Almost Mona Lisa
Musing on my stint as an artist’s muse
I felt him eyeing me across the museum in Florence. He wasn’t subtle. I moved behind some people and he immediately repositioned himself for more unobstructed ogling. As a young American traveling in Italy in 1974, I often drew attention. I usually enjoyed it. But I was savoring the beauty of the paintings around me and wasn’t in the mood for the lurker, twice my age, who approached me.
“I would like to paint you,” he said. “I am an artist.”
I laughed. The guy had a goatee and wore a wool beret at a jaunty angle like a cliche cartoon of an artiste. He carried a large black book which he opened to show me its contents. Immediately, my boyfriend and our two new friends were at my side.
The evening before, an Italian couple generously stopped to pick up two tired young travelers trying to hitchhike in rush hour traffic. They fed us dinner, introduced us to family, and put us up for the night. The next day they took us to the museum. When the stranger approached me, they felt protective. I was touched, but I wasn’t worried.
“My boyfriend and I are just visiting Florence,” I told the man. “We leave tomorrow.”
“Please, stay longer,” he pleaded. “I need to paint you! You look like an angel.”
