women out of their clothes. And could I really blame those women? Surely not. Did I not secretly wish for his eyes to devour my body as well? I thought it sweet and honorable that he tried to protect me still. Sometimes I would bring him dinner, and we would eat on a blanket in the garden. After dinner, we would lie on our backs and stare at the stars as I snuggled close to his warmth. He bought me the most gorgeous blue dress once. I came in one day to find it lain across my drawing table in the back. We held fascinating discussions long into the night, about the stuffy, smothering bourgeoisie and their disapproval of our friendship. I suggested we separate ourselves from them and Gustav sadly reminded me that they were his patrons, and would be mine too someday. I merely shrugged.
Then one day I saw a sketch on the floor underneath his easel. It was a costume study of a woman holding a mask up while her head was turned to the side. I picked it up and placed it on his easel, admiring the way he had rendered the drapery and fabric. I reminded myself to ask him to show me his techniques on clothing when I sensed him behind me. I grew rigid. I had the feeling of being caught, and I slowly turned to face him. He was staring at me, looking hypnotized. His stare engaged me, engulfed my body in a heat I had never felt before. His eyes penetrated my soul. I felt a twinge of shame as the faces of my sister and mother and father rose in my mind. I pushed them aside and tried to stare back bravely.
“Emilie, go sit over there for me” he ordered absentmindedly, gesturing towards the chair he used for his various models. I dared not move. He hadn’t asked to draw me since the first portrait. And he had never looked at me like that, with that in his eyes. I knew what that was, I had seen it in my own reflection, it was lust. In what seemed like slow motion, he was moving to his easel and readying his things. I inched slowly to the chair and stood in front of it. My chest heaved and my heart pounded. When he looked up, he smiled easily. I tried to compose myself, his smile was calming but I was nervous. Something was different and the tension in the room was overwhelming.
“Emilie, its alright dear” he softened his stare to more of a gaze, and I caught it and held it. He sensed my anxiety and stepped over to me. He put his arms around me and held me, rocking gently back and forth. I felt tears well up in my eyes. He felt the wetness through his painters smock and tilted my face up to his. I was embarrassed and refused to meet his eyes.
“Sweet Emilie,” he whispered. He swept his hand across my cheek gently wiping away my tears. I looked into his eyes finally and sighed. I felt safe in his warm and forgiving arms. I swallowed hard and blinked up at him. Then he kissed me. I immediately stiffened but relaxed as I felt my skin become hot as all the hairs on my body stood on their ends. I was electrified and I wrapped my arms around him tightly. I breathed him in deeply. He smelled of paints and earth. His face felt rough, but his lips were velvet. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back as he lifted me into his arms and strode confidently into the
bedroom.
I awoke the next morning to an empty bed. He was not in his studio or in the garden. I waited for him to come home for three days. I was humiliated by the first night, worried sick by the second, cried myself to sleep on the third night of his absence and left the next morning. I returned home to smug looks and cold shoulders. I spoke to no one and retreated into my room. I developed a fondness for the fashion industry. I drew studies of my fine dresses till my hands throbbed. Helene, who couldn’t stay mad at me for long, presented me with a suggestion to open a boutique. Since she could sew, I would be the designer and she would assume the role of seamstress. I told her I would think about it.
A year later, we clinked champagne glasses at the grand opening of our fashion house, Casa Piccola. We managed to lease a building right next to the Secession. Helene was not at all surprised that a property so close to the organization that Gustav was a member of, had fallen into our laps. I ignored her. I was so busy hosting and making reservations for the ladies of Vienna to come for fittings that I did not hear the knock on the back door. It was Helene who retrieved me, telling me I had a package. I was confused. I was not expecting anything. She gave me a look that only a sister could understand and relieved me from the party.
I understood Helene’s cryptic silence as soon as I saw the box lying against the wall. I recognized the handwriting immediately. Gustav had returned to me. I stared at the box scrutinizing it carefully. I opened it and as I pulled a large painting from the box, a piece of paper slipped out and floated to the floor. I examined the painting first. Two gold panels cornered with pink rose vines flanked a man and woman lost in embrace. She wore an opulent white dress and a gold ring on her finger. Her hair was curly, the color of honey and pulled up into a bun. She was locked in an embrace with a dark man, one arm around his neck the other clutching his chest. Her eyes were closed and her mouth slightly open, her head tilted back in ecstasy. The man held her close to him, gazing down at her lustfully. His clothes were dark and unrecognizable, his dark curls piled on top of his head. He held her, bent over her, ready to kiss her, to take her. She appeared to be surrendering unto him. There was no denying the darkness behind the couple, almost as if they were underground. And the longer I looked the more I saw. Rose vines enveloped them both. Above the couple were various faces. I saw the woman’s face looking graceful and beautiful, a doll or a child’s honest face painted innocent white. Then there were two older faces, one was extremely haggard looking and the other was aged but not severely. I saw a skull in the top right corner and some other faces I could not exactly make out. The faces disturbed me deeply. They were obviously various ages in a woman’s life, but what was Gustav trying to say with this image? And why did he give it to me? I remembered the paper and looked at it lying lonely on the floor. I handled it delicately and fingered the folds before opening it and reading it.

