The Muse

I’m working again on a new one, a study of the female nude (okay, so I’m going through a nude phase – at least it isn’t still-life-with-soup-can
stuff). This one’s not from a real model, but from a Rodin sculpture. Or a series of them. There’s a mermaid that I particularly like; also the woman in The Kiss and, for sheer dramatic effect, the fallen caryatid. I like Rodin’s work. It’s incredibly expressive. I wonder what made him burn.

This one should be good. Her skin I’m colouring ivory; alabaster white; because of course Rodin would have worked in stone. I can’t imagine his women dark. The only colour I allow is in the hair. I paint this red – the hair on the head in piles and piles of flame, like an autumn bonfire, the pubis the colour of dried blood. Red is for passion, and Rodin would, I think, have liked me to do this tribute to his work in all these various shades of red.

She’s turning out beautiful. Ethereal. My angel.

*

I think I will call the subject of my paintings Venus. It seems only appropriate.

I’ve painted a whole series of her, now. Some of the studies have been done in the classical tradition, including a Venus Pudica, based on Botticelli
only her hair isn’t covering her, it’s billowing out to sea, to the glowing orange-rose sunrise. I can’t seem to stop, which is great; when the
inspiration hits you, you should milk it until every last drop is wrung from its source. I have remembered to eat, although I don’t feel like
sleeping. I have a pot of cappuccino by my elbow, and a plate of prawn and lemon sandwiches. I’m sensible. I’m not one of those artists who never
takes care of her body. I’m also not so poor that I’ll literally starve in my garret.

It’s really strange, but every time I look at my original Venus a shudder runs through me and I have to paint again. It’s almost uncanny. Can a
painting be your muse?

I pour myself another cup of cappuccino, and draw a sketch for my next effort, which (I have decided this with my usual humour) shall be of Pygmalion and Galatea. A tryptich; in scene three, Galatea will be seen coming to life and giving her hand to her sculptor. She will, of course, have flame-coloured hair, like the subject I am basing her on.

I am proud of my efforts. I do not think that I will market these – I couldn’t bear to have them sold. I tell myself (or try to tell myself, anyway) that this is because these nudes are too experimental. But I think the real reason is that I’m in love with them. It’s fairly common for an artist to fall in love with her own work. Usually, we get over it. I suppose, in a few months, I’ll get sick of all this clutter in my study, and then I’ll try to pawn it off on Freud or some other hip coffeehouse or arty wine bar. Whether they’ll take it or not is a whole different story. I hope they do, because I could use the money. I’m not destitute, but my last client still hasn’t paid me off completely for the paintings I gave her as office decorations. Maybe I should get a day job.

But then, how could I finish this series? I can’t work when a job keeps interrupting my flow, I’ve tried that –

Best not to think about it. Best to just work on my Venus.

*

A miracle! Not only did my client finally pay me, but she gave me a bonus and may know a friend who would be willing to buy and exhibit some of my
work! That takes care of the bills for the next two or three months, anyway.

The Pygmalion-Galatea tryptich is finished, and (I must be going mad) my Venus is looking at me with what seems to be an approving eye.

Even more mad, I am convinced that I am beyond mere infatuation; I really am in love with my Venus. I can’t resist my impulses any longer. Kissing
her oily feet seems beautiful, voluptuous; holy. Artistic temperament, it has to be.

*

I found out today where yesterday’s manic delirium came from. It seems I have the flu. It’s horrible, I have a fever of (since the last time I checked, which was an hour ago) nearly a hundred and five degrees.

Something tells me I really should call the doctor, but I can’t get out of bed. The sheets are soaked. I feel as though I’m rotting; my body is an empty shell. I can’t imagine how much strength it would take me to reach the phone, which is in the next room, of course. My Venus stares down at
me, from where she is positioned in my loft – my daybed is right next to my work area, it makes the paints more accessible when I wake up in the
morning. My Venus is concerned. Her lips move, slow and blurry. Mostly I can’t really make out what she is saying, but if I listen really closely I
do catch some of it. Poor Alice! she says (Alice being my name – goddesses always seem to know your name). I fear I’ll be the death of you.

