A Flash of Jazz Story - The Artist

 

Paul stood before the blank canvas as he smoked his third cigarette within an hour. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his empty hand. He had nothing. After all these years of crawling through muck and insults, he finally became one of the top artists in the country. He adored the fame and the riches that came from pieces that he created, yet he had no idea it would all come crashing down around him. He opened his eyes and took a long drag off his cigarette, then blew the smoke at the canvas that silently cried out to him to be used. Use me, the canvas wailed. Put your mark on me, for god's sake, and don't think too hard about it. You're a master, or have you forgotten? Paul nodded to himself, agreeing with the desperate voice. He glanced down at his paints and brushes and for a moment, wondered what they were. What in the hell was he doing? He finished his cigarette and then threw it into his extremely cold cup of green tea that he neglected to drink this morning. Paul raised a hand, turned it into a fist, and gently knocked on the canvas. Hello, he whispered, are you there? Are you listening to me? I-I can't do it anymore. He hung his head. Just then, someone opened the door of his warehouse studio, followed by the sound of someone walking toward him. He allowed himself a grin as he turned around to find Rachel staring at him with her arms crossed over her chest. She didn't look happy to see him and if he were in her shoes, he wouldn't be happy to see himself either. So, she said in a clipped tone, I see you're still nowhere near ready, Paul. She paused, waiting for him to say something, anything, then she sighed and reached for his pack of cigarettes. She lit one and blew a perfect ring over her head. Paul, she asked as she picked off a flake of tobacco from her bottom lip, why do you think I continue to give you money? Paul shrugged his shoulders, even though he knew the answer or at least her answer. I give you money, she went on, because I've always believed in you. When I was once your student at the Academy oh so long ago, I knew that you weren't like us mere mortals. Paul laughed at that, then took his cigarettes from her and lit one up. So why this? Why now? Paul didn't trust his voice to answer a question that demanded an answer. Finally, he sighed and replied, She's not here anymore. Rachel cocked her head to the side and asked, Who? Paul grinned, showing off his tea-stained teeth. My Muse, he replied, is gone. She left me last night. Vanished without a trace. Rachel placed a hand on his bony shoulder and squeezed it. We all have our pesky Muses, Rachel replied in an understanding tone, but they are only there to get us to take that first step. Once we're moving, then they leave us. That's how it is. Paul shrugged off her hand and replied in a heated tone, no you don't understand. My Muse is not the result of smoking too much opium or jabbing my arm with a needle. She's real. I saw her. In fact, she's been my lover for many years. She came to me through a dream one evening and since then, has stayed with me to give me the colours I needed. He took a long drag and blew the smoke out haphazardly. We had a fight, he continued, over something stupid. I told her that I no longer believed in her. That she was nothing more than a terrible figment of my imagination. She cried and lemme tell ya something, you don't know pain until you've seen a creature as wonderful and beautiful as that cry. I felt my heart shattering. Paul took another drag and then whispered, so now she's gone and the husk remains. Rachel smoked in silence, refusing to say anything about what her former teacher was telling her. Was he delirious or perhaps dehydrated? Rachel placed her half-smoked cigarette in his teacup, then moved several paces from him. Yes, she thought as she gave him a full view, he did look like a husk. Drained and bereft of colour. Well, she said after coughing, perhaps you need a vacation, a time to rest and recharge. Paul stared at her as if she'd suddenly grown horns. A simple vacation won't undo the damage I've created, he spat out in frustration. You don't get it! None of you do! He turned to face the blank canvas, then took several tubes of paint and squirted them all over the white surface. He laughed as his desperation fueled him now. Rachel watched with fascination as a painting began to emerge from the canvas. Yes, she thought as a smile curled her lips, he never needed a Muse. Paul cried as he added more paint, then used his brush to give life to the colours. Suddenly, he felt two cool hands massaging his temples, followed by a soft lip kiss on the back of his neck. 

Dedicated to all the artists of the Universe. Special dedication to my friend, Rachel.

Inspirational jazz artists - John Coltrane, Art Blakey, Miles Davis, and Duke Ellington.

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