The Artist and His Muse

The canvas was a mood.

It rested in the corner of the room, discreetly vying for the affections of the fledging-artist who had abandoned it in favour of a tryst with Lady Love.

What had the woman that she didn’t, it posthumously reflected, as it watched the subject perform all sorts of romantic miracles in a manner suggesting of the utmost indecorous behavior. It wasn’t as if she was moot, or incapable of making her consternations felt. In fact, had it not been for the violent whispers of summertime outside she should have outshone any and all intrusions that had infested the erstwhile solitary confines of the room. This was where she carved out a living, and no woman, certainly none an ingratiate as the one she watched lather up any and all affections coming her way without as much a polite thank-you-very-much, sir, ought have possessed the right to rid it of its sanctimonious qualities. These were sacred lodgings, and ought to be treated so.

Besides, they were so close to completion; the final furlong in a marathon that had begun as if a lifetime ago.

He’d let her dry overnight, and had, indeed this very morning, applied some final retrospective touches that all artists seem fundamentally aware of when going about the business of honest creation. She’d marinated in the cold, only too happy to be a lonely occupant in a room full of ogling residents: the lamp had eyed her all too apprehensively, wondering if she was to outshine its own light – that primal fear which besets almost every mortal being. And the chairs, the chairs had offered her none a warm drink, as hosts ought to a guest, even her uninvited. All this she bore the thanklessness of, for what’s a passing storm with sweet sunshine right around the corner? – only to be shunted to one side on the (im)practicality of a momentary whim which, even for a remarkable artist held the sin of neglect to it. There was nothing to it than to appraise the public adulations of that in-love couple with a roving, if hopeful, eye, hoping against hope that soon sense would beckon, and that passion would be abandoned for righteousness and good old discipline.

Though it wasn’t to be.

The artist led the woman over to his bed, and spent the rest of the afternoon making serene love to her – much like he had to the canvas for the better part of a year. Not that she’d kept track of the days; she’d liked being feathered by the Sicilian brush – that of fine quality which only artists of enormous zeal were gifted with. She appreciated being pondered over, deliberated over, looked at with naught but an intense eye, as if a thing to be put together, and not simply marveled of. There were times when she’d thought the man incapable of outward love, though he’d surprised her by, when one afternoon he’d had just about enough of a clingy clientele, declaring there ought to have been more to art than the sheer ruthlessness of it – that it ought to be performed for the measly sake of it, damned be profit. This he said with strong emotion and conviction, standing next to her, caressing her backbone as one would a lazy, adorable cat on a Saturday afternoon. It wasn’t unakin to the pleasures of physical contact.

They would have made a fine couple: Roberto Zane, the son of an Italian boat-man who had said hell to odds and succeeded in making of himself the finest artist of a generation of artists. As for her, she should have found a home in the reputable, and if word-of-mouth was to be believed, entirely pleasant institute that was The Tirsch Gallery of Modern-Art in New Haven. Roberto had named her, aptly, The Searching Beauty, after the subject depicted in her wombs of that of a flabbergasted woman repulsed at having found her lover in the embrace of a demonic-angel, who in turn looked on mischievously. It was a gaudy concept, alright, though the execution couldn’t have been more deftly administered. She’d have sold for millions, if not tens, and enthusiasts, amateur and connoisseurs alike, would flock to those parts of the world in an attempt to catch if but a scrutinous glimpse of her likeness. She’d have been the envy of oil and pastels alike, of Impressionistic as well as Surreal. Of decency as well as unworldliness, and of sanity as well as popularity. All this lay in store for her, though her creator seemed content to dull himself to these pleasures, instead opting for a further lethal dose of the same. A future lay rotting to one side, whilst the past played catch-up in the ever-available present.

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The gallery opened to a full-audience. Tickets were priced at three to each visitor, whilst admission to the interiors of the Reformistic-Art aisle remained a separate affair in itself.

Masses vied for a glimpse of the masterpiece coming from the Grand Master, Roberto Zane, and oh, what a beauty she was! Dotted in a mixture of purple, timber, and fiery orange, with the background a contrasting white and stormy-grey. Her edges had been fine-tuned to the tee of exaggeration, whilst her mahagonistic binding itself left nothing to be desired. It was said to be the greatest painting ever made, certainly in near times when artistry was dying a slow death to the rampant egoism of providence and technology. And the artist, he had been rewarded handsomely: though you couldn’t take a journalistic source’s worth of info without half a suspecting mind afforded to the matter, it was largely agreed that the Italian had earned himself enough wage as to live off five-to-ten lifetimes without as much ever picking up a flimsy brush. For it was certain, that Roberto Zane was to be an artist in this lifetime and the next: that curse he couldn’t rid himself of in lieu of his successes.

Love had eluded the artist in his bid to clinch the title of Finest Painter Alive. As is often the case with fame, it had cost him much more than its original worth. There was none a woman in his life, with whom he could and ought have shared the fruits of abundance, nor there a man, for clearly an individual as self-absorbed as Roberto Zane had been over the course of time ought have attracted the attentions of each gender alike. He was a middle-aged wine connoisseur who lived privately in the gaudy quarters of Rome, and walked to his favourite bakery each day precisely at four in evening, from where he’d pick his most favourite loaf of Garlic Bread and make his way to the ever-vacant park benches of the nearest plush acreage, where he’d insist on brunching with himself and casting an interested eye at his surroundings – in that most ritualistic of candour which artists seem to embody when going about the oneness of seeking inspiration. Though nothing to near him closer to that most eternal of longings that is the desire for social-bond.

On the day of inauguration, when Roberto Zane was called on stage to make a speech, many had, and indeed ought have, expected a speech involving the rigors of discipline, the value of meticulousness, and the virtue of art from the esteemed Grand Master. Instead, what they received was the impassioned plea of a fellow-vagabond, who said that the life of an artist had taken its toll on his weary soul, and that he was considering retiring from the business of Art, to which he was befitted not the most sympathetic of coos, but the inevitable boos which hit the declarer of an unpalatable announcement. Walking off the stage with cusses being thrown at him, Roberto Zane found himself a quiet couch backstage and settled in her velvety comforts. There, he brought out a cigarette and smoked it contently, as if it were his final act before he vanished into obscurity. There, from the corner of the room walked out a woman, hips swinging gracefully, a smile beset on her feature.

“Mr. Zane?” she asked nearing the subject.

Roberto gracefully extended an indulging hand outward in a bid to sign the scrap of paper that would no doubt be put forth to him at a moment’s notice, though instead found himself clutching at human-flesh, at whose contact he looked up more so in shock than anything else.

“Yes?” he asked, his ever-seeking brown-eyes growing larger, “what can I do for you, Miss?”

“I hear you’ve been asking of a friendly face, and I’m here in answer to your direct pleas.”

Roberto considered her carefully, and then asked, “Is this some sort of a joke? Because if it is, it is a very good one, and I’d like to take you out to lunch. Would you like that?”

The woman smiled, and nodded, and to this day it isn’t known whether what Roberto Zane encountered was a parody, or merely the indulgence of a proverbial force, who had seen long enough and decided to act upon it.

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