The Romance of Grace

Image by ArtTower from Pixabay

I chose a space against the eastern wall between two windows halfway to the stage, sat down and warmed up with the colored pencils Adrianna got for me.

They were much softer than the charcoal I always drew with.

I sketched the first moment I wanted to draw, using both imagination and memory to evoke the scene.

Celia fed the Wanderer delicious morsels on the divan, both of their faces glowing with joy;

the girls on mandolins had an air of innocence about them as they strummed their beautiful melody;

Astrid stood behind me and massaged my shoulders with her tiny, powerful hands, while my form was shadowy;

the fires peeked out from the bellies of fat chimineas and reflected the mottled pink marble to cast a rosy glow all over the scene.

Of course, Adrianna was in the drawing.

Even with her seductive dressing gown on, she had the air of a powerful high priestess, using her subtle wiles to maneuver the entire evening. In that moment of the sketch, the Wanderer and I were unguarded with our defenses down.

I examined the drawing, and chortled. Adrianna was indeed an artist, as the Butler had said, absolutely brilliant in her work.

When I looked up, the light in the room took my breath away.

The sun had gone down, and lavender twilight warmth permeated the room.

The last traces of day before darkness fell had always been a sensitive time for me.

In those moments, I knew I needed to find the right place to settle for the night if I hadn’t come across one already. If I had, I only had so much light left to build a fire, cook supper, and allow myself to relax and ponder the beauty before me.

Twilight was that time when I got out of my head and into my body, and used all my senses to absorb the world around me.

Image by RitaE from Pixabay

That twilight was the moment I realized I wasn’t alone in the cavernous theater.

To my left, I detected the scent of sweat along with the whisper sound of motion.

At the northern wall near the mirror was Adrianna.

Dressed in pristine white bloomers and camisole, her long thick hair hanging in a long braid to her waist, she took her evening exercise.

Stripped of her usual glamor, her simple garments seemed more intimate than the revealing, flesh-colored gown she had worn at dinner.

Adrianna seemed more human, more vulnerable, more easily seen.

Caught off balance with the unexpected yet again, I was embarrassed to see her like this while Adrianna was at ease.

She waved at me without missing a step in her ritual.

“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Your presence is hardly an intrusion, my darling Shepherd. I saw you when I came in. You can join me if you want. I prefer to finish before dinner.”

With her arms outstretched, Adrianna swooped low as she spoke, bringing her right shoulder down; the length of her arm reached for the floor before she completed her turn with a rounded kick of her left leg in the air above her head.

Then her arms floated to her sides, as she sidestepped across the floor with long strides and a casual undulation in her hips.

Suddenly, she lunged forward with her right leg crooked at the knee, her left leg long behind her, her back arched and head thrown back as she stretched her arms toward her back leg.

Breathing in deeply and sighing audibly, she held the pose for a moment. Then she swung her left leg forward and up, knee bent to her chest before lunging to her left side, her arms swinging beyond her head as she reached for the air beyond her grasp.

The dance was both elegant and peculiar in the silence that echoed through the theater.

“I think I prefer to watch.”

“As you like, dear Shepherd.”

Adrianna laughed without missing a beat.

Her voice breathier than usual as she transitioned to the next leg of her choreography, abruptly coming out of the side lunge to jump high, bringing her knees to her chest before her feet came down with a soft thump.

What was it about a woman who had grace?

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Her mastery of this quality was astonishing.

The legendary Courtesan became a dervish, moving with the agility and nimbleness of a woman more than half her age.

Within moments, I was forgotten.

Adrianna had retreated into a world where nothing existed beyond movement.

Her lovely face was blank as she twirled, lunged, leaped, and spun around the magnificent space of the theater.

No wonder Adrianna had maintained the youthful contours of her face and figure. Watching her move to her internal rhythms was captivating in the quietude of an empty theater.

She seemed to grow younger as the dance went on, years coming off her face that glowed from the bliss of freedom of motion. I admired the strength and concentration, yet also surrender, she needed to dance as she did.

Adrianna had never looked lovelier.

There was so much beauty in the serenity and ecstasy of her expression, in the incandescence of her sparkling golden eyes, the simplicity of the black and silver braid falling to her waist.

That image seared itself into my mind.

I had picked up my sketchpad and started drawing furiously before I knew what I was doing.

I only needed brief reminders of the curve of Adrianna’s cheek, the muscles in her calves, the line of her arms stretched out.

I continued drawing even when my subject moved with the speed of a wood sprite, too quick and wily to get caught.

I didn’t look at what I drew.

That’s how riveted I was with Adrianna’s dance of silence.