THE PAINTING I NEVER POSED FOR - HONEST!

It was Christmas, and Rae Katherine and Carol and I were standing in the lobby of the Paramount waiting to fulfill that most sacred of seasonal obligations: seeing a movie. And the place was packed!

The theater had recently been split into two sections - the lower reserved for the more popular films and the upper (formerly the balcony) converted to a screening room for those less likely to draw huge crowds. And leading up to Cinema Two was a wide, winding staircase, which was where I spotted her.

"Oh, no!" I muttered.

And since I stood a good 6 inches over the rest of the pack, I had to explain to my companions who it was that I'd just seen.

"It's Hildegarde!" 


And they exchanged meaningful glances and began to chuckle. 

I'd already regaled them with the tale of my visit to her house to record an interview for CBC. And the two of them seemed excessively gleeful, I thought, now that they expected something even more entertaining than the movie we were about to see.

Hildegarde descended the staircase like Gloria Swanson in SUNSET BOULEVARD. And when she spotted me, she virtually shrieked my name across the crowded room.

"Jeeem! Jeeem!" she shouted, then proceeded to elbow her way through the throng to reach me.

When she got to us, I tried to slow her down a bit by resorting to the usual social conventions.

"I don't believe you've met my wife," I said.

But she just tossed Rae Katherine a perfunctory nod, ignored Carol altogether and zeroed in on me with Valkyrien intensity.

"I am painting again," she announced proudly.

Painting was a talent I'd only discovered Hildegarde possessed after I went to her house. It was her experience in the German film industry that had drawn me there in the first place. She'd been a young starlet at the UFA Studios during and after World War II and had even worked under Leni Riefenstahl, the director of TRIUMPH OF THE WILL.

So, Hildegarde's abilities in the graphic arts came as a complete surprise. 

Her work sold in a number of local galleries, although the most famous thing she'd ever painted must have been Hermann Goering's toenails. But that's another story!

I stood staring at her renditions of wild flowers and found myself in awe of them, in spite of the fact that still lifes usually bore me to tears. 

But what caught my attention most was a remarkable study in oils she'd done of four female friends of hers lounging in the sauna. It wasn't so much the painting's erotic flavour that appealed to me, but its bold style and use of colour reminded me strongly of Paul Gaugin, one of my favourite Post-Impressionists.

"That's a remarkable piece," I raved. "But how did you ever get four local women - let alone one - to pose in the nude?"

"Ahhh!" she declared disdainfully. "I don't need models! I have a wonderful imagination!"

She also had a wonderful knack for creating an irresistable focus of attention, which is what she'd managed to do so well that night in that crowded theater lobby. 

She chattered on about her work and about stories she'd failed to tell me the last time we  met which she was sure would make great radio. And I listened and nodded my agreement and secretly wondered if my embarrassment could be any greater than it was at that moment. 


And then, as she finally left us to ascend the staircase once more, she proved that it could.

"Don't forget!" she hollered back from the steps. "You must come again to see me... because I vant to paint you naked!" 

I half expected a round of applause, but it didn't come. I just got a series of strange looks and furtive whispers from our audience.

And for the rest of the night and for weeks afterward, both Carol and Rae Katherine took special delight in needling me about the incident. 


I was only able to find some measure of relief when a friend confessed that Hildegarde had once said the very same thing to him.

"But I figure I'm safe," he explained, "because there's no way in this world she'd ever get me to take off my clothes and pose for her."

So, I broke the news to him about Hildegarde's sauna painting and her "wonderful imagination". And that took the smile off his face.

"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed. "And if she painted us like that, no one would ever believe we hadn't posed for her!"

"That's right," I said, feeling better because I was no longer alone in my fear. For after all, isn't fear (like embarrassment) something that's meant to be shared?

Oh, and by the way, the painting above is not really of me. It's by a fellow named Nicholas Haritonoff - to whose dear, departed spirit I offer my sincere apologies for the changes I made to it. 


But I'm sure he'd have understood. After all, they were just the product of this "wonderful imagination" we artists have.