The Artist

The Artist

Posted: January 6, 2006
Title: The Artist
Author: Mistress Minx
Type: RPHet, RPS
Characters: Sean/Viggo/OFC
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, only borrowed. I make no profit from this and have no idea of what their lives are really like.
Warnings: Not that I know of.
Beta: None, other than myself, although Dae reviewed it briefly. It is because of her encouragement that I am actually posting this.
Author's Notes: This story is a little out of my ordinary realm. Truthfully, I haven't the foggiest idea where this story came from. I've just been unable to get the idea out of my head, so I thought I may as well put it down on paper. Maybe it will go nowhere and people will hate it, but it just needed to be written so I can finally get some sleep.

Summary: An artist finds his muse, then loses her.

*****

I had a muse once. She inspired me when I thought there was nothing left to be inspired about. She allowed me to paint and draw and sketch, when I thought those things had been lost to me.

When I first saw her, it was early spring. I had come to New York for a gallery exhibition and my agent had rented an apartment for me. Sean and I were taking a break from one another, hence my inability to paint and sketch, and rather than return to the ranch, where so many painful memories remained, I decided to stay for a while. One late night after the exhibition, I was too wound up to sleep, so I had taken a bottle of water out onto the balcony. That's when I saw her.

She stood there silently, dressed in sweats and a tank top, her eyes open, yet seeing nothing. My first instinct was to sketch her, but I would not violate her in such a manner. I would ask permission first. I was also worried about my ability to sketch. Ever since Sean and I had separated, I had been unable to create anything. So far, every project had turned out to be a disaster.

Her black sweats sat low on her slender hips, fit her thighs slightly tighter and flared out around her ankles. She was barefoot and had the most delicate feet I had ever seen. The black spaghetti strap tank fit her snugly, emphasizing that her curves were all in the right places. She was not delicately built, yet there was something ultimately feminine about her. She was like a flower, beautiful and delicate and easily crushed.

I may be bi-sexual, preferring men generally and Sean in particular. But that doesn't mean that I can't appreciate beauty no matter where I see, even in a woman's form. But it was more than that. It was something deeper that affected me.

Her balcony was below mine and to the right, so I could see the silhouette of her face. The sadness in her eyes was unmistakable. The pain on her face so evident, it was almost palpable. My heart went out to her. Maybe it was because I was also feeling pain that I was more open to hers, or maybe it was because she didn't bother to hide her feelings that made me aware of what she was feeling. In the end, it didn't really matter. Her heart called to mine and I answered in the only way I knew how. She became my muse, the reason I wanted and needed to create again. She seemed not to belong to this world. Her face was young, but her eyes were old. Her soul seemed almost ancient.

I don't know how long I stayed there and watched her, but she finally turned and went inside, shutting out the world. I watched for her to enter or leave the building, but I never saw her during the day. I only saw her late at night as she stood on her balcony. I had watched her for weeks now, wondering what to say to her, how to approach her. I could have drawn her in my sleep, yet I resisted. Finally, I gathered my nerve and spoke to her.

"What are you waiting for?" I asked softly. At first I thought she didn't hear me. I had spoken softly so as not to frighten her, maybe too softly. But, she shrugged her shoulders almost imperceptibly. Her shoulders rose and dropped so slightly, I almost missed it. But her words struck me hard.

"Something. Everything. Nothing." She sighed softly. "I don't know. Is there anything to wait for anymore?"

I have heard of voices described as lyrical before, but I had yet to hear one. That is, until she spoke. Her voice made me think of angels and churches. It was clear as a bell, but sweet and sad. Hers was a voice that was clearly meant to sing. I thought of the old sailor's tales of sirens luring them to their deaths. Her voice had the power to do that and more. And yet, she was not singing, not even songs of sorrow or grief. Instead, silence reigned in her world.

"There is always something worth waiting for." I was always the optimist, relying on my art when acting wasn't good and relying on acting when the art wasn't so good. But I always had something to hold onto. She seemed to have nothing.

"Oh?" she replied. She turned to look at me. At first I panicked, I didn't want her to see me. I started to move back, but then I realized with the light behind me, she would be unable to see my face. I relaxed a little.

"Yes, always. There are many things to wait for, but there are also things to enjoy in the here and now, as well."

I heard her sigh again. "Why do you watch me?" she asked.

I blinked in surprise. She had never given me any indication that she had known I was there. "You knew I was watching you?" I asked in amazement.

