Research and Creative Writing: The Muse, A Novel

The Muse

By Laure Paquette

August 3, 2012

?What?s wrong, hon?? said Nino.

It was December 29, 2010, and Lucette has just leapt naked out of bed. Except Lucette didn?t answer Nino directly.

?I don?t like this. What is this? Get away from me,? thought Lucette over and over again.

?Hon, I?m getting worried. What?s wrong?? said Nino.

Nino was always the same, always concerned for her, always looking for ways to make her happy, always wanting to look after her. That was probably what was behind his questions now. But Lucette was so busy trying to figure out what was going on inside her own head that she still didn?t answer.

What Lucette felt was a third presence, right there in the bedroom, with the two of them. It was a presence like she had felt Anna?s own presence after she died. Anna was Lucette?s aunt ? they had been very close, Lucette had been very attached to her ? but this presence was the same and yet different. Lucette now felt the presence of a person, that much was familiar, but she didn?t know that person. And Lucette was not liking it, not one little bit.

?Lucette, what?s going on?? said Nino, this time more urgently.

This time, Lucette finally answered him.

?It?s weird. You know how I felt my aunt?s presence after she died?? Anna had died about a year and a half ago, and Lucette had even talked to her, not out loud, but inside her head. Lucette did a lot of things like that. She meditated every day, and she talked to Nino about her meditations, and she often they were like short movies inside her head.

?With you the star of course!? Nino had said.

Lucette had laughed. It was just how she lived her inner life, all in pictures, without too many words. Lucette had been like this ever since she could remember, and she had told Nino about it very early in their relationship.

?Is that why you jumped out of bed like that?? said Nino.

?Yes, yes, Nino, that?s why, it?s weird and I don?t like it,? said Lucette. ?Lord, get this thing away from me, I don?t know who it is. I don?t know what this is. Am I going crazy??

?So it was nothing I did?? said Nino.

?No, no, tesorro mio, everything you did is fine. It?s just this bizarre feeling I have?.? Said Lucette.

The presence faded from the room, or so Lucette thought, uncertain, and eventually Lucette climbed back into bed, brought the duvet up to her shoulders ? she kept the house cool in winter ? and laid down her head on the pillow, breathing out slowly.

?It was just so strange, suddenly feeling somebody here,? said Lucette.

Nino put the light back out and settled down to sleep. Lucette, however lay awake for some time, trying to fathom what this presence was and how she felt about it. She did not manage to settle everything in her own mind, but she did manage to put up a barrier between herself and that?presence, so that she could feel safe and protected. That much she managed, and afterwards she couldn?t tell exactly the moment when she fell asleep.

Later, when she looked back on the whole thing, Lucette had to admit that Richard had known how to approach her without scaring her unnecessarily. It was inherently frightening to sense the presence of an unknown being, and so for the first few days, Lucette would feel that presence, but she refused to have anything to do with it, and so it was just that, a presence, without a face, without a body, and without a voice. At length, Lucette got used to the idea of it being there, and didn?t think about it every moment.

But the next step was for him to let himself be seen ? and this handsome, fine-featured face with bright blue eyes appeared. First, it was behind a mist, but it hung like a moon in her thoughts just the same. It took a while for Lucette to place that face, but eventually she remembered. He had been in that ?70s movie, Logan?s Run, that Nino had made her watch. He was the second lead. She had watched it with Nino one Saturday night ? Nino loved old movies, and he was a Trekkie to boot ? and she remembered the actor because he looked a little like a boy in school she had once had a crush on.

So slowly Lucette got used to his face floating before her mind?s eye. Eventually, she heard him say her name, very softly, and pronounced correctly too, which was unusual. Lucette was a French name, and it wasn?t that common. She heard the voice call her name over and over again. It would make Lucette tense up, at first, but then, slowly, she got used to it as well. It helped that she could shut it out by concentrating on something else. But without noticing it too much, Lucette relaxed, and then the next step in her learning curve came up.

Years before, she had seen a documentary on the English children who had been evacuated during World War II, and she remembered vividly a woman telling how she had survived for three days by clinging to an overturned lifeboat, after the ship was torpedoed. When she was found, the woman remembered, her tongue was so swollen from lack of water that she couldn?t speak. But the sailor who tried to take her in his arms saw that her hands still convulsively gripped the rigging.

?You can let go,? said the sailor. ?You?re safe now.?

