Blood-Born

Chapter II - Brushstrokes of Immortality

"The object of art is not to reproduce reality, but to create a reality of the same intensity."

- Alberto Giacometti

Goblin's Toe, Wyoming

The refreshing warmth of their first full day filled the morning room of the mansion in earnest as Tessa gently swirled the narrow tip of her brush in and around several small pools of oiled paint before she deftly applied some touch-up to the scene before her.

Not the first time that she had found the need to revisit her latest work and without doubt not the last.

After unpacking, arranging and rearranging everything else as Valeria had wanted it, where she had wanted it and how she had wanted it; organizing what little stock that was found to have remained in the larder along with having prepared an inventory list for the next resupply trip into town – she had even managed to find some time to herself and return to her favorite form of relaxation.

A soothing venture to revitalize her physically and mentally which under normal circumstances should have relaxed her and made her feel better all around.

But not so much since their arrival in this far flung western town.

With a sigh of resignation she sat back in her chair to look over her latest work.

She had become annoyed over the simplest of details yet again.

No, she mused half heartedly as she corrected herself, not annoyed – at least not entirely.

Disappointed perhaps, slightly agitated and even a bit frustrated.

Nature on this western frontier had proven to be entirely different in both hue and tone than she had become accustomed to in and away from the dull haze that insisted on a tainted twist to each and every form of natural color pallet that she had thought that she had otherwise fully understood and mastered.

Reddish clay appeared to dominate as a base only to be corrupted yet further with burnt orange that twisted with shades of brown to keep an otherwise blue sky filtered, muted and subdued.

Or humbled and crushed as the case may have otherwise been.

At least in and around populated areas that were civilized or what managed to even remotely resemble that of which she grew up with in this brutal environment that surrounded them.

Out on the open range things would undoubtedly be much clearer as one lost the corruption and regained the more natural elements that she was used to.

She could almost hear her former mentor's ghostly laughter at her expense.

Seated as he often had at the great table nearby while he had watched her early struggles to master what he had as effortlessly done as a butterfly might otherwise flap its wings in flutter of motion.

It had been a long time since she had harbored thoughts of Giovanni Battista Babassano; or as he had often introduced himself to others as the illegitimate bastard son of the great artist Manfredi.

Self declared as a Renaissance man even then, his art work had drawn crowds at most any exposition that he had bothered to attend.

At least when he had found himself sober and in need of wine or other indulgences that may have otherwise disgusted most anyone with any sort of morals these days but were readily accepted back then as part of the talented artist known to her simply as Baba.

He had told her the story of how they met in many variations over the years. Most times he would twist or turn the tale in one way or another until she had found a thread of truth amongst the many that he had woven together to distract her from it.

A young street urchin who had managed to wander into his studio much like a feral cat, she presumed ownership and had taken up residence for weeks before he had even realized that she was there.

That they had managed to tolerate one other was a miracle in and of it self – what with her relentless efforts to clean up his ever growing mess in her new home while still having managed to make a nest of her own in the process.

Eventually with some reluctance on both their parts, she had been fed, cleaned up and became a pet of sorts – fetching what he needed when he had needed it while her keen eye had watched and learned.

Early on he was clearly annoyed with her initial efforts but as time passed and she grew older and more emboldened, she had honed her skills so that she could effortlessly produce works of art on par with his own.

Over time she had even managed the tacit skill of mastering his signature along the way in flawless fashion.

Indeed on more than one occasion he had presented several of her works mixed with his and found that no one had seemed to notice the difference which in turn brought yet more suitors for his skills that otherwise may never have darkened their door even in passing.

While he refused her efforts to refer to him as anything other than Baba, he chose to refer to her as his Lui.

Many years later, she would discover that it was a childhood reference to his version of Chi.

Perhaps yet one of the many mysteries shared back then.