Traveling to Venice is usually a romantic dream come true, but for Abigail, it's anything but. After accepting an art-restoration internship at a Venetian museum, all she has on her mind are late-baroque paintings. For her, the romance of Venice can...
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Abigail
My hand moved over the curve of the woman's body, trying my hardest to control every movement of my hand. Her flesh was light cream, almost white. I was awed by the contrast between the sweet pinks and the pale light hitting her torso. She was like a young flower, blossoming into womanhood among spring lilies. I traced the edge of her body. A light touch so I wouldn't tarnish her. Stepping back to stare at the figure, I was amazed that she was mine for the rest of the night.
I let out a shaking breath- then dipped my paintbrush brush back into the tin of varnish at my workstation.
I stretched my arms toward the studio ceiling and admired the work. It was a 17th century nude of an everyday woman- likely the lover of the artist. She was reclined on a plush lounge, surrounded by silks and flowers. Sure, it was a small painting, only a foot wide, but she was my first solo restoration work. This restoration had been one of the easier ones. It had already been cleaned by someone else, and now it was my job to fill in areas that had been chipped due to damage over the years. My entire body was sore from standing at the easel all day, mixing chemicals, and testing the composition of the paints and glazes. It was work that took my entire focus but was engrossing nonetheless.
In the distance, I heard the midnight bell in St. Mark's square toll. I'd learned to love the sound of the bells in Venice in the short time I'd been there. It was a low tone that fell over the city, announcing the end of the day. With each sound of the bell, I felt my limbs grow more and more tired. It had been 12 hours since I started work that day with barely a break to eat or use the restroom.
When the bell grew silent, I looked around the studio. It was a dark room hidden in the corner of the building. There was a long line of easels and tables, all empty except for my own. The other interns had left hours and hours ago. They were probably home in bed while I was up at the museum, which was one of the newest additions to the Venetian art scene.
The Becci family went back centuries in northern Italy, and it had taken them almost as long to get Venice to agree to the new Gallerie dell'Becci. It was a small gallery because of the construction and building limits on the island. However, the artwork that filled its walls was amazing and expensive. With the gallery came the university restoration program. I'd been studying art history and restoration for years, and it all culminated in this internship, no-this painting by an unknown artist.
As I looked at the woman, I wondered how she felt about the man painting her. He had taken so much time to study her features. Each brush stroke was like a love letter to her body. She had a playful expression on her face, daring him to finish the painting before jumping into bed. It was romantic, passionate, and extremely risqué for the time. It was probably why the art had been locked away for so long, someone's dirty little secret.
A blush spread across my cheeks. I'd been restoring the painting and focusing on the technical aspects, but had never stepped back to feel it. Something in me wished I could be that woman, spread out across silk, waiting for her true love to join her and-
