Revenge of the Muse

Sebastian stood naked in his art studio. The passion was still in him from Amy, who gave everything when they had sex. Something about the sensuality peaks my creativity, he thought. The blues and reds become vibrant, all the colors come alive. My neck, a heated intensity, unnerving. I need to put it on the canvass. And so he did. Wild Horses, by the Rolling Stones, pounded out through his EarPods the swaggering sound of Mick Jagger. ‘Well you bit my lip and drew first blood... don’t stop...’. He painted glorious yellows and fabulous blues. His brush would swirl and draw and fill in. Colors and shapes were no more conscious than dreams, and he would let the lines and the pallets and the thick texture form an image in front of him. The abstract came from his Freudian soul, his subconscious.

The world, however, was never patient and always demanding, constantly prying him away, dragging him into needing to face the reality of earning a living. This, he knew, was the world in its most mean and bitter way, taunting him. So, with the night, he ventured out into the foul and spiteful streets. He crossed the river on the clacking train to where the city closed in on him with cold bony fingers and picked at him as a foreigner; unwelcome in the cacophony of taxis, the pressing of flesh standing at crosswalks, the staring eyes of resentment and reproach. Clutched in his arms he carried the object of his obsessions, a two-foot by three-foot package, his painting.

###

Sylvester Steelbinder, a cockroach in true form, sat at his desk and swiveled his bald, shell-like head as he came in.

“Is the time still good?” Sebastian asked.

Sylvester smiled. Or so his diamond shaped eyes smiled. “Yes. We will meet in the back. Wait in the studio while I clear everyone out.”

Sylvester’s oddness was not unexpected in a city of things who live under bridges, thought Sebastian. It was the voice. It buzzed like static.

The two men met in an office in the rear. Sebastian placed his black artist portfolio case on a table, opened it up, and took out his painting.

Peeling off the brown paper, Sylvester said, “Let’s take a look. You sounded excited.”

“I’ve got something, I think. I don’t know.”

Sylvester looked at the painting. “Oh... I see. Interesting composition. Your color sense seems dead on. Nice.”

“Is it salable? Can you sell it?” Sebastian asked.

Sylvester gestured to re-wrap the painting. “I’ll be honest. It just doesn’t fit today’s market. You have talent, no question, but where’s the... story to tell?”

“I just paint.”

“I know, and that’s the best, isn’t it? And keep painting. Let me know when you have something else. Although... leave the painting for a week, and I’ll try to get it in front of someone. I have someone in mind.”

###

“I love you’re an artist. And you’re not a dead beat so stop running yourself down.” Amy was looking back at Sebastian and getting ready to go to work, a dancer in the New York Ballet.

“At some point, all the same,” Sebastian said. He was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter eating scrambled eggs Amy had made for him. Still wearing his pajamas, he wondered how he ever deserved a woman like Amy.

As if she heard his thoughts, Amy came back into the kitchen and gave a quick caress to his cheek. “I’ve got to go. We’ll talk about it tonight.” She playfully squeezed the firm muscle of his thigh. “You look kind of luscious today.” She then went out the door and he could hear her high heels clicking down the stairs.

Sebastian’s cellphone rang.

“Hello.”

“Sebastian? This is Sylvester.”

“Who?”

“Sylvester Steelbinder from the gallery. You know.”

“Oh. Yes. Yes.”

“You left the other night. You seemed so down. I have an idea.”

“What?”

“Do you know Max Byrnes? He’d like to meet you,”

“I don’t KNOW him. I see his name everywhere. The trades. Why would he want to see me?”

“I showed him what you left me. He liked it. Probably go nowhere, but he wants to meet you. Would you like to meet him?”

“Would I? How soon? When?”

###

“Sebastian David. A pleasure.” Max Byrnes limped across the gallery and was bent over to one side at the waist. He was tall, a leaning tower, broken in the middle. Sebastian noticed he wore wrist jewelry with small silver spikes. They shook and Max flinched in pain from the handshake.

“It’s an honor, sir.” Sebastian was wearing the all black that Amy had dressed him in. You saw him in Art Magazine, Art World, the New York Times; so much older. He looks so much younger in the media, he’s aged. But it’s more than just age, isn’t it? Yes. Drug issues. Maybe he read something about a divorce. Maybe drugs and a divorce. Or worse. Could he have something really bad?

“Relax dude. Sylvester’s the man. He speaks highly of you.”

The three talked art for a while.

Sebastian could tell he was being sized up.

“I’ve got to say, why me, Mr. Byrnes?”

“Max. Please.”

“Max.”

“I hear you want to sell your art. Is that true?”

“It never has sold. So I guess... yes. Who wouldn’t?”

Sylvester interrupted. “We’ve been talking. We think we can take you places.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Sebastian said.