"Yes. Why do you watch me?" she asked again.

I answered her with the only answer I was prepared to give at that time. "Because I want to sketch you, draw you and I've been trying to gather the nerve to ask your permission to do so."

She turned to look at me, leaning against the wrought iron bars of the balcony. "Draw me? Why?" She truly looked perplexed. How could a women, so beautiful, even in sorrow, not realize her own beauty.

"Because you are beautiful. Your face is so beautiful and sad at the same time. I want the world to see what I see."

"Sad, yes. Beautiful, no." She shook her head as if to emphasize her point. "Why do you want the world to see me?"

"Because your face holds such emotion that I feel the need to draw it."

She turned back around to look at the city below us. "My face is no more important than anyone else's out there. Faces everywhere hold emotion."

I didn't know what else to say to her. Her voice seemed so desolate. "Can I ask your name?"

"Rosalinda," she replied, "but most everyone calls me Rosa."

"Rosalinda," I said rolling her name off my tongue, using the Spanish accent I had developed during the filming of Alatriste. "Eso es un nombre hermoso." (That is a beautiful name.)

"Gracias. No sabía que usted habló español." (Thank you. I didn't know you spoke Spanish.)

"Yes, it's a beautiful language and I thought I detected an accent in your voice."

She turned to look at me again, a half smile formed on her face. She nodded ever so slightly. I didn't know what she was agreeing to, but her acquiescence meant something, so I forged ahead. "So, do I have your permission to draw you?"

She nodded ever so slightly. "If you must."

"I would not force you. If you would rather I not, I will not."

"So eloquently said, as if you were a knight of olden days."

I bowed to her, allowing her to draw me into her world. "My lady, it is truly your choice." Once again, I was reminded that she seemed of another world, another time. She did not belong in this modern city.

"It matters little to me. My sorrow will remain no matter your actions or mine, so if drawing me pleases you, feel free."

"I would like it if you were pleased with my drawing as well. Will you tell me why you insist that your sorrow will remain?"

For a minute she said nothing and I stood there holding my breath, waiting. "Do not ask for that which you do not want the answers to." Without another word, she turned and went inside. I heard the door slide shut and the lock click.

I began immediately. I grabbed my sketchpad and immediately began sketching her. I wanted to capture the emotions that were so deeply etched on her face. It seemed as though she had been sad her entire life, that she had never known another emotion. And yet, she must have felt happiness at some point in her life, else how would she recognize sorrow? My sketches took on a life of their own. I could become caught up in my own world when I was sketching her. Backgrounds and colors changed, but the sadness in her eyes and on her face remained.

She did not appear for many nights and I feared she had changed her mind about allowing me to draw and paint her. However, she finally appeared on the balcony, staring off into the distance as she normally did. My heart soared. I was not in love with her and yet I felt I was connected to her. I waited patiently for her to say or do something. I would not force her. I would allow her the time she so desperately seemed to need.

Her voice floated on the air to me. "How shall I stand?"

I was nearly speechless. I had expected her to tell me she had changed her mind. "As you are, my lady." I heard the soft sigh that I knew I would hear in my head for the rest of my life. The sound carried so much weight, echoing the sorrow she felt.

I grabbed paper, charcoal and pencils and began sketching. I said nothing for fear of scaring her away. I was so deeply involved in my work that her question took a moment to register.

"I've told you my name, might I expect the same courtesy?"

As the question seeped into my brain, I wondered how to answer her. Would the truth scare her? I decided not to chance it. "Victor," was my reply.

"Hmmm," was her only response. She remained standing there for a while longer, before she asked another question. "Can we be done for this evening?"

"Yes, we are done for the evening. I'm sorry, I should have noticed your exhaustion."

She merely waved her hand in dismissal of my apology and walked inside. I waited for the door to slide shut and lock. Only then, did I return to my own apartment. I never knew when she would appear, but when she did, I took full advantage of it. I began keeping my sketching and painting supplies by the door, so that when she appeared I could grab them quickly.

I never knew how long she would stay either. Sometimes she could stand there for hours and other times I would barely get started and she would ask to leave. She always asked to leave before she moved. She was always patient as I finished my work.

*****

As spring turned into summer, I continued to draw her, fascinated by my subject. She was right in one respect. Her sorrow did not dissipate, nor diminish in the least. The pain she carried with her seemed as unwavering as the sun and the moon. I did not dare ask again the cause for her sorrow. She seemed unwilling to answer before and I feared that if I asked again, she would not return.

