The Bath

Marie stood by the bathtub, her arms folded across the soft white of her robe. The light was low, the kind of light that makes you feel the weight of the day settle on your shoulders. The flat smelled faintly of wood and old books, and there was the sharp edge of lavender coming off a dish by the window. Her place was sprawling in the way Paris flats rarely are, full of things she’d brought back from other lives and other lands. Masks from Africa. A vase that might have been Turkish. A painting that looked older than the building we were in. 
 
I met her years ago in a café across from Luxembourg Garden. She had the kind of face that makes you want to draw—sharp lines softened by something you couldn’t name. I asked if I could sketch her, and she said yes with a half-smile that told me she wasn’t sure why she’d agreed. Now here she was, 20 years later, standing in this green-walled room with her bathtub—a rare thing in Paris, a luxury that felt out of place and perfect at the same time.
 
The water in the tub was impossibly blue, like a piece of the sky had found its way indoors. It stood there, quiet and waiting, while Marie stayed still, her gaze somewhere far away. Maybe she was thinking about the past, or maybe she wasn’t thinking at all. I liked the way the room felt—not warm, not cold, just alive in its stillness. It was the kind of moment you try to hold on to, even though you know you can’t.
 
I painted it because there was nothing else to do. The light, the woman, the room—it all asked to be remembered. Marie didn’t say much, and she didn’t need to. Some moments speak for themselves.
 
Acrylic on canvas. 
Black wood frame as pictured 80cm x 80cm 
Online price includes shipping.
Currently on display at Turkish Modern's Tomtom location in Istanbul.