[The story is based on Anne Rice's Interview With The Vampire the AMC series]
During the 1870s and '80s, it gave rise to the Industrial Revolution which paved way to the concept of capitalism dominated by social elites: the aristocrats - who played...
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WHAT DID SHAKESPEARE say about beauty? Clearly it was held by the eyes of the beholder; but his was not subjective. He was objectively magnificent.
"If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say 'this poet lies! Such heaven never touched earthly faces."
And I had never agreed more with William Shakespeare's quote.
The man in the park plagued my mind. I couldn't seem to get rid of the image of his crystal gray eyes and how he smiled charmingly.
I groaned annoyingly then took my sketchpad and charcoal to sketch him. It seemed like it was the only way for the muses of my artistic merits to stop bringing him into my inspiration.
And yet, I drew him swiftly with excited strokes, simply couldn't wait to see him again even though it was through the charred coal on papyrus.
And then there he was in my art, dominating everything that I had created.
"How much is this painting?" An old light-skinned woman said, dressed in wealth, standing before my little stall in the park. It was midday, so the place was crowded with snub aristocrats.
She was pointing at the oil painting of the colorful establishments of New Orleans on a 30"x36" sized canvas, that I finished nearly half a year. I gave her a high yet understandable price; surely she'd be able to afford it, with all her emerald gems hanging on her neck and ears and sophisticated gown.
However, she scoffed at me, saying that my hard work did not deserve that kind of price considering I was an unknown artist. "It's not like you're Vincent Van Gogh." She had said. "A word to the wise, make a name of yourself first before you rate your worth."
I wanted to slap her face with my canvas; but I let her go in silence, only glaring at her back as she walked away.
The pompous aristocrats had always been the personification of my migraine. Most of them ridiculed people in the lower parts of the societal hierarchy. Being on top simply gained them god-complex. And I wondered and dreamed what it felt like once I reached that top. Power must feel so good, and maybe that's why some people on the top turned into assholes. I just hoped I would not turn into one when I finally had my share.
But 2 days passed, and still I hadn't sold my paintings and sketches. My landowner was demanding for my rent's due that I hadn't paid yet. He went on and on about threatening me to kick me out if I still didn't pay him the next day. It was the only affordable apartment in New Orleans in terms of my budgetted state, so I couldn't afford to lose it.
"Shit." I cussed before I took a shot of my awful cheap scotch, then looked at my reflection at my dusty standing mirror at the corner of my room. I was dressed with my finest suit, ready to impress the pimp that held the brothel of Rose. I was finally considering her offer.
