Tʜᴇ Pᴀᴛʜ Tᴏ Hɪɢʜɢᴀᴛᴇs

Tʜᴇ Aʀᴛɪsᴛ ᴀɴᴅ Hɪs Mᴜsᴇ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 27

There was a certain beauty that came with art. It was a fog tail that looped in endless circles. A line of granite that always came back to itself.

You had always loved art. From Monnet to Repin, it was a beauty that knew no equal. A visage that painted a blank screen, giving life to a desolate page. It was always so enrapturing how artists could express themselves through art. They knew what they wished to say, but had no words to say it. So they did the only thing they knew how; envision.

The artist is a visionary. One who understands how the world looks but refuses to conform. Their mind is their leeway, their hands a vessel. They make voidless thoughts into expression. Giving others a chance to behold and finally feel as though they have been understood.

The artist is a life-giver. Taking their thoughts they write it down in pictures. Finally conveying meaning without speaking. Their works so beautiful they paint them on churches or pin them to a fridge. Art is not more, nor less. It is what the artist wishes it to be. Whether or not others understand.

Their muses are a reflection of their thoughts. An image only they can see, only they can conjure.

But as you sat before Reich. You wondered how deep a muse could reach. How far down into the artist's psyche it could get until it became stuck. The only image the artist could imagine for the rest of their life. Forever stuck in a loophole that delved deeper than skin and bit harder than teeth.

Reich's muse was no thought, no person. It was himself. An image he believed was real but had no basis to prove it. No longer were you looking at a boy who could call himself an artist. You were looking at a boy who could only convey pictures into more pictures. Severing his meaning behind a wall of insanity. A thought that could not be erased, that could not be understood.

His ghost was no muse. And he was no artist.

Yet you watched him draw away to himself. His eyes concentrated. His mind desperate to hold onto that one single image he called a muse. His hands jerked across the page. Dragging pencil mark after pencil mark in all directions. As if he couldn't recall which way they were supposed to be going.

You wondered what it was he truly saw. And if it was right to call it an inspiration, or a setback.

Looking away you gave the boy some peace to do what he had to. To further evoke an image that never was. A prize that would never be held.

He had brought you to a room you hadn't been in before. A library. Much like every other room, the walls soared above you. Although you thought it meant sense for this room to posses such a quality. As bookshelves ascended every wall in the room. With mobile ladders hooked to the wooden shelves.

Every book had leather covers with ordained spines and gothic writing. You liked the look of them, though you knew you would never read any. They were most certainly in German.

The table the two of you sat at was opposite a fireplace with two armchairs positioned to face it. You had to admit, the room was quite cosy. If only you had been made aware of it sooner, you would spend much of your time here. Salem seemed to think the same, as she was already passed out cold on an armchair by the unlit fireplace.

It was well aired in this room. With towering windows that gave you a perfect view of the gardens beyond.

You wondered if German Empire ever visited them. Or if his little excursion was for you and you only. Not a walk to clear both your minds, but an outing to ease yours. But then again, that's what he said, wasn't it? That he wished to take you out to set your fears aside for a moment.