I try to reassure her, that dying for one’s art is actually a sweet and traditional thing to do, certainly it ensures one’s fame a few generations
down the road, but she shakes her head sadly. She doesn’t want me to die, she wants me alive. She wants to know if I love her.

Of course I love you, I respond. Don’t we all worship the source of our inspiration?

She wants to come down, even though the results are invariably fatal. I let her. Will you make me chicken soup? I ask. And find my paracetamol? Well, it is a dream, after all.

Of course, she reassures me. She’ll do anything to make my service more comfortable.

I smile weakly and sink into oblivion. My next painting – oh, it will have to be a tribute to Bosch or Dali. What a strange Venus will rise out of this fever, if I ever get up from it.

*

It’s been a few days. I feel weak, drained, but at least my fever is gone. For some strange reason I’ve got bruises all over my legs and backside, and
on my neck – I must have fallen out of bed and walked into the door, or something. Maybe it’s just a weird side effect of this horrid flu. I still have a lingering cough. But there’s a package of ibuprofen and some cough medicine by the bed; and some honey, and lemon juice, and a bottle of whiskey, my usual cure-all. Hot honey and lemon and whiskey won’t actually cure you of your ills, but it will distract you enough to not care how rotten you feel. I begin to paint my dream series, a collection of egg tempera miniatures painted on ten-centimetre blocks of wood.

I’ve been having the strangest dreams now, strange even for me. Most involve my Venus coming down and asking me to put a little more blood into
my paintings. She likes blood. And, she says, it gives the paintings such a delightfully rich colour.

I’ve tried it. Crazy, but wouldn’t you know, she’s right. It mixes beautifully with the egg tempera. My miniatures glow, icons of an earlier pagan faith. The gold leaf gleams when the sun actually shines through the skylight. It’s been doing that a lot lately, at least in the mornings – and as beautiful as the effect is, it hurts my eyes. I worry that it will fade the paint, so I decide to keep my paintings covered except at night. I’m starting to work primarily at night now, anyway. The colouring in my
paintings is changing, it’s getting richer and more sensuous.

*

I am exhausted. Totally, and utterly, exhausted. I cannot paint anymore, no matter how demanding my muse is. I need a rest. My cough is coming back, and I always seem to have a horrible chill. I bruise easily, and constantly. The bruises appear all over my body, in strange locations, like
my inner thighs, and never seem to heal. I don’t remember how I got them. I’m afraid to call the doctor for fear of finding something horrible about
myself.

*

My Venus, my muse, whispers to me from the painting, promising to finally manifest herself – wouldn’t I like a more three dimensional model, when I recover? Certainly, I tell her. If only she’ll be patient and let me sleep for a few more days.

She smiles and grants my wish. I am rocked (I’m too tired to come up with anything original) in the arms of oblivion.

*

It’s sundown. I don’t know how long I’ve slept. My muse is in the kitchen area, fixing me lasagna – because, she says, I need carbohydrates. A bottle
of Aqua Vitae lies drained by my bedtable. I think I guzzled it in five seconds flat.

There’s a bruise on my left breast. My muse put it there. Quite an impressive hickey, really. I still call her Venus because she hasn’t told me her real name yet.

She comes to my bed, props me up on pillows, and feeds me, telling me stories – mostly from Homer. I think she may be reciting from memory, but I’m not the proper scholar to be a judge of that. She has a beautiful voice, and her touch is both soothing and wildly arousing. She is very kind. I have a whole slew of ideas on how to paint her, already; I look forward to it. I am so glad to have got her attention.

As for the bruises, the exhaustion – well, they mean nothing to me. So she has a fetish. It’s a small price to pay for the favours of a muse.

By grandpoobah

Indeed there will be time
For a hundred visions and revisions...

T.S. Eliot

My poetry is archived at http://home.dencity.com/sarahswords/ - please give it a look.

3 comments

  1. i loved reading that – it was ethereal and struck exactly the right chord that reminds everyone of how driven we can all be by those rare, obsessive passions…

    :: darqbeauty ::

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