The Model

The mysterious nature of the essence of an artist is unexplainable, and still yet, the evident fact of that there is always a sombre period in an artist’s life prior the realization of a masterwork, or more astoundingly, an event that might well alter the course of his life, and indeed, his art.

And the occurrence of such an extraordinary happening -which leads an artist to a new concept, sometimes or chiefly, it is not traced by a serious study or reasoning of any technique or method to improve or, above all, chill out his art, neither by any lived experience, astonishingly it is by something unknown over which he has not control as destiny is. While fate does not face artist or comes along in his path, his mind and even his life is at limbo, or rather, suspended in time. So all he is in the middle of nowhere.

At night hours, when a spiritual man, thirsty of knowledge -whose live is under the influence of extraordinariness, wakes up suddenly enamored of death, inasmuch as it means the other side –an unknown one or another dimension; he was sleepless haunted by the fear of losing his creativity, which it was stressed out for the lack of the sparkle of creation as his days were passing by. Though in his soul had the inner foreboding, more than a mere feeling, that his great masterpiece was on the beauty of a woman.

In this particular state of ambiguity were defined the days of an artist whose passion debated between poetry and painting, so that his inclination for the letters deprived himself from evolving his craftiness into mastery, and which it would attain with his own genius later -from which it would emerge words with color.

Indeed, the artist’s theme was often around women. He had the credence that they sustained the mystery of existence. For him they were magical beings, veiled with secrets and sensuality. So his obsession made him paints the themes of: female virtue, beauty and passion. Nonetheless, this all was useless for him, on account of any idea or theme never crossed his mind at the time. So his days and mood became dull as he fell into a depression.

One afternoon, as he was in the London streets, which were crowded with traffic crush of carriages, he wandered to and fro as his sight was scattered between eerie and curious pedestrians, until his eyes ran into a little yellow brougham from which had come out a woman, deeply veiled, whose trace was lost by her fast pace.

Unexpectedly, an alteration had stirred him inside, which it had not left him in peace for days. He was completely sure that mysterious woman was essential not for his art, just for his own life. But, there was no a single clue of that creature, which it tormented him, and perhaps, there would be no, which it was still more catastrophic.

It was in vain any attempt for any bush stroke before the canvas or any lyric onto a paper. The recollection of that woman -on that dark afternoon- was on his mind until he had sheltered himself in the British Museum Reading room, where he buried himself into literature so as to seek mental peace.

It was destined that unknown woman had appeared into the place. Her presence had been perceived though he read fervently a sonnet, so his eyes had risen to observe such a beauty, whose graciousness was seen as she strode around the room. His heartbeat had soared as untamed horse, a shudder had run all over, and his body had paralyzed before that wonder.

With clumsy words, he had introduced himself to her. And among criticism of poetry, he had beheld her. He was marveled at her virginal countenance; whose eyes looked up -in amazement- at the figure of the young artist, whose seductive look enchanted her and whose words warbled at her ears.

Something in his inner side told him that such beauty was the mysterious woman veiled that he had seen on that obscure day on the street, so that he had mentioned her about the possibility of seeing her at Piccadilly on an afternoon, by which she went nervous and she tried to hush him up. Straightaway, he had dipped himself into poetry anew so as not to end the chat.

After an hour of conversation, he had convinced her of letting him meet her anew. But her consent had come with a requirement, he would never write at her home. Any note should be delivered to the care of Whittaker’s library, which it puzzled him. But he did not refuse to that claim. As time had elapsed between them, he was able to persuade her posing for him.

The fact of sitting for the young artist was fascinating for her, just because of being a model would be as though she were impersonating the bride model of the story of The Oval Portrait, which described as a bride after wedded to an artist agreed to pose for her husband, who made her set for many weeks in the dark. As time was passing in the shadows, the health and spirit of the bride withered, but the painter was not aware of it as he went wild with the ardor of his work. At the last brush upon the mouth and one hut on the eye, the picture was alive itself, but the bride was dead.

All that was more than fascination for her, who sought themes for her poetry.

So, every afternoon she had sat for the young artist at his studio, whose walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with great number of very spirited modern painting in frames of such golden arabesque.

