Chapter 218:
The Artist’s Muse
Chris’s Viewpoint:
I feel so out of place in my casual attire; the colors of the art studio are very loud and seem to be assaulting you. Such a strangeness, though, that I’m outside this location in the confines of the city; this is Megan’s idea, and even being very skeptical, I can’t at all miss the aura this place is throwing. Inside its doors, the studio sang with life, with a chaotic mass of paintings, sculptures, and whatnot that had found a home.
“Megan, this place is amazing,” I said, turning to her as she walked next to me, her eyes now wide open in an amazement.
“I know, right? It feels like you walk into another world,” she replied, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
As we wandered about the studio, I could not but think of the odd calm that was enveloping me at that moment. It felt like a precious respite from the turmoil that we, along with the phony relationship, were engaging in day in and day out in front of other people. For once, we felt that we could be ourselves freely, with no judgment or expectation.
“Oh, look at this one,” Megan hollered over. And then she pointed at the immense canvas that depicted a stormy sea with a single ship fighting the waves.
“That’s intense,” I mumbled and approached to observe the brush work. “Kind of reminds me of us.”
Megan laughed. Her laugh was just that kind of sound that made my day feel a bit better. “Yeah, I guess we are that ship sometimes, huh?”
Before I could reply, a voice joined in our conversation. “Admiring the work, I see.” We turned around to find ourselves staring at a menacingly tall man of an artist’s description. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, and his jaw was firm. Messy dark hair framed his head in a disheveled manner, a smudge resting on one cheek for good measure, just to accent his rugged charm. “I’m Max,” he said, taking my hand in his, “the one with the paint-covered fingers behind that piece.”
“Megan,” she said, shaking his offered hand. “And this is Chris.”
I nodded, feeling an inexplicable connection to this stranger. “It’s an amazing painting. You really captured the struggle and determination.”
Max’s eyes glinted with a hint of amusement. “Thanks. I try to put a lot of emotion into my work.”
As we conversed with Max, I couldn’t help noticing the way Megan’s eyes would light up whenever she talked about something to do with art. This was a side to her that I had not really seen before, and it still made me realize how much more there was to her that I did not know.
“What brings you two here?” His gaze darted from me to her.
Megan paused for a second before answering. “I don’t know; just have to take the break, I suppose. This place seems like an escape.”
Max nodded thoughtfully. “Art tends to do that; it can take you to another place, help you see another perspective.”
His words sparked in me. As a ghostwriter, I was always after feasible dimensions, new ways to tell the single story. Maybe, indeed, there was something to learn.
“Do you mind if we watch you work?” I found myself asking on impulse.
Max’s eyes widened just slightly before he controlled himself. “Certainly not. Follow me.”
We followed Max into the most removed area of the studio, where he already had his easel situated, along with his palette and paints. The canvas before him was still yet to be touched, still pure under the first stroke of color.
“Do you always begin this way-with the blank canvas?” asked Megan, curiosity taking over in her voice.
Max nodded. “Yeah. Always. It’s like starting a new journey every single time. You never know where it will take you.”
As Max began painting, I watched in fascination as the image began to take form. His brushstrokes were bold and confident; each brushstroke added more depth and emotion to a canvas. It was mesmerizing watching an artist at work, making something so beautiful from nothing.
“Do you ever get nervous?” I mumbled, firmly keeping my eyes fixed on the painting.
“Sometimes,” Max admitted. “But I’ve learned to trust the process. You gotta be willing to take risks, to make mistakes. That’s how you grow.”
His words hit closer to home. Writing, as with painting, also meant risking yourself, your rawest self, basically putting your heart out. And there he had hit a sore point. That was why I had problems, especially with Megan. But perhaps, I could learn to stand that way.
Afternoon turned into latter afternoon as Max painted and Megan and I just sort of talked at him. We talked about almost everything: from art to life to personal problems. It was refreshing just to have such an open discussion with another person down here.
“Max, can I ask you something?” Megan said, suddenly, hesitantly.
“Okay,” he looked up from his painting.
“But how do you know when a piece is finished? How do you know when it’s perfect?”
Max grinned, his smile gentle and understanding. “It’s not ever perfect. There’s always something you can work on, something you can change. But somewhere along the line you just put it down and move on to the next piece. Perfection is an illusion.”
His words hung there in the air, and I could see it striking Megan. She had always been a perfectionist about everything. Maybe she could learn to let go and embrace the imperfections.
As the sun began to set-casting a generous, warm light in the studio-Max was just finishing the painting. It was a stunning image, definitely, that wedged inside the essence of his emotions.
“Wow,” Megan had said, her eyes wide with admiration. “It’s incredible.”
“Thanks,” Max replied, wiping his hands on a rag. “But it’s just a painting. The real beauty is in the process; in the journey.”
His words spoke to me, and I found myself knowing that our journey, our process, through the whole thing had to be as important as the final product. Maybe in some ways then, beauty did appear in our imperfections, the struggles, and challenges that came before us.
As we left the studio, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of hope and possibility. Maybe this fake relationship with Megan wasn’t so fake after all. Maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of something real, something beautiful.
“Thank you for today, Chris,” she said as we walked back to her car.
“Anytime,” I answered with a smile. “I’m happy we came here. It was. eye-opening.”
Megan nodded, seeming to look back on it. “Yes, that it was. Max truly is an amazing artist. And his words really got me thinking.”
“I felt that too,” I admit, “Maybe there is something to be learned from him, about the way he cherishes the journey and perhaps finds beauty in the imperfection.”
Megan’s eyes stayed locked with mine, a mixture of emotions swirling in them. “Maybe so.”
Who knows, maybe that fake love can be something real?