“Oh, for fuck’s sake, just get a move on, people.”
That’s what she thinks but dares not say out loud.
She’s been too well raised to be that kind of crass. No, she’s the embodiment of elegance and poise. Supposed to be, while the session lasts anyway. Swallowing a spasm of irritation, she remains still, statuesque. Trouble is, it’s not very comfortable, being the muse, posing in the centre of a room full of stares. At least she got the choice of pose. She picked the wrong one.
“Roses are red, violets are blue, I’m so done with being the muse, so what now to do?”
Her nose starts to itch. But of course. The more she doesn’t think about it, the more insistent the itching. She zones out, again, fixating on a fly on the wall, while everyone stays fixated on her curves, scribbling and scrawling on their canvases. The faint scraping of charcoal on paper sets her teeth on edge. You try sitting still, after a million million times.
“Has anyone ever thought to ask a muse what’s it like?”
Obviously not. It’s flattering to be in demand, though.
She’s truly seen it all. People imploring her, invoking her, doing the rain dance to summon her, ingesting magic mushrooms and other kinds of substances, courting OD. Sweet, reckless sots. It’s not like she can be everywhere at once.
Incidentally, that’s why she makes it a point of never loitering around. There’s a highpoint at every party. You reach it and it all just starts going downhill. Too many radio hits, too many bestsellers, people start getting ideas and lose touch with reality. So, she breezes through the spaces, the muse business transient and counted in heartbeats. They’d capture her in a bottle, like a genie, if they could. Luckily for her, often just a well-placed kick is needed and off they go, thinking it’s inspiration.
“And I don’t get jack in return, not even a measly thank you.”
A happy artiste?
“Give me a break.”
She stifles a snort. She’s not keen on seeing what the drawings will look like. Doesn’t need to, really. She’s seen countless versions of herself printed in lithographs, paintings, notes, sculpts, books and lyrics, in so many keys, styles and schools. You’ve seen them all, after a while.
“So why do I bother, then?”
Every once in a while, she crosses paths with someone different. With a special soul, someone who sees her. Someone who lives and breathes for her, their muse. Someone who relishes the search as much as the brevity of the connection. Not a single one in this class, unfortunately.
She glances at the clock mounted above the door. Good news.
“Time’s up!” she announces dreamily.
The muse has other places to be. Inspiration is a fleeting, capricious, unbound thing playing by unwritten rules.
I wouldn’t want it any other way.
….
This piece is a mirror image. Read its companion piece, The Muse.