My Favourite Muse

From the author of For the Love of Picasso and the Solar Eclipse

  My Favourite Muse

  Atabo Mohammed

  Copyright 2012 Atabo Mohammed

  PROLOGUE

  One of the greatest gifts in disguise God has given men, I think, is keeping unknown the knowledge of the future. A terrible thing that could be, especially if the future is foreseen to be ugly.

  I mean, only a handful of people survive beyond the time after a doctor’s prediction of their deaths. Convicts sentenced to death show little bravery especially at the time they are masked ten seconds before they hit the gallows, or get electrocuted, or injected. And if people would be allowed to choose the way they die, I bet most would love to die in their sleep.

  I used to believe death is man’s most hateful predicament and should come after at least two hundred years after birth― a time when he is completely useless.

  It’s said that pain can make someone beg for the mercy of death. I didn’t believe that, not in my entire life. But I was proven wrong!

  One person proved me wrong and I accepted defeat without question. She died with a smile on her face, clasping my hand; and worse, I found myself saying ‘go in peace; be free’ after she died

  I didn’t shed a tear for her until I finished painting her smiling dead face.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I am a landscape artist: that means I fall in love with most of the scenes I see while walking on the streets of Cardiff.

  I think I see things differently unlike how others do. And my eyes were artistically engineered to detect a virtual beauty in things most people find displeasing. I sketch down scenes on the go without minding people’s pokey glances at my sketches to tell me whether or not I got them right. I love what I do and I’ve been doing it for a while now.

  My room smells of oil paint and turpentine. Mom keeps her distance because the combination of those two media makes her drowsy; she hates the smell and I don’t see why she shouldn’t. I mean, the pungency annoys me too, sometimes.

  “Linseed is friendlier; smells a little pleasant. You should be using it instead of this suffocating thing.” She once told me. “One day you’ll find me dead on that floor.” And she walked away in her usual fast footsteps. Whenever she says that, I usually don’t retort. It’s better not to in order not to risk an argument which usually doesn’t end up good.

  Whenever mother turns bitter, I leave. I walk long distances without even thinking how far I am away from home; and from her. But in the actual sense, I'm not running away from mother; I'm merely giving her some space to 'nurse' the temperament usually caused by occasional fiascos revolving between her employer, the job and herself. Ever since my disappearance became a routine, I found out that the farther I walk, the longer I stay away and the best the silence calms her down. And whenever I come back, she'll be there waiting for me with a worried face. But again, those walks weren't just premises to give mother some space; I benefitted more from them. My walks gave birth to the magnanimous interest of becoming a scene artist. As I walk, I make stops at places to put down sketches.

  I draw almost everything: from people walking on the streets, to kids playing at the park, to street lights, women jogging along with their dogs, canoes by the Lake, pigeons, statues, homeless and destitute, cars, trees, malls, night clubs, and the list goes on. I painted those things I sketched when I get home. Even my mom's favourite apron has a painting on it―one she'd always say was the 'best, meaningful' picture I ever created.

  I don’t get confused by the zillions of things on the streets I find worthy of sketching. Matter of fact, it gives me pleasure to think my art life would never be boring because there are many things to put down on canvas.

  Night time isn't an exception. Certain objects are best painted in a night scene; I specifically love how the night's aura gently fades colours out of objects in the late evenings, and cast shadows in the moonlight. A painting I once made of three drunken women leaving the 4II club was one of my favourites; it had long shadows and the craze and the wildness of drunkenness and the neon lights. It's been my first love for months when I finished it; an excellent brilliant piece of art to look at all times.

  It was during one of such walks that I made a discovery about another side of life different from the one I'm used to in my world. That world is of reality and fact, whose event swept by in the cruel whims of speedy time, defying every miracle man and technology tried to create just to stop the event from happening. It was the time I met Pam.

  It was a beautiful afternoon; cold but beautiful. The clear skies and still air made all colours appeared soft, still and vivid. I waited patiently for mother to come back from work; and thank God she did just when I was about to start grumbling. She walked into the house a little cheerful, so I don't have to be forced to take a long walk to give her some space.

  "A beautiful day isn't it, Bradley?" She smiled, working on the strips of her grey apron. "Though I'm getting less used to the cold."

  "It's September; we are not into winter yet." I stuffed the pack of my pencil colour into my bag.

  "I know, son. I guess I'm getting older. Up for a walk, I hope?" Her hands were now tying her hair.

  "Yes." I said. "And Molly called; she said you were..."

  "Supposed to meet at Tyler’s for lunch; I know. Don’t worry I’ll give her a call. Now up you go."

  There’s something in her eyes when she said that. It hung in her voice too. She was curt in her words, sounding unusually dismissive. I suspected she has something up her sleeve. I had wanted asking her but dropped it. I wouldn't want a prolong conversation for I need the moment of the day to capture some scenes. So I walked to the door.