As the days and nights grew warm and I sensed a change in her. It wasn't happiness, but a lightness that flowed through her, as though she were somehow connected to the seasons. Did I dare to ask? How could I not? I gathered my courage, but in vain, for it was weeks before I saw her again. When she reappeared, she was more tan and more relaxed, but not any less sad. I wanted to ease her suffering, but she seemed indifferent to it, as if it were part of her life that she had just accepted.

She allowed me to draw her several evenings in a row and I knew I had to ask, but I wanted to ask in such a way that her pain might be lessened. "¿Qué podría posiblemente causar a una señora hermosa tal dolor que ella pierda todo el deseo de sonreír?" ("What could possibly cause a beautiful lady such pain that she loses all desire to smile?")

"Gracias por su consideración buena, pero incluso una lengua hermosa no puede enmascarar el dolor que me siento. Si usted desea verdad saber, Le contaré mi historia triste." ("Thank you for your kind consideration, but even a beautiful language cannot mask the pain I feel. If you truly want to know, I shall tell you my sad story.")

"I would truly like to know."

"Then give me a moment." She slipped into her apartment and when she returned she held a glass in her hand. The glass contained an amber liquid and it wasn't iced tea from the grimace that crossed her face when she swallowed. After she placed her glass on a small table, she sat down in a chair and pulled her legs up. She wrapped her arms around her legs and placed her chin on her knees. I could see her taking deep breaths. Had she been standing next to me, I would have hugged her, but since I was not, I did the only thing I could do. I waited.

"I grew up in Laredo, Texas, on the western coast, bordering the Rio Grande and Mexico. My mother died when I was very young. I barely knew her. My father, the one with the Spanish heritage, raised me. He was a good father and did his best, despite not knowing what to do with a young girl. Lucky for him, I was mostly a tomboy and required very little in the way of clothes and advice on boys."

She picked up her glass and sipped it. She placed it back on the table and I watched as her eyes grew distant. A few moments later, she spoke again. "I did well in school and I seemed to have an eye for art, so I decided upon Art History for my major. I planned to attend the University of Houston. Before I began school, I traveled to San Francisco for a short vacation and to meet an old friend of mine. While I was there, I met someone. He was a scientist and researcher in Houston on vacation. He was quite a bit older than I was and we dated while I attended college. At first, my father did not approve, but eventually he understood that I loved Stephen very much. He grew to love him as I did, though they were close to the same age. I attended the University of Houston and obtained my degree. I got a job at The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston. Everything was going so well."

She drifted off again to a place only she knew and when she returned, the tears shone in her eyes and she stood up quickly. I knew it was the end of the conversation, at least for tonight. She tried to speak, but could not. I waved her off and she slipped into her apartment, shutting the door and locking it behind her. I wasn't sure when or if she'd return. I'd been crazy to think I might get the whole story out of her in one night. It would take time. Even if I saw her again, there was no guarantee she'd continue. I waited and bided my time. I saw her shadow standing at the door several times, but she did not come out. I feared she had pushed herself too far too fast, dealing with things she was not yet ready to deal with.

When I saw her again, she looked tired and withdrawn. I feared the grief was beginning to overwhelm her. She looked up at me and gave me a wan smile. How I longed to hear her laugh. I waited while she took her place at the railing. Her shoulders looked as though they bore the weight of the world on them. The weather had begun to turn cooler and she shivered slightly in the night air. After I had completely a few more sketches, I could see her shoulders drooping even more. "Thank you, I'm done for the night," I told her.

She turned around and leaned against the railing. "Would you like me to continue?"

I looked at her, surprised she was willing to continue. I nodded, then waited as she disappeared inside and returned a few moments later, again, with a drink in her hand. I said nothing as I knew my way around a bottle as well. She sat down heavily in the chair. It was the most ungraceful thing I had seen her do. It made her seem almost human, rather than the ethereal being I had come to associate her with.

"Six months after I graduated, I married Stephen. Six months later he was dead. My dad died three months before Stephen did. My whole world was taken from me. Stephen had an inoperable brain tumor, so he made sure everything was transferred to me before he died. I couldn't understand his rush at first, but suddenly everything was crystal clear. He had received the diagnosis just before our wedding, but I didn't find out until later." The tears began to flow down her cheeks unchecked. How I wished I could hold her and soothe her aching heart.