That is what Lucette started hearing in her own head: a voice saying to her, over and over again:

?Let go.?

When Lucette heard that, she was also hearing that she was safe now. But those were the words which haunted her waking hours:

?Let go.?

The voice kept repeating this softly, not in a way that drove her crazy, but gently, in a way that comforted Lucette.

?Let go, let go.?

And it was Lucette who plucked from memory the other words:

?I?m safe now, I?m safe now, I?m safe now.?

It took months for Lucette to realize that he was talking about her grief. Not about her grief for her aunt Anna, Lucette could live with that. It was the grief for David, her little David, her little boy. That grief she could scarcely bear to think about, even now.

As much as Lucette got used to that voice, she still thought she needed to talk this over with someone. She needed someone sane and practical, especially, after the voice introduced itself early one morning.

?I am Richard Jordan,? said Richard.

?Who?? said Lucette.

?I am Richard Jordan, you know, the actor from Logan?s Run,? said Richard.

?That movie was with Michael York,? said Lucette.

?Yes, but I was in it too, I played that freak of nature called Francis Six,? said Richard.

?Yes, yes, I?ve seen it,? said Lucette.

Yes, Lucette thought she needed to talk the over, someone sane and practical, but who still wouldn?t think she was crazy. That meant her best friend, Deb, and it worked out well because Deb was coming over anyway. So Lucette made breakfast and got dressed and put on the kettle as she waited for Deb. Deb arrived just as Lucette was finishing up steeping the tea. Lucette was a fussy tea-drinker, and she always timed her steeps.

?How?s my blond Amazon this morning?? said Lucette.

Lucette stood on her toes to kiss her on the cheek. Deb was a good four inches taller than five-foot-seven Lucette.

?I?m good,? said Deb, ?how about you??

?Boy, do I have a story to tell you,? said Lucette.

?Can I get my coat off first?? said Deb.

Lucette?s stories were always urgent.

?Yeah, yeah, get your coat off,? said Lucette. ?Do you want tea??

?Yes, please,? said Deb. ?I can tell it?s that good, wood-smoked stuff.?

?It is, your favourite,? said Lucette.

Lucette had steeped a fully smoked summer tea, Lapsong Souchong, and it was so strongly smoked that she had to keep it in its own airtight container. Lucette poured, and then settled down in front of her own cup of tea.

?Do you remember two years ago, how I disturbed the spirit of an actor because I was having a fantasy about him?? said Lucette

?Yeah, yeah, I remember,? said Deb.

This had been one of Lucette?s weirder moments.

?Well, I thought, if I had a little fantasy like that about a dead actor, I?d be safe,? said Lucette.

Deb nodded.

?Wrong!? said Lucette.

?What are you saying?? said Deb.

?I?m saying that I inadvertently disturbed the spirit of a dead actor,? said Lucette.

?Again?? said Deb.

Lucette didn?t mention Richard by name. In fact, it would be months before Lucette could bring herself to tell anyone else Richard?s name.

?What was this business in California again?? said Deb.

?You remember, I went out to the Guggenheim on a fellowship, two years ago?? said Lucette.

?Yes, it?s coming back to me now,? said Deb.

?Well, I took a hotel by the ocean so that I could walk on the beach before working every day. And I didn?t have a TV at home an more, so that I didn?t even turn on the TV in the hotel room for a really long time. I mean, except for when the weather was bad,? said Lucette.

?Yes, I remember you telling me all about that,? said Deb.

?Well, on the last day, I couldn?t work and couldn?t paint and had walked a long time. So I went back to my room, and I turned on the TV,? said Lucette.

?But you haven?t watched TV in a couple of years,? said Deb.

?Exactly, that was what was so unusual about it. And there was this ridiculous Harlequin kind of movie on, A Touch of Color or something like that. The movie had started already when I turned the TV on,? said Lucette.

?Right, so it was one of the actors in that movie you got a crush on?? said Deb.

?Yes, Simon Baker, really handsome,? said Lucette.

?I don?t think I?ve heard of him,? said Deb.

?Oh, probably not, there?s so many of them,? said Lucette. ?But I started to have a crush, and I had this sort of fantasy about him, you know. And it was intense, I mean I guess I use these fantasies to escape, once in a while. I hadn?t had a crush like that in a long time. So anyway??

?I remember now, it?s coming back to me,? said Deb. ?It took you a long time to tell me about it because you were so embarrassed about having a crush at all.?

