Guest Appraiser

Guest Appraiser
By Charles Redner
My wife’s painting of a battered red truck
proudly hangs in her art society’s gallery
where a class, currently in session,
is painting a female model.

The artists appear at ease,
checking proportions, brushes at arm’s length,
splashing moistened pigments on canvas.
This is their norm.

But oh, so new to me.
I shift my eyes from the wall
where my wife’s painting
has been judged honorable.

Desirous to better view the model,
I shift my eyes hard, hard as possible,
as a head turn, would be obvious.
Obvious to the model, the class, my wife.

But the eyes shift
does not accomplish—a look.
A look—a nonchalant glance.
You know, nonchalantly.

Wife gazes at me for appraisal of her work.
I study it now for the first, nod approvingly.
Voice has deserted the vocal cords.
She turns to leave, turns the wrong way.

Do I pirouette in the same direction?
Or accidently turn toward—
Did I mention—there’s a model?

A naked,
unencumbered by clothes,
beautiful, young lady
posing less than a fallen easel away.

I turn, having appraised and follow my wife out the door.