Max and Sylvester exchanged a glint of a smile. “If you can take some advice. Make some changes to meet the market. But I’ve convinced Sylvester with a little tweaking, who knows, when you’re ready, we could all make a killing.”

Sylvester seemed eager with his shiny bug head under the spotlight bobbing and weaving. “Max’s an investor in the gallery, Sebastian.”

“Take that piece,” Max said, pointing at a larger-than-life wall sized abstract painting across the room. “That’s a Swaygarth. You know him?”

“He’s got a piece at MOMA, right?”

“Yes. We took him under our wing. No promises, but we can do that for you. You’re better than you think. Tweaking though. You’ll need to listen. And you’ll need to want it. Do you really want it? Are you willing to pay the price for the kind of success we’re talking about?”

“Sure.”

Max’s voice rose, challenging. “Sure, is not enough Sebastian. You need to want it. You willing to work with me? You willing to do what it takes?”

“I’m committed Mr. Byrnes... Max. What is it you need me to do?” You’re begging again. Don’t beg.

Max glanced at Sylvester, who nodded in return. “Sylvester will work with you for the beginning weeks. Maybe a few months. You’ll get plenty of training on taking your art to not only the next level, but who knows how far? We demand a lot. Truth is we’re a little eccentric. Are you willing?”

“I am.”

“Wise decision.” He looked at his phone. “I’m due now. Guggenheim. The kind of thing you need to prepare for, but Sylvester will go over the paperwork, specifics about the kind of commitment you’ll need. We need your talent, not your money. We’ll meet in a week. Are you ready dude?”

“Yes sir.”

“There’s this one item. We’re a little eccentric, like I said. If it’s ok that is.” Max pulled a small knife from his leather jacket pocket. “Not sure you’re up to this. I’d like to join you as a blood brother. Can we be brothers? I know it seems weird, but hey...” Max took the knife and made a small incision in the palm of his hand. A quarter sized pool of blood formed on his palm. “May I?” He laughed. “Look at that face Sylvester. That face! He thinks I have Ebola Sylvester!”

So what am I supposed to do now?, Sebastian thought.

“If you’re not ok with it, Sebastian, no problem man. It’s just my thing, not yours. I don’t have any diseases or anything. It’s totally cool either way. It’s decision time though.”

Sebastian held out his palm like a schoolboy on a playground. “I get it. Blood brothers?”

Max cut Sebastian’s palm and the two shook, mixing their blood where their palms met. They both laughed at the drama and then Max put his arm around Sebastian. “We’ve got a grand future, you and I.” He took his knuckle and rubbed the top of Sebastian’s head.

Later, when Sebastian thought back to the meeting, he remembered how gray Max looked. He remembered him as exhausted. There must be all kinds of pressure on him at the top of his profession. I can’t imagine. And then he heard the voice where he was honest. You’re wrong again. He looked like he was dying, didn’t he? And you mixed your freakin’ blood with him.

###

In not so many months, Sebastian stood amazed by how far he’d come. A blank canvass stretched in front of him, floor to ceiling, wall to wall. He couldn’t wait to start and dipped a detail brush in yellow, made a few brush strokes. Stopping, he took his portfolio case from the corner, opened it on his desk, and took out the sketch he’d made in Sylvester’s studio. He examined the work and went back to the painting, dipped his brush in violet, and made a few strokes on the canvas. His hand tremored, and he attempted to pull it away. He pulled hard. Whatever was controlling his hand fought back. Taking a fresh approach, he took a breath and relaxed, this can’t be happening, an illusion, but he felt like he was watching outside of himself, dipping his brush in red, mixing it in black, and painting a thin line. He drew in a quick breath, his heart rate spiked, he felt confused, like bees were fighting in his head. Enough of this. Must be the stress. A hallucination from some old acid trip. Must be. This is ridiculous. He grabbed his arm and tried to pull it away with all his strength, his arm shook violently in resistance. With a last effort, he threw the entirety of his body away from the canvass covering the wall, but he was helpless. There was nothing he could do. As his strength ebbed, he gave up resisting. Something sensed this, and he felt the tips of his fingers and toes pull in on themselves from the inside of his body, pulled inside out like he was in a hollow rubber suit. But he wasn’t in a rubber suit and he wasn’t hollow because he was muscle, blood, and organs and as he turned inside out he felt the breaking and snapping of his bones, the tearing of his flesh. He tried to pass out from the pain but couldn’t. He tried to die but couldn’t. And so he absorbed the searing pain and the sour smell of his blood and the sound of his bones splintering. The transformation somehow completed itself, a metamorphosis into a hulking body of crawling, bleeding flesh with broken blood vessels and sinews of himself. All of this was mixed with sharp splinters of white broken bones protruding from the outside of his body through his shredded muscles. Where his eyes had been, there were now blooded bulges with veins. He was a living carcass. The carcass began to paint, and not just paint but drive spikes and drag itself up the canvass as a bleeding pile of naked flesh turned inside out. The carcass crawled on the canvass and from time to time would pull a splintered bone from the blooded flesh and wire it into the painting. It returned for more paint and then crawled back over and over again; affixing with wires its own slivers of bone and trees and rocks and furniture and toys and repulsions he had found in the human junkyard of life.

