“Stand still.” those words they boomed across the room repeatedly like a clock striking twelve. “You need to be still,” Edward repeated as he held the camera in the precise location. Her long black hair was clasping the floor as she arched herself off the old green sofa as to angle herself in the direct sunlight.
People had told her that he was a madman when it came to his art, but she had no idea that Mad meant her holding herself in complete composure for almost an hour. “Stand still.” his magnetic lonesome voice called to her once more. She had become enchanted by his work, and as she sat there arched and motionless but vibrant in motion, she began to remember the first day she had come across his penmanship.
That evening was different from all other charity events her mother forced her to attend. There was a vibrancy in the air. One could feel the change of season in the music and food served, but most importantly one could see it in the new artist’s works. “Ladies and gentlemen now for the excellent works of Edward Le Frère a young artist all the way from a meniscal village in France. He has apprenticed with Morello, a great artist as we know.” Sir Davinder had announced as they began to circle the vibrant works of a madman.
The brush strokes they screamed for attention. Such vigour’s efforts of paint on canvas, right then it should have been apparent that this was no man to trifle with but how could one be denied the powerful emotions that the work evoked not to know where its originator transpired.
Dedra was completely enchanted by the painting of the women sitting so still as if nearing one’s death but yet so beautiful and full of life couldn’t help but want to know where such a masterful piece of art had emerged. For once these lavished affairs had not amounted to pointless talents and banter of verbosity over trivial undertakings. She had found her life’s mission as she stared into the ladies eyes.
She remembered how that evening had become a composition of the ladies Champaign gossip creating the portrait of the madman. Who was this artist and why had he not attended his showcase? The portrait of a lady there it stood tall and full of so much poetry, did it not tell her who he was? Did the lady not reveal to her that he was not to be trifled with and most of all not one to boast of his work?
“You must be still.” his French voice boomed across the way pulled her from the recollection of the past and all the ideas she had misleadingly consumed to create a piece of art out of him. Her long black hair touched the floor once more as she arched her back for his new wave of art.
She was to become the new portrait through his new found interest in photography he wanted to paint her into something she was much not qualified for nor could obtain. You see her eyes didn’t hold a story nor did her face say that she was vibrantly dead. She was too alive for him. As much as time passed, she was just too alive to hold still as the ladies did.
The Madman and the misguided art enthusiast both weaving pieces of art out of falsely painted portraits of one another. Oh, how the trivial errors of life amuse one’s soul.