The Muse

by HelluvaGirl

His eyes are warm. Smiling. Curious.

He takes a few glimpses at my face and I can see those eyes light up. They are captivated, passionate, demanding. At some point, as I sit looking at him, he shakes his head, excited.

You inspire me.

His hand swiftly moves as he sketches.

There are so many things you can do while posing.

You can be nervous as to how another sees you. Does he see someone attractive? Do I look natural? You fidget for a bit and then freeze your facial expression to look what you think is beautiful.

Then your thoughts start wandering. You wonder what it would be like to pose for him. What an intimate experience that would be…

Have you ever played that game – the one who turns their eyes away first, loses? I’ve never lost before. Believe me when I say it: so many emotions take you over like ocean waves when you look at someone intently without looking away for a long, long while. At first, you wanna giggle uneasily. Then you become terribly serious. From a certain point, it begins to seem you are looking at your own soul. It’s everything in the world; scary and sexy. Gradually, everything in the background gets covered in fog except for the centre of the face you’re looking at. Then you want to cry. You feel the intimacy in the light of that connection, like there are no barriers between the two of you. You feel like giving in. Bowing down. All the tenderness you’ve never felt you had surfaces – and strangely, there’s a unison of humility and power in that interlocking glance.

So he is getting even more engaged as I stop fidgeting my feet and also pass the phase of thinking about other artists and how it would feel to be a part of their creative process… #offtopic

I begin to think of the character I am tonight. Bleached skin. No eyebrows. Black contacts. Only upper lashes in mascara. Contoured cheek-bones and forehead. Noir rouge lipstick on a slightly opened mouth.

I don’t look cute. I look a bit aggressive. A bit like I could be dangerous to a bunch of guys in a dark alley. Yet underneath my coal-black eyes, I suppose I look like giving in.

Does he notice? There was a connection from the very first look. Dark, warm eyes…

Someone approaches from the dance floor, leans over his shoulder and says:

Your picture looks different from others.

As he makes the final touches to my sketch, he asks if I could email him the finished picture. Of course I can. I take one of his business cards from the table. How smooth.

The woman in that sketch strikes me, though. He didn’t capture anything fake I was wearing that night; on the contrary: he portrayed my light blue eyes and the way I do look every casual day. Wonder if that makes him a good artist?

But the expression on her face… I’ve just watched Nymphomaniac by Lars von Trier and the main character defined her mother as the cold bitch.

That’s who was looking at me from the piece of paper. Icy look, red lips, clenched teeth saying I only endure you but I resent you and I’m not anything you are.

It strikes me. I think he saw it… the cold.

What’s surprising is me being an inspiration – why would a person like this inspire anyone?

And then I remember Enigma film I watched with my DJ Boyfriend. He was in love with his past – someone I couldn’t compete with. So we watched the film together and there were those two women: one dream-like femme fatale who walked without touching the ground. Pale face, blonde hair, poppy red lips, twisted life. The other one was a dark-haired nerd in deplorably casual clothes, absolutely down-to-earth, someone to have children with, someone available

I hated the juxtaposition of the two women – I felt like the nerdy one and so jealous that someone else was in the role of the unattainable dream to the man I loved deeply. I did so many stupid things out of feeling the second one, never the one, until it didn’t make any difference…

What I didn’t know was that I would become the ephemeral muse, only not to my DJ Boyfriend, but to many others, later, having learned to pick better clothes, do the right makeup and be fatally distant. I would have pale skin, blonde hair, red lips; I would make a great first impression and that excited question “Lord, where did you come from? Where have you been all this time?”, intended as a sincere compliment, would eventually start sounding trivial to me.

Ain’t it funny how I wanted to be a muse instead of the nerdy available girlfriend that I was to the man I loved then, and how today I lament being an ethereal dream to that one person, that one…

I guess there is no quality in me that would allow anyone stay near. The ones who try, I do not need. I guess I make a perfect muse and am a master of making lives complicated 🙂

The Cold Bitch. Even my home is cold as hell and people don’t understand how I can live here. But I just dress my daughter right and endure the cold to the point of having got used to it. The matching quality of me and my milieu…

Now, as I look at that picture, at the eyes that are tired and sad and tell their own story beyond the cool smile, I can see how difficult it is for others to see past the arrogance filter. I do have that but it’s in fact a filter worth having – it helps to see who are kind and/or strong enough to disregard it, and to those people, I am #nofilter

To be a muse, it takes a heart broken so badly that it becomes resistant to most of the human emotions. To be a muse, you have to sleep alone.

Is my theory consistent? Are we made to crave things, people and events that are far away, belong to others and are bound to stay out of our reach? All things between the dream and reality tend to look so much more tempting than everything we believe we own.