As he studied her rare beauty so as to convey it into the canvas, she beheld his well-molded features and his fine figure of the youth, whose long dark hair was loose. At the time of her resting, she would enjoy herself reading the editions that he had scattered around the studio, because poetry was their mutual passion. Sometimes, she did not care about any lyrics whatsoever, just his medieval-like pictures from stories by some of the great authors of English literature.

It was as divine to have around such an enchanting being, whose comeliness was almost as a gift of the gods. But all the charm was turned into misery when she abandoned the studio to lose herself onto the London streets. Never had he dared to follow her to see to where she went or whom she met or gathered with. Neither had he had the courage to inquire about it.

Her observation at the young artist and his admiration at that model of remarkable beauty grew into love. Suddenly, a great passion was loosened as love itself. None of them could be apart from each other. So they decided to join their lives together.

She was such a beautiful creature that enchanted him, but haunted him the mystery of her strange disappearance in the streets of London at the end of every afternoon. Even though he never dared to ask her about it, he wedded to her.

It had represented a bittersweet emotion. His heart was so radiant with happiness, but it was a sort of stability to his artistic life -which should be a one of mystery and revelation. However, this would turn out an unbearable endless pang of pain soon.

After the wedding, elapsed a short period of time, and without logical reason, the model’s health had deteriorated impressively. His beauty began to fade away, his body became macerated; and she in terror of seeing her own body consummated by the rare disease and being despised by her husband, she had taken immense huge dozes of laudanum -which brought her death tragically.

The decease of his beloved wife, whose love had become paramount in his life more than art itself, had immersed him in a profound depression, in which he had lost the lust for life.

Her love had overshadowed his art, but it granted an impulse at the same time. But being without his muse had made him lose his faith in himself and hope in life.

Existence had become meaningless for him. He began to drink too much and indulged himself in drugs to mitigate the pain caused by the loss.

The artist was not desirous to express himself in painting neither poem. Art was senseless for him. He had wandered around Europe to attempt to find peace, which he could not able to attain.

During his stay in the continent, he was haunted by the dream of his dead wife, who uttered some words related to a saint.

"Saint Ann"… "Saint Ann"…

But he had not cared about that vision on account of being attributed to the effect of alcohol and drugs. Nevertheless, the dream persisted without any reason.

After a certain time, a strange whim compelled him to return to England to disclose the mystery that his wife held to the grave.

With his fragile health, he had searched the whereabouts where his wife sojourned, until he had found a house -the last one on Cumnor Street where she let drawing rooms. Once he showed the photograph of his wife to the landlady, she had recognized her. She had said to him that his wife came to read books and had tea every afternoon, but she never met anybody there.

The whole revelation had disconcerted him, there was no sense for it, and much more to hide it as his wife did in life.

To whom he had married? It was the question that his mind had brooded, but none could answer it.

His days elapsed dully, and he was almost on the verge of committing suicide, but he had not had the enough courage for it. It seemed that the pieces of, at least, one puzzle started to fix each one. But, all it not restored his inner peace. He was still disheartened at the death of his wife, who came along in his dreaming urging him to travel back to Europe. But why had he that rare vision of his wife pleading to return to the continent? What did "Saint Ann" mean? For him there was no relation apparently. Nonetheless, that dream recurred on his nights.

A determination was what he had to have, but he did not know which one. Even, he did not have a remote idea of what direction to take. But, what he was aware of that his life could not continue so, uneasy and lackluster.

Immerse a sea of confusion; he had left England anew to be away from all the places that reminded of her. Though he was distant of anything that recalled her, he could not avoid the memory of his wife, who came along on his nightly rest uttering the name of a saint: "Ann", to which it he found no sense.

For first time on all this time, he had considered seriously that suicide was the mean to restore peace to his soul. Otherwise, he should resign himself to live his life as though he were in hell, for like it were his days. However, his mind opposed to put to an end his existence. So he would continue living his life so perturbed as it was.

