The Artist & The Wake

   All he ever wanted to do was paint. For awhile he had allowed his desire to paint to consume him, rejecting anything and everything else in his life as being of little to no importance.

   It was during that period of his life that he met the woman he decided was his muse. She was small in stature, but large in personality, and seemed to emanate an aura of goodwill and happiness. 

   He met her at an exhibition of his work being held in a warehouse that had been converted into a large number of small studios and featured a very large gallery space, which allowed the artists in residence to sell their works and pay rent as well as contribute to a general fund that was designed to pay for advertising and other necessities for the gallery's operations.

   She had been staring at one of his larger surrealist pieces, and was tilting her head far to the left when he first caught sight of her.

   She spied him staring at her and tilted her head back up and then turned to face him. "You're the artist, are you not?" She more stated than asked. He nodded, caught off guard by her candor and directness.

   I like the colors you use, bright and bold, full of life. The subject matter is somewhat derivative - religion and sexuality? Been peeking at one of Dali's old portfolio's?"

   "Well, uhm," He stammered. "Yes, I confess I am greatly influenced by Dali's early works, especially the period right after he met Picasso and Miro in Paris and became aware of Tanguy's landscapes."

   "Nice of you to owe up to that - one meets an overwhelming number of artists who refuse to admit they have been influenced by anyone, they all want to be seen as unique and original, which of course in this day and age of the recorded and reprinted mediums, is next to impossible."

   He nodded his head in agreement with her statement, and immediately felt as if he was being mesmerized by her words - words that could have been his words, too.

   He had often thought that was his one and only true premonition.

   Premonition or not, as he stared at the program in his hands the feeling seemed to wash over him just as it had that day 34 years ago. It was as if he had been hurled back in time to that exact moment when he first met her and was hearing her speak for the very first time. He involuntarily trembled slightly as the memory shock crashed right through him.

   For not the first time today, and certainly not for the last time, tears welled up in his eyes. Dabbing at his eyes with a damp kerchief, he looked over the gathering crowd, and he seemed to recognize everyone. 

   Robert was over there, looking like a homeless street urchin. Next to him stood his wife (3rd or 4th, he couldn't recall). She was sipping from a tall fluted glass. There were three men to the left of her, all vaguely familiar but all also not quite recognizable. He thought one of them might have been an early patron.

   Suddenly a person was at his side. "Quinn, are you doing okay? I know this has got to be harder than hell for you, but you really should come into the larger parlor and receive some of the guests. Her brother and younger sister are here, and so are several of her old friends, ones you two knew in Brittany all those years ago."

   "Yes, you're right Stephen, I must. It's just, I needed a little air. She was everything to me, you know, and though I know I will manage eventually, I'm just having a little of a rough go of it at the moment."

   "I understand Quinn, truly I do." Take as much time as you need, but if you need to lean on someone, I'm here for you."

   "Thanks Stephen, you are a great friend. It's an odd thing, you know, surviving her. I mean, what exactly is an artist supposed to do when his muse dies first?"