Page 17 of The Artist and the Muse

The night after my run-in with George Devereaux, I pounded on my keyboard with more force than necessary for an Art History essay. Not that it was a proper essay. We needed a thesis, yes, but George had said that it should be more of a personal reflection than an academic paper. He was probably trying to make sure the majority of the class passed, including the stressed freshmen weighed down by their summer course load.

Chewing on my lower lip, I considered my next sentence.Caravaggio’s use of chiaroscuro inConversion on the Way to Damascusreminded me of...No. I stabbed the backspace button with aggressive vigour as I wanted to crumple my digital document and throw it into the nearest trash bin.

“Why is it so hard to write a freaking essay?” I muttered to myself, staring at the laptop’s blinking cursor. It mocked me, as if saying,Go on! Write the next terrible sentence that you’ll have to delete again.

Despite all my grumblings, I wasn’t an awful student. I managed to get Bs and the occasional As in my Anthropology courses. I wasn’t anacademic genius like my cousin Abby, who had majored in engineering and was her father’s pride and joy. But I wasn’tstupid,though being blonde and having worked as a model since I could crawl didn’t help people’s assumptions of me in the intellectual department.

My mom had put me in pageants when I was little, focusing all her time and energy into my career. I’d even modelled for Gerber baby food at one point (an accomplishment I did not include on my CV). Still, I knew my mother only did it to take care of us financially. Possibly also because she was lonely and needed to find purpose somewhere after losing my father before I was born. I tried not to think about that.

Though, that was the reason I still lived at home even though I’d made enough money to get my own apartment. My mom needed the company, and with all my jet-setting and photoshoots, I was never home often enough to really take care of the numerous potted plants I kept buying and neglecting anyways.

Sighing, I checked the assignment description again like it would give me a clearer idea of what to write. I could have sworn I heard George’s voice reading the words in my ear, his sea salt and sage scent wafting over me. Like he’d given us an assignment specifically to target me.

Self-centred, much, Georgia? There’s almost two hundred people in this class. You don’t matter that much to him, and he proved that when he broke up with you.

Besides, he probably wouldn’t be marking my assignment himself. He had a TA. Though, he’d said that he would take half of the marking while his TA did the other half. With my luck lately, though, I might end up with George marking my assignment. Although, all assignments were submitted anonymously, since we put our student ID number and no name on the paper.

My eyes glazed over the assignment details once more.

Please write a short essay of 500 to 750 words on one of the paintings we have covered in this course so far. We have discussed the following pieces:Conversion on the Way to Damascusby Caravaggio,Return of the Prodigal Sonby Pompeo Batoni, andStorm on the Sea of Galileeby Rembrandt. You may choose one or two of the following topics: art techniques the painters used, the painters’ personal lives and how that may have affected their work, or how the historical period they were living in affected their painting. As you write your essay, incorporate any personal details or reflections and how the painting you chose has affected you, or relates to your own life. The rubric is attached below. This assignment is worth 10% of your mark.

I’d paid attention in class, so I knew well enough how to write about techniques the painters had used. But what really stumped me was the personal reflection part.

The problem wasn’t a lack of inspiration. I’d had so many personal thoughts on the topic that I didn’t know how to coalesce them into words. And even if I did, I certainly didn’t want George to read them.

Shutting my eyes against the glare of the computer screen—I was far too under-caffeinated to be writing anything of substance—I typed out five hundred words of nonsensical chatter. Words filled the page about Caravaggio’s painting techniques and how the historical figures of the time had thought his work was too scandalous. I scanned the document.

After fixing a few typos, I saved it and submitted it. Who cared if it was worth ten percent of my grade in the course? I’d be just fine getting a D in this class if it meant I could finally finish my degree and move on from modelling.

At least, that was what I told myself, but the instant wave of panic and dread that hit me as I clicked submit on the assignment page said anything but.

***

“Mom!” I flung my arms around my mother, breathing in her familiar aroma of tuberose and jasmine. My mom was a head shorter than me, almost frail in her dainty, birdlike frame. Her blond hair, now greying, was all that I had inherited from her; my gangly frame and electric blue eyes came from my father. I knew that only from pictures of him, like the one on our mantel. “How was your trip?”

“Wonderful. I really ought to get away more.” A teasing glint shone in her brown eyes as she stepped back and smiled at me. For a moment, despite the bustle around us at the airport arrivals zone, it was as if we were the only two people in the room. “I hope you didn’t miss me too much.”

I took her suitcase from her and after we walked through the automatic doors, I handed it to Pennington, the Steele family’s driver. I was still uncomfortable having a driver after growing up lower class compared to my cousins. But it was awfully convenient to have Pennington drive us to and from the airport.

He placed her suitcase in the trunk, closed it, and held open the door of the Rolls Royce for us.

Mom turned to face me as we slid into the backseat. “How’s everything been?”

“I have so much to tell you.” I’d never given my mom the full story of how I met George, not wanting her to worry about our romance and my subsequent heartbreak. But now, I wanted to get some things off my chest. I pressed the button to close the partition between the driver and the backseat, then took a deep breath. “Remember when Abby and I went to Italy two years ago?”

All she knew about George was that she’d seen him at a few family gatherings and he was Katerina’s brother. Yet I couldn’t escape him anymore; he was bound to come up in conversation whenever I talked about school.

“Yes, that was the year after you started college.” A frown pinched her immaculately pencilled eyebrows together. “Why are you bringing that up now?”

“Well, I met a man on that trip.”

“Is this mysterious Italian hottie back in your life now?”

I choked on a laugh. “Mom, you can’t just call guysItalian hotties.”

“Excuse me. IsItalian stalliona preferable term?” Her giggle burst into a full-blown chuckle.

“That’s even worse. And no. He’s not Italian. He’s actually from Montréal.”

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