Page 6 of The Artist and the Muse

Chapter Three: Georgia Philips

Two Years Ago

Ropes of golden hair hung down her back as the fair maiden clung to the cliff face, with an expression of sheer determination and a sword strapped to her back. The weapon’s gleaming silver hilt contrasted with the torn pink muslin of her gown. She gazed fiercely upward at the knight kneeling on the rocky ledge above her. His armour gleamed in the sun, unlike the princess’s ripped, muddied dress. His eyes pleaded with her as he extended his hand, as if begging her to stop being so stubborn and take it.

I gazed at the painting, unsure why it enraptured me so. Maybe it was the notion that the princess might save herself if she just tried hard enough; that she didn’t need a man to come rescue her. Perhaps it was highlighting her foolishness in ignoring perfectly good help when she had it. Or perhaps I was intrigued by why she had a sword on her backand why the knight had an empty scabbard where his weapon should have been.

Was it a tragic tale of love lost to female independence? Or a desperate plea for the woman to stop self-sabotaging and accept the solution that was so clearly in front of her? Either way, the painting had transfixed me for longer than I wanted to admit.

I’d been to this art gallery three times in the week that Abigail and I had been in Italy, and each time I had paused to study this painting. She had gone to a different sightseeing excursion today, tired of me coming back to this art gallery all the time. The title lent me no clues to the artist’s meaning. A small placard beneath the painting only readA Fair Maiden and Her Knight, by G. C. Devereaux.

It was a French name that conjured up visions of a scrawny, sallow-faced artist who longed for the days of Arthurian legends where women were saintly and men were chivalrous.

The other paintings in the artist’s collection were also fascinating, but they didn’t enthrall me as much as this one. No, this painting held a certainje ne sais quoi. Part of me could relate to the woman, clutching that slippery handhold and not daring a glance down at the steep cliff face beneath. A life in limbo.

“Buongiorno, signora.”

I didn’t bother turning around, accustomed in my line of work to men coming up to me in public and asking for my picture or my number, or some other piece of me that I didn’t want to give them. Myno manpolicy wouldn’t change, even if they were handsome.

“I hate to bother you,signora, but we have to move the painting today as this is the artist’s last day of having his exhibit here.” Next to me was a thin, wiry man dressed in a suit and tie, who clearly worked for the museum due to his lanyard and name tag. I felt sheepishly embarrassed by my assumption as I turned to face him. “Perhaps youcould take a picture, if you are so fond of it? I hear the artist is selling prints in the gift shop as well.”

“Oh! My apologies.” I snapped a photograph of the painting without the flash on as he suggested, and tucked my phone into my bag. I wondered why they wouldn’t remove the painting when the gallery closed, or before it opened. It was strange for the museum to remove a painting when visitors were still looking at it during opening hours. Then again, who was I to question the whims of Italian museum curators?

My feet began to ache in my poorly chosen ballet flats—why hadn’t I worn sneakers?—and I sat on the bench in front of the painting, watching as the workers took it down. I expected them to remove the other paintings in Devereaux’s exhibit as well, but they only removed the one. How odd.

As I admired the other works in the artist’s collection, his style reminded me of Waterhouse’s paintings of maidens in Greek mythology: damsels and sorceresses and nymphs. There was a hauntingly alluring demeanour that emanated from his paintings, an achingly exquisite beauty that spoke of loss and grief and rage. Yet in spite of it all, there was a thread of hope.

I was so enraptured by the artist’s work that I barely noticed when a man slid onto the bench next to me.

“Are you enjoying the view?” asked the stranger.

I frowned and turned toward the source of the question to see a tall, dark-haired, bearded man, clad in jeans and a white t-shirt. His accent wasn’t quite American. Canadian, perhaps? “Of the paintings, you mean?”

He flashed a quicksilver smile at me, crinkling the corners of his hazel eyes for a second. In my line of work as a model, I’d seen hundredsof equally if not more attractive men, and yet, his smile made my breath catch. “What else would I be referring to?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The frescoes on the ceiling, the tourists going by, the kid who just spilled his pop on the floor,” I said, ticking off the items on my fingers.

“Touché.” The stranger arched an eyebrow. “Which painting is your favourite?”

“None of them.”

He pointed at the now-blank wall space. “So you haven’t beeneyeingthat one for a quarter of an hour?”

“Do you work here or something?”

He raked a hand through his hair, an embarrassed expression overtaking his features. “I’m part of the museum’s… customer experience staff, you could say. So I’m curious to see how the patrons are enjoying the art. My apologies if I was too forward with my questions.”

He sounded earnest enough as I met his hazel stare. “Apology accepted.” Tentatively.

He nodded at the blank wall. “Do you likeA Fair Maiden and Her Knight?”

“It’s the most interesting one.”

“Really? So you don’t likeA Fair Maiden and a Dragon?“ He jerked his chin at another one of the paintings. It featured the same maiden with her sword valiantly fighting off a dragon, no knight to be seen.

Despite the similar depiction of the maiden with the sword, I liked the other painting best of all, though the ‘girl power’ vibes of the other one perhaps should have made it more appealing to me. I found it wasn’t subtle enough, too much of a valiant cry of female power. My favourite was more nuanced.

“I do, but in the other one, her expression is so ambiguous. You can’t really tell if she’s about to accept the offer of help, if she’s mad at the knight for offering to help her or at herself for getting into this position... or something else.”

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