Dearest Emilie,
Please forgive me for my previous behavior. I know of nothing
I can do or say except apologize and try and explain myself. You have
always been there for me. First you were like a daughter, I tried to
protect you. Then you grew into a beautiful talented young woman and I
was still a dirty old man. I ruined you with my lust and desire. You
were so pure and innocent and I will never forgive myself for spoiling
you. You must be wondering what the painting means. It is a statement
of perfection. After all, what is more perfect? The love before the
kiss or the woman before the man? I hope you forgive me.
I remain eternally yours,
Gustav Klimt

So, he thinks I am ruined? I thought and then immediately felt bad. He is my Gustav, elusive and eccentric. Of course I forgave him, I still loved him. I took the painting into the main room and set it down to lean against the wall where I wanted it to hang. I felt incoherent and dazed. I longed to see him again. Helene joined my side and put her
arm around me. I rested my head on her shoulder.
The butterflies in the old woman stomach ceased their fluttering and became still.
We stood staring at the painting together. We could hear the whispers
behind us. We did not care.
Deep scars re-etched themselves into her skin.
The people of Vienna never understood him. They thought him to be
controversial. I always supported him unconditionally.
He occasionally designed dresses for us.
Joints stiffened and began to ache again.
Gustav and I remained friends until his death. He spent the summers with us at Lake Atter. His dying words, so they tell me, were “I want Emilie to come.” I was not able to come to his bedside. I had fled the bombs of the war to the Austrian countryside.
The scent of roses fades and disappears. Wrinkles re-emerge on tired her face.


The old woman opened her eyes. That Vienna was gone. This was Vienna after two world wars and nearly 50 years. The year was 1950 and Gustav had been dead for 32 years now. Seventy-year-old Emilie Floge looked around her, The Historiches Museum had emptied, and all was silent. She gathered her strength and stepped closer to the painting. She tried to rescue the painting while they were escaping the war but they had no room for it. Emilie was relieved that it remained safe and unharmed. She reached out her hand and ran her weathered fingers down the canvas. She moved her face close and sniffed the aromas, paint and earth.
“Ma’am?” a security guard stepped in front of her. “Please don’t touch the painting”
She sighed but obliged. She gathered herself and began to make her way towards the exit. Gustav’s words echoed in her mind as she shuffle to the door. They were the last words he had spoken to her, before his stroke in 1918. They had been stargazing and discussing
the painting he had given her.
“But Gustav, why is the painting called Love, if it’s about perfection?”
He turned on his side to face her smiling.
“No one person is perfect, my sweet Emilie.” He told her “But love can be.”