Muses Missed

I used to love painting. It gave me an escape into a deeper reality. I was open to interpretation on my own terms and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I had three muses who inspired my portraiture. They were my biggest fans and my harshest critics. They all knew my heart and expected the best from me.

The first muse was always represented as the beautiful villain. He was walking perfection except for his attitude and he knew by keeping me locked away, I would produce the most insane, dark depressing pieces. They would look like masterful pieces that when scrutinized were the gateway to tue torture I suffered daily.

The second muse was the lover. He introduced me to streams of color through experiences I could have only imagined. His touch was the catalyst to my awakening. Every piece I've ever painted because of him was hard and rough and gentle all at the same time. He opened my eyes to the mythological and reminded my soul that it was beautiful.

The third was the confidant. He allowed me to tell the secrets on canvas, I wouldn't tell anywhere else. He bandaged every scar and walked me out of the darkness into the tiniest vestiges of light. He reminded me bluntly that I was not only born of my experiences, but that I helped create the best experiences for others.

They kept me swimming in material and reminded me that I could put my heart on canvas and be misunderstood, critiqued, and loved. (remembered).