Читать книгу The Master and The Muses - Amanda Mcintyre - Страница 6

I HAVE BEEN CALLED MANY THINGS—RECKLESS, arrogant, perverted, self-absorbed and, my personal favorite, an artist of the “fleshy school.” Perhaps these allegations are true; I do not deny them, but to those stifled critics of my work, I turned a deaf ear and listened instead to the beat of my heart, the siren song of my passion.

Had I listened to the naysayers of my work, to the critics who sought to box in my genius, my very soul, I daresay I would not have taken up a single brush.

In truth, I believe the critics are correct in their assessment of my incorrigible behavior. Daring to be different was, and is still, the very essence of my creativity. I am nothing if not tenacious in my beliefs, and proud to be so.

These would-be art connoisseurs know nothing of true art. Their view is monocular, dull and lifeless, linear and plain. It does not see the emotion of a woman’s faint blush of arousal, of her cheeks in bloom at seeing her beloved, of her eyes bright and shining in the afterglow of passion. No, to paint such beauty, one must experience it, feel it and grasp it. No classroom, no stack of books can teach these things.

Despite my parents’ wishes, I was not destined to be a religious man. Rather, I consider myself a spiritualist, a believer in karma more so than doctrine. My passion lies in the tip of my brush, but my inspiration is women. They are my muses. I ask you, what creature in all the earth epitomizes such beauty and grace? Many artists have tried to capture the beauty of this world. Even so, there are few things more persuasive than the delicate color of a woman’s flesh. What could be more inspiring than the soft curve of her shoulder poised to carry the burdens of her world or the pout of her sumptuous mouth determined to carry those burdens with dignity?

Rescued from the mundane existence of their lives, my muses needed no coercion. Fame, independence, appreciation—that is what I gave them in return.

My pulse quickens to think of our conversations, the wine we drank, the free-spirited love we made. I was asked once if I ever loved one more than the other? To that I say, how can a man love only his arm, and not his leg, or his eye, or his mouth? I loved each one for the life she breathed into me, inspiring my work. But I could no more hold them to me forever than I could hold a sunbeam.

Reality and art, in many ways, are one. To my moral censors, I ask how could I not fall in love with each of my muses? Each represents a part of my soul. No, to each one I was utterly and completely a devoted slave.

Did they know this? It will not add to my days to know that answer. Life, love—it is what it is. I was both their savior and their sin. I rescued them from the ordinary, redeemed them with the stroke of my brush.

In my quest to capture the perfect image, I may not have been aware of all that my muses had to endure. But I offered them new worlds, new adventures. If that makes me a selfish bastard, then I accept my guilt with open arms.

Do I have regrets? What good Italian does? The bad has given me a better appreciation for the good. The good reminds me that while it is welcome, it is also fleeting. I have tasted the cup of life and offer no apologies.

To you, my muses, I raise my evening port. You have fueled my imagination and lust. Without your inspiration, I would not be the man I am. Helen, my innocent, fervent in your private desires. Sara, my socialite, always reaching for more. And Grace, in saving you, I saved myself.

I am forever slave, mentor and pupil to your inspiration,

Thomas.