At last something left, releasing him from its power and discarded him like spent meat on his paint splotched couch, exhausted, beat up, violated from the struggle. In front of him was a work of genius, a resounding message of the absurdity of modern civilization. But the only thing he knew for sure was he never wanted to have that kind of pain again, the loss of control, the insanity. Even worse, he had an overwhelming feeling of shame. Amy, or anyone, could not know about this. And you know you’re no longer the one in control. Right, artist boy?

###

In three short months, cameras were setup at a Hudson River Port warehouse, the hub for The Sebastian David creations. Today were photographers for the fall issue of Art World Magazine. Sebastian, finally on break, felt the looks of people in the studio who recognized him and he tried to stay cool with the rush of the recognition. He thought he’d never get used to people acting like they knew him, see what he was like, tell friends they had met him. But this has to stop, he thought. How can I get back? Get back? You love the fame. But it will put me in the ground. Yes, it will genius and you can feel it don’t you, the little spiny weevil at the top of your cortex, tinkering with your subconscious?

A week later, Sebastian was in the back of a limousine driving down 5th Avenue in the rain. ‘SEBASTIAN DAVID EXPLODES’ spread across a banner at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Sylvester faced Sebastian in the back leather seats. The corners of his red glasses protruded like antennae, feeling the thick air. “Max couldn’t make it,” he rasped. He then turned to the driver. “The next left is the service entrance.” He faced Sebastian square on. “What’s all this about, anyway? There is no OUT of this Sebastian. We have an arrangement.”

Sebastian looked at the line of black umbrellas to enter the museum stretched down Fifth Avenue. Bile choked in his throat.

“Haven’t we made enough money? I can’t do this anymore.”

“There is no anymore, Sebastian. You’ve nailed the market, the times. Besides, you are now a different person. You owe me.”

“Owe you?”

“I made you Sebastian. Don’t forget that. Talent plus message equals money.”

“But I didn’t want to send a message.”

“I know that. It’s not about you.”

“I just want to paint.”

Sylvester smiled. His eyes formed large unblinking, triangular squares. “Sooner or later they all miss it. The good ones anyway.”

“What?”

“The muse. You miss the muse. But the muse only shows up if you do, and you haven’t shown up for a long time.”

The muse, Sebastian said to himself, thinking about who he had been before whatever got in him took over when he painted.

“It’s not about the art, Sebastian. It’s about the message. People believe anything. The tail wags the dog.”

“I need to go back to who I was. How can I go back? I don’t care about the money.”

The diamond eyes smiled.

###

Sylvester brought the young woman back to the rear office at Steelbinder’s Gallery. After she entered, she flinched when she saw the aged looking man in the wheelchair who was the Sebastian David. She carried a white marble horse in both her hands, protecting it like an offering, gripping it carefully because she’d chiseled it out, and it was the best thing she’d ever done. She was not pretty but plain in the most likable way, her brown eyes still shined with the promise of life. The three discussed for some time the young woman’s future and the price to be paid for success.

“It’s a pleasure to have met you, Mr. David... I mean Sebastian,” she said, fawning.

“Sylvester can take it from here,” Sebastian said. “You’ve got a lot of talent and we look forward to working with you.”

“I can’t wait to get home and tell Adam.”

“Adam?”

“My husband. We were married last June.”

Sylvester interrupted. “We’re due at the Met Sebastian.”

“We’ve got to go. One last thing and it’s kind of weird. I hope you understand. Partners and all.” And with that, Sebastian pulled out a small knife from his jacket pocket.

###

Sebastian was in his studio, sitting in his wheelchair, trying not to think about how much his body hurt. The canvas he had not yet started was blank and the white of it begged for a painter’s touch. Just a painting, and maybe with some composition and some color, or maybe some direction that would be unique to himself. He had completed his contract after all. He picked up a brush and dipped it in blue paint. Leaning in close to the canvass, he touched it with the brush. Nothing. He then knew whatever lived in him to paint had died. This somehow gave him peace beneath a blanket of shame that also covered the searing fear of where he was going.

“Sebastian! Sebastian!”

And who is this beautiful woman reminding you so much of a dancer you’ve seen on a stage? And why is she calling, and why is she here? The one question that rose in his mind he needed to ask was the only question to ask and the last question he would ask for the rest of his short life.

“Who is Sebastian?” But before she could answer, the music of Wild Horses came from behind the white hissing static of the canvass. He reached in, a tingling massage on his fingers. His body followed.