Excerpt from DIE FOR HER: Jules talks about Kate
I wanted to paint her. If I couldn’t caress her body with my hands, I could paint it with my brushes. Use my fingers to trace her lines. Sketch the curve of her neck, apply the crimson of her lips, form her face into a two-dimensional tribute to her beauty. Mix my oils to the exact shade of her skin, and spread it on the canvas with my trowel. Make love to the image of Kate since I would never have her in real life.
At Vincent’s request, I painted a small portrait of her…but that wasn’t enough. Once I had painted her, I couldn’t stop. She is my inspiration. My muse. My obsession.
I paint like a madman now, with the door locked behind me and curtains closed. I’m afraid one of my kindred will see what I am hiding. That there are dozens of portraits of Kate hanging amongst my still lifes, reclining nudes, and cityscapes.
Kate sitting at the café, nose buried in a book. Kate sitting in a museum, lost in thought in front of a painting. Kate throwing her head back to laugh at something I’ve said—some insane repartee her crazy sister and I have batted back and forth, fighting for the prize of making her laugh.
But I never paint serene, happy Kate. Kate in love. Passionate Kate. Because that’s how she looks when she’s with Vincent. And though I love him like a brother, I have committed the gravest sin of all: wanting what is his. Coveting what he loves more than anything else. Wanting her to be mine. To love me instead of him.