Confessions Of An Artist
She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Her hair of dark chestnut and tropically tanned skin; her lips always having that curious smile as if a mystery is being unfold. Her eyes, I could go on about them, about how dark and deep they were, about how her dark black eyes twinkle every time I flash the light. She is perfect.
But it’s not just her tanned skin and dark eyes that attracts me. It is her presence, her sublimity, her modesty, her surrender that draws me to her like the Earth to the Sun. And just like those two celestial bodies, we can NEVER touch. Rather, I can never touch her. But then again, I need her and I need to use her. She is my muse. And I am a photographer- an artist, I like to call myself. She’s there in everything I do.
Do you know it feels to look in the eyes of someone so perfect? To have her by your side every morning and every night? A part of me is jealous, another part always wants me to freeze as many moments with her as possible and then show those pictures to my friends and colleagues like they are my precious rubies, only for true champions. I think I’m mostly amazed by her.
She likes to play the piano, in the studio, with her long slender fingers, touching every note on her way. Beethoven is her favorite.
A few nights back I was woken up at 3 in the morning by her sinful melodies. I ran down the stairs, my eyes flushing with fury and sleeplessness. When I stepped into my studio, I saw her there, sitting in her red robe – waiting for me.
“What are you doing at this hour?” I demanded.
She looked up from the piano and turned her head. The lights in the room had somehow synchronized with each other and had formed a playful canvas of light and shadow. A part of her face was hidden in the shadow, only her forehead and her eyes were in the light. She tilted her head and I could see her smile. And in that moment all the rage and fury in my heart gave way to something more sinful and evil- lust for the woman.
“I’m just playing with the notes. Did you like it?” Her voice innocent like a school girl waiting for her teacher’s approval.
“Yes, of course. It was very good. Could you stay there for a moment? Yes, like that.” I requested.
Then quickly brought my equipment and positioned them. Click and flash. Another moment captured.
Two days later at work, I showed my friend Sunil the photos I had taken of that night.
“Look, that’s her, that’s the woman I keep telling you about.” I said with enthusiasm.
He scanned through the photos and looked a bit surprised.
“What is it?” I asked.
“That is a very good-looking piano. What do you call ‘Her’?” Sunil laughed.
“Nothing. Look at her not just the piano. Wait, can’t you see her? There she is.” I look confused.
More laughter and then silence.
I have now been told that she is not REAL. That she is just a piece of my imagination; a fragment of an artist’s mind.
No. They are wrong. I can see her now, sitting near the piano, reading a book. And she is beautiful.
No. They are wrong.
She is real, she has to be. They can’t see how beautiful she is. Such beauty can never be a fragment of a human mind. Such perfection can never be someone’s imagination. No. She is purely an art of God.
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