  "Don't stay late, Bradley."

  "Brad." I reminded her. She gave a little smile; a cynical gesture that tells me I'm wasting my breath especially that my 5”7 frame doesn't faze her a bit; to her, I was a few hours old last night and fifteen years old just this morning.

  I walked out a normal person on a normal day; dozens of places to pick flipping through my mind; but at the same time, putting considerations on the weather and the objects whose colours would be more vivid and appealing to my vision and spirit.

  The people on the streets look happy, which overruled the fact that I was the only one that thought same about the day. Happiness was something I would like to reflect in today's sketches, but not from people's faces. I wished that to come from scenes I would to capture.

  In landscape painting, the skies are contributing factors to the 'mood' of the environment. The brighter the skies, the gayer the scene would look. Yellow sun changes a lot of things ranging from colours to 'activity' of the objects in the scene. Generally, it's like the role lights play in a movie shot; adding gay and glamour that scenes devoid of lights would lack.

  So I walked, thinking. The Bay would have been better but it's too far from where I was. The weather was unpredictable, could change before I get there and that would be devastating. Such kind of work could be worthless when the precise moment elapses. Roath Park came to mind.

  I chose Roath Park because of some reasons. One, I love it; It’s my favourite place in Cardiff and everything about it is beautiful. I have quite a good number of paintings I made from the park; and to me, the scenes to capture in there are inexhaustible. It has everything I need as a landscape artist; parks, lawns, Victorian houses, lake views, wildlife, you name it.

  Today, I could use the Lake; water adds brightness when it reflects off light from the skies. The boats and the Rose garden would look perfect at this time. So I walked to the park; it took me twenty minutes.

  It was the Rose garden I first went to and I found nothing exciting there. Though I thought of getting an angle to capture a part with
a few people in it, but dropped the idea. So I proceeded through, looking for spots and scenes to see if I could get something better. I ended up at the Lake.

  I stood by the cafe, looked around but still couldn’t get something appealing. As a matter of fact, I had a quite number of sketches I made from around that area especially the boats stand, the Scott Memorial Lighthouse, the gardens and many more. But just when I was about to change my destination, I saw her!

  She sat in one of the boats feeding swans with a big smile on her face. She seemed to be about my age; slim, pale and blonde; and what's more attractive about her was the attire. She was wearing a white leather jacket over a white turtleneck sweater and sky-blue jean pants. The swans, the clothes and hair all combined to make the picture kind of ecclesiastic; pretty.

  She fed the birds gently; throwing the feeds into the water and grinning when the birds pick them up with their beaks and raised their little heads up as they swallow. She was alone and obviously happy with the swans or with what she's doing, or both.

  I watched. And for a moment, forgot what I came to the park to do. It was a breath taking picture temporary created by nature itself without the subjects involved having any idea how pretty they look.

  Sometimes, I look at women through a mental eye which then paints either an angelic or a devilish picture out of them. And I kind of find it useful, especially when I'm trying to create an abstraction using facial moods as centre of interest. But that moment when I stood watching the girl, I know I don't have to employ the use of a mental eye to analyse her. Instinctively, I knew the picture was perfect; magical.

  I had it in mind not to make sketches of people with happy faces when I left home, but I forgot about that completely. So I dropped my bag, fished out my sketch book and set to work.

  There are challenges associated with scene sketching especially if there are moving objects in the scene that have to be captured. It's much easier in photography where a ‘set-and-click’ technique works perfectly. That's not so in sketching. To get it right, speed is paramount; the faster you can draw; the better for you.

  I have no problem with speed, neither do I have problem with figure drawing; and luckily for me, the movements weren’t that much. The girl sat still in the small boat, throwing the chips gently into the water. The most movements came from the birds as they rumbled over the floating feeds. That meant I had to deal with her little movements as she feeds the birds and the swift movements of the swans as they wrestle to grab bites. I managed; and in a short time, I was able to put down sketches of what my eyes saw.

  But something happened: I had my eyes on my sketchbook one second, and the next second when I raised my head up to look at the girl, I saw something different; someone different.

  She was still; had stopped feeding the birds and the big smiling face had turned into a stout, grim expression. I don't know how to explain the expression precisely, but it looked as if a sudden emotional pain, so big, had crashed on her little heart. The light that was on her face in a moment, had been sucked away by grimness; she looked darker. I watched with my mouth opened.

  The birds floated on water with their heads up at her, waiting for a catch. But she stared back unpleasantly at them. It seemed everything had gone still for a moment; I kept watching as she remained in that state. Then it looked as if she sensed she's been watched, she jolted her head up and starred at my direction, then at me.

  Ok, I have a flaw when it comes to girls; shyness was it, which I think, sometimes culminates to fear. Many times I tried keeping my distance from them because of my inability to stand them, except perhaps my mother. She is the only one I can stand, I think; and that's because I live with her all my life. I had no idea what was going to happen the next few minutes when she caught me starring at her; but the way she looked at me with that face, I just settled for the worse. And the worse did happen.