She cried for some time and I didn't interrupt. "Stephen and I didn't have a passionate love, we simply loved. I had thought love would be like that on TV and in the movies, where two people who love each other cannot keep their hands off of each other, but for Stephen and I, it was simply wonderful just to hold each other and be held. There was no urgency, just tenderness, gentle touches and warmth. Ever since he left me, it seems I am cold from the inside out."

I waited. I didn't know whether to ask questions or to let her be. Surely, she couldn't be dealing with this on her own? When she said nothing else, I knew I must ask. "What happened? Why did you leave your home?"

"I tried to stay in Houston, tried to continue working and living a normal life, but everywhere I went, every store, every restaurant reminded me of Stephen. So, I went back home to Laredo. It was no better there. I tried Dallas as well, but that was just as miserable. So I decided to leave. I wanted a place I could lose myself while I waited for the light to return to my life."

"And you are still waiting?" I asked gently.

"Yes, it seems as though I will wait forever. There is no more light or color in my life. I want warmth and happiness and sunshine, and it seems I am doomed to spend the rest of my life wandering in the dark."

I said nothing. She seemed so distant and withdrawn, how could I possibly encourage her. How could I, who seemed to have problems with my own life, help her? My mind wandered to Sean. How had things gotten so bad between us? When she spoke, it was as though she sensed my thoughts.

"You are in love with someone and yet you are not together? Why is that?"

I cleared my throat. How to explain my situation without giving away all the details? I decided to put things as simply as I could. "Our careers seem to have moved us in different directions."

"You let your career interfere with the one you love?" she asked, almost snarling. "Do you know what I would give for one more day with Stephen, one more hour to tell him how much I loved him?"

I sighed heavily. She had a point. "I know, but the longer it goes on. . ."

"The longer you let it go on, the worse it will get, I agree, but no matter what, if you love someone, you can work it out. There is always hope." Her voice caught in her throat. "There has to be." Her voice softened. "I believe that. I have to because if not, then I am truly lost."

I sat there stunned at her ability to put it so simply. Then I chuckled. How alike she and Sean were. Neither one minced words and both had the ability to take such complicated matters and make them simple. "My lover would like you. His views are much the same as yours. Everything with him is black and white. He doesn't believe in shades of gray. I sense you are the same."

I was rewarded with a true smile. The only one I had seen these past eight months. Her smile was brilliant. It could light the darkest of nights. Sean would have truly found her as beautiful as I did. We bid each other good night and I went in to make the hardest phone call of my life. In the end, Sean and I would be alright. We would work things out, no matter what. We talked all night. I had missed his voice and missed him. We finally decided that Sean would fly to New York that weekend. I wanted him to meet Rosalinda, my muse.

However, when I opened the door in the morning to retrieve the paper, there was an envelope. I knew it would be from her. She was gone. The letter she left broke my heart.

"Viggo,

To answer your question, yes, I have known who you were almost since the beginning. Please do not feel sorry for me. Mine is a burden that only I should bear. I appreciate your kindness. Even the fact that you watched me was an act of kindness. It made me realize that not everyone has given up hope. There is love and light in the world. I must find mine again. I cannot bear the thought of winter here, dark and dreary and so reminiscent of my own feelings. And so I must go. I must continue to search for the warmth I cannot yet feel. Maybe someday you and I will cross paths again. If we do, I hope that I will have found what I am looking for. I hope that you will have found what you have been searching for as well. Do not let him go. Do not ever let him forget for one moment how much you love him.

Love,
Rosalinda."

In the spring, I had another gallery exhibit. Sean stood proudly by my side, handsome in his tuxedo, his green eyes sparkling with love and light. Most of my recent paintings featured Rosalinda in some way. I had visited Laredo and Houston to paint the landscape. I wanted it to be as accurate as possible. There was a need to not betray her or her history. I thought I saw her at the exhibit, but when I looked again, she was gone. I don't know if she was really there, or if I only imagined her there because I wanted her to be there. If she was there, I hope she was pleased with what she saw.

My favorite picture, the one that now hangs in the living room of the house that Sean and I share, is Rosalinda, standing at the balcony. I entitled the painting "Waiting." Sean had fallen in love with the picture and while we had decided to place it at the exhibit, I knew that I would not sell it, ever, so I presented it to him as a gift. It simply echoed our feelings during the time we had been apart. It also reminded us daily how much we loved each other.

I hope that Rosalinda, wherever she is, is no longer waiting. That she has found love, light, laughter and happiness. She deserves the warmth of the sun shining on her face.

*****

THE END

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