Her Muse and Misery

Kira allowed her eyes once more to sweep over the oil-painted canvases, feeling… feeling what exactly? Numb, that’s how she could describe it, and how it has been for a while now. Broken glass threatening to break through the confines of the drawing, a bloodied bat about to swing out of the canvas, a black raven over the cast of a broken arm, and 15 other paintings seem so distant now, like the works of a stranger that she no longer can recognize.

She fought with the urge to do something about it, the urge to bring back the force that made her splash all her creative juice in one powerful surge of emotions. She hated her muse, hated what it did to her, but she could not deny its power, the raw emotion that only it could ensue. But it is a double-edged sword, and even though it will cut the block she is in, it will slash her too. A knock at the door pulled her back from the clutch of her mind and asked: “Nothing yet Kira?” The voice at the door was impatient, almost accusatory. “It has been too long already, and the exhibition opens in a month, you need new material or your name will die”

“It is just a block, I’ll be out of it, I just need time”

“Time you do not have, you are talented, don’t get me wrong, but it is so easy to go broke as an artist, especially fresh out of school, you have an opportunity everybody wishes for, plus what happened? How is it you came up with a lot of material during college but none when you are finally a graduate with her place and space to paint, not living with her parents anymore?!”

Words hurt, but she saw no reason to reply, no point in doing so, she cannot defend herself, it requires honesty. Honesty she couldn’t afford. But even her muse is more merciful than poverty, less cruel than humiliation, less terrifying than homelessness. So, she gathered whatever was left of her courage, opened the laptop, booked a ticket back home, and called her mother.

“Oh, my sweetness, I cannot wait to see you” Her mother’s enthusiasm was undeserved, unwanted, and quite frankly unexpected.

She remembered the day she packed her bags into her humble suitcases and swore to herself never to return, ever again; yet here she was, initiating contact, biting the bullet for the starving artist she did not want to be but is anyway. She knew life after college could not be breezy, could not sail smoothly with job offers and fat paychecks and opportunities to carve her name as a worthy artist, while thousands, which she believed most of them were better than she could ever be, were fighting for the opportunity to be recognized and respected. She understood Vincent van Gogh better now. Now that she faced it firsthand, chopping an ear off does not sound as desperate as it used to look. But she was blessed nonetheless; she had somewhere to sleep ( a couch she pays 300 dollars of rent for) in a shady part of the city, but at least it was in the city, and now, by some miracle, her work fascinated the art gallery’s manager Gigi who wanted to display all of her work for the world to see and judge, but it wasn’t enough, more material should keep on coming, but the price of her muse is too high to pay and too necessary to ignore.

Her hands fidgeted on the train. Picking at the stubborn flesh around her sore fingers. But it is better this way, it gave her something to worry about. She thought about her mother, her father, her heart, who long decided to coldly cast them out of it with no prior warning. But it was subtle, too subtle to notice too subtle to address, or that was simply what she wanted to believe.

She wished she had another muse, one who was easy to find, to see, to love and adore and obsess over, or one whose pain inflicted was a little more comfortable. She tried before; children’s hospitals, social work, true crime stories, TED talks, long walks, sunsets, nature, ocean, music, love, and hate; but nothing worked, nothing was powerful enough to create a masterpiece of a painting. All of them created too mild, too shallow paintings that a monkey with a brush could do.

The train stopped at the all-too-familiar station. Her hazy mind skips over the details of the taxi driving through streets she’s trying to forget, then reaches the house that created her, with all that she is and isn’t. She knocked on the door, with the sacred ritual of knocking softly 2 times before following them up with 3 slightly louder knocks. Mere hours stood between her and her muse.

“I am so glad you called and came my darling” her mother chocking on tears shed too easily “And don’t you worry, it hasn’t happened again, he has been better, I hate it when you are there with that temper of his but I promise he is much better now, maybe you going away from home tamed him a bit who knows”

But she knows better than to believe it.

A few hours later, her father arrived with a bag of groceries, acknowledged her presence with a grunt, and asked for dinner,

“I made your favorite to celebrate today, roasted chicken just the way you like it” her mother exclaimed with a cheerful tone, trying to compensate for the lack of warmth present.

And now Kira’s work is done, she waited patiently for her muse to arrive, and crafted it perfectly. It is bound to emerge any moment now. Waiting for the first bite he took, the bait, sparkled with a slight puff of chili she added stealthily and skilfully, he bit the bait, and his face instantly was lit red, she smiled, her muse was here. And with a fit of rage, an explosion of a thrown plate on the floor, broken glasses of sodas tainting the tablecloth, and a whole roasted bird thrown mercilessly on her wailing terrified mother. She arrived, at last, her muse. After dealing with the aftermath with a lot of cleaning products and burn cream, she skipped to her room, and tore open the innocent, vacant canvas, ready to be stroked and tainted with whatever brush and paint she desired. She painted, and painted, and painted… until time slipped from her grasp, the sun dipped and rose again, and a raging rooster with burn marks around his face and neck stared at her from the confines of her masterpiece.