  She stood up; got out of the boat, walked out to the bank and advanced towards my direction (she accomplished all that in a few seconds).

  The swans scattered away on her violent movement. I watched her, my mouth still opened as she walked briskly round. Just ten steps before reaching me, I noticed her fist rolled up into a clench and I thought an upper-cut would be her way of saying hi.

  "Who are you; why are you looking at me." She demanded when she got to me; her clenched fists now propped on her slim waist. I didn't answer. "Are you deaf?"

  "I wasn't looking at you."

  "Liar!" She was right on that one. Her eyes went to my sketch book, and then to my eyes. "What's that?"

  Before I knew it, she snatched the book from me. "Hey, what are you..." I scrambled up to my feet. "You don't have the right to do that. That's mine."

  "You were drawing me." She said, "Did I give you a permission to do that?"

  "I don't need your permission to make sketches." I retorted.

  "What! Oh; what an idiot."

  "Did you just call me an idiot?"

  "You heard me, idiot!" She looked at the sketch again. "It doesn't even look like me. You are such an amateur artist; your drawings make a mess of people's faces. Look at this." She scoffed, distorting her face like she had a piece of damp garbage in her hand.

  Then the unexpected came; she tore off the page.

  "What the hell are you doing? Hey, stop; that's my sketch." I almost screamed.

  "It's mine now. I'm going home to burn it. I won't let this ugly drawing go an inch away from here. I'm pretty and would like to remain so even in some piece of art. I wouldn't want an amateur, idiot artist to paint an ugly picture of me and sell it to some dumb art collectors." She squeezed the paper and stuffed it in her jacket pocket.

  "You can't do that."

  "Well, I just did." She flicked her tongue at me.

  I watched her walked briskly away. I felt something burning in my chest; I burnt with it. A little distance away, she turned, did the tongue thing again and walked on.

  The only fair judgement she must face was to be brutally murdered, by me! That's my thought.

  I got home, angry and embarrassed, all caused by my inability to stand up to a crazy demon and to accomplish what I went out to do.

  Mother saw the change of mood in me. She was sitting with Molly on the dining table. They stopped talking and observed me when I got in. I bet I looked like someone that fell into a stinking mud in public on a Christmas morning.

  "Are you alright?" Molly asked.

  "Fine! I'm just fine." I waved them off, took the stairs to my room, threw the backpack on the floor and sat on the bed. Bloody hell!

  I rubbed my face to shake off the embarrassment streaming through my system, then stood up and started pacing. Anger rising in me as pictures of her annoying face flashed on my mind. The way she tore off the page from the sketchbook was killing. Those unpleasant thoughts provoked a violent reaction: I kicked at my reading desk so hard that it toppled sideways to the left, sending all the books, the red can of pencils and the lamp on it off to the floor. It also hit my wooden easel, bringing it and the stretched canvas on it all down. A rattling sound followed.

  "Bradley! You better keep that down." I heard mother's voice screaming from downstairs. I didn't answer. I know she knew something was wrong with me; someone or something had made me angry; and she also knew how violent my reaction can be. That's why she made no effort to come up and see what object fell victim.

  I sat on the bed again; calmed myself; looked down at the damage I've done and felt like I didn't care. The sprawled books, pencils, broken lamp, toppled easel and canvas were all collateral damages― a natural phenomenon in most violent situations.

  A little calmed, I took up my bag from the floor and brought out the sketch book. If not for the carelessly torn page, it looks ok. The page before still had tracing marks from the sketch torn off. I observed the mark tracing carefully, anger began to flow back again and I threw the book, it fell on the canvas.

  I'm going home to burn it.... I wouldn't w
ant an amateur, idiot artist to paint an ugly picture of me and sell it to some dumb art collectors.

  Those words screamed unpleasantly loud in my head. The insult was too much to endure. I shook my head, looked at the sketch book again for a moment and an idea began to fall in view.

  “I'm not an idiot. And I'm not amateur. And my collectors are not dumb.”

  I stood up, put the easel and the canvas back in place, fished for a piece of charcoal from the sprawled pencils on the floor and began sketching.

  “Your picture is going to be really ugly.” I muttered through gritted teeth

  Artistic visions of objects come with different kinds of emotions. The concept of picture making is generous enough to be submissive to the artist's wishes and he expresses it in that manner. This is true about almost all paintings; and that's the reassuring thought that cooled me off when I began making the sketch on canvas.

  Somewhere in town, I thought, the girl would be standing before a roaring fireplace in some Victorian home with my sketch in her hand, ready to burn it. She can do that, but she cannot burn me nor my talent; thank God.

  This painting will be exhibited to thousands in Cardiff and the world; and it's going to be ugly.