Contradiction

"Oh, he's a real rough guy that one," they'd say, "deviant delinquent with no morals. What does he think he's doing, exposing our children to such... Such unpleasantness?" Put simply, Artie Rose's pictures were considered rather scandalous. Folks in the small town where he lived couldn't handle something so outrageous as the human body, depicted as a form of artwork. How could they, when they could hardly even face seeing themselves without the clothes that usually covered them.

So, Artie was labelled. Odd, deviant, sick, delinquent, were all terms that came to be associated with Artie Rose. The recluse he was, Artie didn't know for a long time that these labels had come to be assigned to him. Although, in his defence, the labels hadn't come for a while. Before that had been the whispers. Before that, he'd just been ignored. Thought of as the odd, eccentric but most likely harmless guy who lived by himself on the edge of town.

The public image of him in the early days he had known about, but as the years went by, he kept to himself more and more. After that came the whispers, not an utterance of which ever reached Artie's ears. The labels came after his art started to become more visible. Especially in the small town Artie called home, no one had ever seen anything like the pictures he painted. So, he became even more isolated than he once had been, subjected to staring and people crossing the road to avoid him on the few occasions he did decide to venture out.

That was until one day, the sound of a knock at his door made Artie jump at least a foot high in the air. He paused a moment to compose himself before he erased, brushing his hands down his dress shirt and pants to remove all traces of creasing. "Hello," said the young woman when Artie opened the door to reveal her. A pretty young thing, not too much younger than himself, he guessed, with a smile bright as the sun shining above.
"Hi," said Artie, his grip on the doorframe tightening as he swayed a little with nerves. "Can I help you?"
"Are you Mr. Rose?"
Artie nodded and the girl's smile widened. Her cheeks increased in colour as she spoke again,, "I'm sorry, Mr. Rose. I'm Kitty. Kitty Picton." She extended her hand to him, and once he shook it, returned it to her side. "I'm sorry to bother you Mr. Rose. I've come about your ad in the newspaper." She pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket, shook it out and held up the newspaper clipping for him to me.
"Well," said Artie a little breathless. "It was quite a while ago that I placed that." He said slowly as the pieces gradually sorted themselves out inside his head.
Kitty's face fell. "You've already got someone, haven't you?"
"No, actually. You've been the first person interested," said Artie, "and you must have come a long way!" He stepped aside and opened the door a little wider, beckoning her with a finger. "Please, do come in."

"I'm sorry," Kitty rambled as Artie led her through the house. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long, and I came without announcement... I had to wait till I turned eighteen and I could run my own life."
Artie stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face Kitty, wide eyed. "You're eighteen!?"
"Yeah," she said, unconcerned. "So?"
"You're so... Young."
"You're not so old yourself, Mr. Rose."
"Artie," he said, "and thank you. But I'm possibly old enough to be your Dad."
"No one would guess."
Artie said nothing, instead gesturing she take a seat opposite the one he'd settled into himself.
Kitty did as she was asked, leaning forward in her chair, hands clasped together. "So, this modelling thing."

That long while ago, Artie had placed an advertisement seeking a model for one piece of artwork. But, he and Kitty bonded so closely over the weeks it took Artie to do that one picture that Kitty stayed and kept working with him. That was when Artie started to become a little more than just the odd but harmless guy living alone on the edge of town. His pieces featuring Kitty made Artie a little more infamous in his small hometown, and as his newest series of paintings began to circulate, labels such as 'deviant', 'sick', 'twisted' and 'corrupt' became attached to the name Artie Rose.

"Artie, darling, you know people are talking about you, right?" Kitty asked him one day on her return from an outing into town.
"They are?" Artie asked, mouth agape in horror.
She leaned down, brushing her arms soothingly as she moved to kiss him on the crown of his head. The worry lines on her forehead creased with concern. "You didn't know?" She asked, her voice soft. Artie shook his head wordlessly.  "Oh honey, I'm sorry."
"It's ok," he said after a moment. "Kitty. It's ok. You and I, we know that it's art, right?" Kitty nodded as he went on, "even if the rest of the town doesn't believe it. Even if they think I'm a delinquent, you and I... We know... It's art to us. Works of beauty. The most beautiful woman I know celebrated as all women should be."
Kitty blushed. "Well," she said. "You're quite the contradiction, aren't you?" She asked, finally taking a seat beside him.
"Hmm?" Asked Artie, not quite comprehending.
"Contrary to what all the townsfolk think, you're the sweetest man I know, Artie Rose. You've treated me like a goddess right from the start. That's hardly deviant at all!" Artie reached for her hand across the table and she took it, squeezing gently." You're a contradiction." She said again with a bright smile. "The best kind of a contradiction."