Sfumato
or, Infinite degrees of the absence of darkness.

He put his brush down and rubbed his eyes. As he glanced at the painting, he silently berated himself for not being able to continue. He leaned back in his chair, putting himself at arm's length from the easel, and lit a cigarette. As he puffed, he stared through the smoke, and it came to him. He hastily threw the cigarette in a corner, and furiously set to work. He dabbed at the corners of the figure's eyes, just so - he shaded its clothing, ever so slightly - it was not until he had finished the sophisticated pointillism around its mouth that the figure became cohesive.
  
Her face was smoky, the result of a delicate complexion failing to completely hide the rude health underneath. Her hands crossed invitingly on her lap, before diminishing into voluminous billows of robes. What was most striking, however, was her enigmatic smile. Inviting and cold, she was the narrator of every story, the architect of every dream.
     
His trembling hand reached up of its own volition. He gently stroked her cheek, taking away smudges of oils, and even as he sat in awe and wonder his lips brushed the canvas. She reached for him, and he fell, unquestioning, into her embrace.
     
Her touch was electric, and he wanted nothing more than to know her, his creation. To touch, to kiss, to love her - he sunk deep into her effervescence. He felt her heat upon his back, her breath entwining with his, her fingers dancing upon his body. He put his face in her hair and inhaled her thick, smoky scent. They separated, and she looked into his eyes and smiled her entrancing smile. In that moment, he knew the purest art, and his soul burned with passion.
     
When the smoke cleared, naught was left but ash.