Intrigue becomes fascination and fascination becomes art. And when the feeble line is crossed, when the muse becomes reality, art becomes the air you breathe in to survive. Where without a muse, would the artist be really living?
It only takes mere...
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The scent of paint was etched onto the existence of the small apartment. Just like the streaks of sunshine yellow and periwinkle that were revealed, adorning her forearms, once she took off the coat that seemed to swallow her whole.
My eyes marvelled my surroundings, taking in the splashes of canvases scattered all over the walls, the green of her plants reflecting in the large french windows that led to what seemed to be a balcony.
Small and mighty. Two words that came into mind as I pictured her and her little apartment. I chuckled at the thought.
The place seemed to resemble her all too well. Tiny, calming and with splashes of colour to keep my dull mind going round and round in a haze of indescribable emotions.
I craved to know her, to decipher what laid beneath her silent and captivating eyes. Eyes so blue they could drown me.
Nerves were radiating off of her as she fidgeted, looking at anywhere but me.
"I'm sorry about the mess." She mumbled in her soft barely-there whisper.
I shook my head in disagreement, it was perfect. Yet my words were stolen from me as my eyes landed on a pile of canvases that stood upright against the wall. And my own face stared back at me.
"I remember that day..." I murmured to no one in particular as I took in the familiar outfit.
"Is that how you see me?" I glanced back at her curious eyes that were fogged with anxiety.
She took a deep breath.
"Only you can turn this mundane me into something so inspiring, so wonderful." I whispered again staring at the hazy yellows and oranges of the street lights surrounding me in the painting. "only you."
A ghost of a smile was dancing so beautifully on her now slightly pinked face. I walked around, tip toeing around a couple of pints filled with greyish brown solvent and tubes of paint, to have a closer look at the yet to be finished painting that was perched on top of an easel. A ghost of a man was present half covered in lilacs and pale orange, while the other half showcased streaks of pencil lines. Eyes were covered by long fingers and an oh so familiar boxy smile parted his lips. The background was a haze of fog and shadows.
The paintings were both realistic and abstract. The merge of the two worlds in a haze of wonderfully blended colours. With skin tones of violets and pale yellows, blues and burnt oranges, yet features so vivid that could represent a photograph. They held so much life, their gazes, my gaze, held such emotions that took my breath away.
Her pale blue jumper untucked itself from the small waistline of her jeans as she stretched her tiny frame in a feeble attempt to reach a high shelf for mugs. I approached her from behind, a hand steadying her frame as she tumbled in the surprise of my presence. The scent of jasmine shaming my smoke tainted breath.
