Father did something entirely unusual a few days ago. In a big show in front of all of the performers, he announced that he has permitted Émile Giroux to capture the circus on canvas for three paintings of the artist’s choosing. Since it is impossible for us to be painted, I pressed Father as to how he was going to achieve this, but he said it was not my concern. This led to my questioning him why we couldn’t be painted like normal people in the first place. He said that my tongue could be cut out if I asked another question. We have enough mutes in the circus that I’ll take him at his word. Hours later, I overhead him telling Esmé that he would be enchanting the three paintings. Even though I have earned the respect of my fellow performers, he still treats Esmé like an equal and me, a child.

I don’t entirely trust this development with Émile. Rarely does Father do anything without wanting something in return. He says everything is point and counterpoint. Balance is required.

After being permitted to attend our practices, Émile chose me as his first subject.

For the first sitting, I posed in my aqua costume with the brown beading. I prefer the blush one, my signature costume, but Émile fancies the aqua one because he says it makes my eyes come alive. Sitting for him was a maddening chore, but the idea of him studying me so intently stirred something in me. Now I think that I finally understand Esmé’s love for painters. Feeling Émile’s eyes on me was such an intimate act. The honesty in his depiction of me; the way he’s chosen to both scrutinize and rearrange me in paint. Each night, as he unveiled the progress of his work, I found that we were both so vulnerable: him for the artistic risk that he had taken and me for opening myself to how he truly sees me. While I am not the great beauty my sister is, in the way Émile has pinpointed my most intense moment, the one before I’ve ascended the ladder where I’m anticipating the crowd and the performance ahead of me, he has captured not just my likeness, but my true essence.

While he worked, he often gazed at pieces of me—a hand, a foot—but I noticed everything about him: his white shirt with paint stains on the forearms, the ones that he rolls so I won’t see; the quiet way he can work for hours without talking; and his strong chin, which is the telltale indicator of frustration when he is unhappy with some detail. And those eyes—the sad, dirty-green eyes that gaze up at me, hungrily. Toward the end of my sitting our eyes lingered until the end, when we found ourselves sitting in silence simply taking each other in, watching each other breathe.

May 30, 1925