Unfortunately, years were passed by, and there was no response to a part of his interrogations –the other half its answer was the reveal of his wife whereabouts every afternoon when she abandoned his studio, neither he was able to escape to the vision of his wife in his dreams –which it tormented him. He had lost the all pulse of youth and his good-looking too. There were no traces of that young artist, who had impressed mysteriously the model to whom he married. Now, he had become fat and balding, his deteriorated physical condition was accompanied with the usual vice –in which had turned out– of drinking and eventually drugs.

During one of his drunkenness, he had wandered around the area where he was lingering until he ran into a church –to which he came inside. As he was pacing up around the place, he had got to a chantry chapel, which was between the pillars of the nave and which it had enclosed the tomb of a king.

It was like a miniature sanctuary, screened and vaulted in stone, of surpassing beauty. He admired at, in ecstasy, the richness of the wrought-gold altar and the relics, until his eyes bumped into a picture of Saint Ann, which had shocked him the most.

The model of that work of art resembled his wife because of she had the same features and countenance as the model, to whom he married and painted years earlier, and he was completely sure that the picture –which he was seeing- had been made years ago, not, centuries!

Suddenly, such an emotion had weakened his senses, so that the artist had fainted. The following day, as he had woken up in his lodgings, he had believed that all that on the night before was consequence of his addictions, but to corroborate his thinking he would go back to the chapel to prove himself that last night’s thing was either a vision or a nightmare. But if in fact it was true what he had seen the night before, what his wife -in the recurring vision- meant? No… All it was a hallucination. But, there it was the picture with the splendor of all its beauty.

The model was a Raphaelite beauty, with her strong sensual face and masses of long flowing hair. The theme was on Saint Ann in trance heightening up her prayers to the Creator, at her side was a red dove: an emblem of death -the eternal companion never abandoned us.

All that was mysterious and marvelous at the same time. But, there was no response for it. The only person who could answer was the clergy, who ran the church, and he would not clear his doubts. He would just give an account of the elaboration of the picture.
And, in fact, it was like so.

The model had been the king’s wife who had fallen in love with the artist -and they had had a liaison to the dismay of the king. This, whose honor was disgraced and his heart broken by his wife’s betrayal, had poisoned his beverage. So the king had died and succeeded by the prince hear. It was unknown if the queen had continued her romance with the painter.

This was the history of the picture.

Definitely, that work of art was what his wife desired that he admired at all its marvel. But, what was the relation between it and his wife and himself?

The vision of his consort in his sleep continued. She just pronounced the words: "Saint Ann." But she never said any word about what the clergy had related to him.

One day, over his luncheon, unexpectedly a curiosity welled inside the painter for the artist who had painted the king’s wife. Perhaps, the answer to that mystery was on the creator of that work of art. But it could not be satisfied. The artist’s belongings were sealed in a wooden box.

Some days and nights wore away, and the painter had resigned to beholding the picture of Saint Ann, at the chantry chapel, without any answer to that phenomenon. But one afternoon, after a requiem mass, the clergy had approached him to participate him that he had found a picture of the artist, who along with his mistress had betrayed the king. The two men had walked up to the sacristy, and the clergy had handed the picture over to him. A sudden cry had brought out his mouth at seeing the bust of the artist. It was as if he were watching himself in a mirror. That man, whose feature and countenance were on the small canvas, was the same as he in this life. With this revelation his deceased wife and his soul would find rest surely.

It had to die his muse to have revealed to him such an extraordinary and unexplainable coincidence. All that was terrifying. It was as though he and who was his wife had lived in another existence. The puzzle in his mind was huge and it seemed that there would be no any apparent explanation to it. This unsettled him the most, and it was not comparable to his perturbed years ago.

In panic, he had abandoned the small town, so as not to be near those objects that troubled his existence the most. Though the vision of his deceased wife in dreams had disappeared.

During the following years, what he could reason was the similarity between the king, his wife and himself. His wife had committed suicide as the king did centuries ago, he was still alive devastated as the ruler of that region lived on the days after he had found out his wife’s betrayal.

At the end of the artist’s days, his health had deteriorated still more; his body became sleepless and morbid. He partially paralyzed by the lethal cocktail of morphia, laudanum, and chloral he kept taking, plus the whisky, claret, and brandy. He had died without a logical explanation to his mysterious findings.