?I never found it easy to say that I did,? said Lucette.

?As if that wasn?t what Hollywood was all about, to make money off our dreams,? said Deb.

?Yeah, yeah, I?m their demographic, one of the 50 million menstruating women wanting to have intercourse with him. Trust me, it felt ridiculous and childish. Anyway, all of a sudden I felt like Simon Baker?s spirit was in the room with me,? said Lucette.

?Did he give you a ghost job?? said Deb.

?Oh, come off it, Deb, I?m serious. It felt really weird, and I felt bad about disturbing him,? said Lucette.

?You felt like you had actually disturbed him?? said Deb.

?Yes. I was worried I?d disturb this unknown guy?s life. And I certainly didn?t want this to turn into The Ghost and Mrs. Muir,? said Lucette.

?Who?? said Deb.

?A sixties TV show about a widow and a sea captain who is a ghost,? said Lucette. ?I guess it was before your time.?

Deb was fifteen years younger.

?I guess so,? said Deb.

?So I cut myself off from the whole thing. It freaked me a bit,? said Lucette.

?So you have control over this? You can say no?? said Deb.

?I can say no. Sure, I can,? said Lucette.

?So this is another actor?? said Deb.

?Yes,? said Lucette.

?You knew him as soon as he showed up?? said Deb.

?Not exactly,? said Lucette, ?First, I just heard his voice.?

?You just heard his voice? With your ears or in your head?? said Deb.

?Just in my head. But then he told me his name, and eventually I saw his face. It was then I recognized him from an old movie,? said Lucette.

?An old movie?? said Deb.

?Yes, Nino had one in his sci fi collection,? said Lucette.

?Are you sure?? said Deb.

?Well, I?m sure it?s him, because I saw some other of his movies,? said Lucette.

Lucette had watched another old picture with Nino on the DVD player a few weeks before. This one was a Cold War picture, The Hunt for Red October. Lucette had noticed him because he was good-looking, even though he was barrel-chested. The actor had a scene where he had an expression on his face that Lucette couldn?t understand. She had puzzled over it, but couldn?t make it out. Nino had laughed at her little eccentricity, and lost no sleep himself.

?What have I got to worry about,? he said, ?the guy?s dead!?

Wrong. Richard Jordan was so a problem.

?You went out and rented several of his movies?? said Deb.

?Actually, I watched some clips on Youtube, cheaper and easier,? said Lucette.

?Well, who is it?? said Deb.

?You wouldn?t know him either,? said Lucette.

?But this time it?s for real?? said Deb.

?This time, I set out to have a fantasy about this other actor, because he was so handsome, and like I said, I thought I was safe because he was dead,? said Lucette.

?Brother,? said Deb. ?Are you going to stick with this??

?You know what? This is too weird, even for me,? said Lucette. ?I?m not at all comfortable.?

?So what are you going to do about it?? said Deb.

?I don?t know,? said Lucette, ?I don?t know.?

?Well, keep me posted,? said Deb.

They said nothing to each other for a while, but then Deb shifted a bit because a new thought had struck her.

?So, how?s the painting going?? said Deb.

?It?s not, as usual,? said Lucette.

?Are you going to turn down that gallery show?? said Deb.

?I?m going to have to,? said Lucette. ?I haven?t a thing to show them.?

?Not so fast,? said Richard in Lucette?s mind.

Lucette shrugged and made like she was swatting away a fly. But of course it was the voice she was swatting away. Deb?s eyes narrowed.

?What did you just do?? said Deb.

?Nothing, just thinking to myself,? said Lucette.

Deb didn?t believe her, but there wasn?t much she could do.

?What do you want to talk about now, nail polish?? said Deb.

Lucette laughed and got Deb?s coat, because she knew that Deb had to get going when she started talking make-up.

After Deb left, Lucette went to her studio. Lucette had a studio in her home, a room on the top floor. It had sloping ceilings but the light was very good, because of the western exposure. From the windows she could see her own container garden. At first, she had grown tomatoes and onions and celery, but now she grew mostly her own herbs. She liked to look there in the summer to see her garden. In the winter, she looked at the undisturbed snow.

Lucette always felt lucky that she had a yard where there were no footsteps to disturb the winter snow. Not much fell here, compared to where she had grown up, in the snow belt outside Quebec City. Often there was snow only up to her knees, but sometimes hip-deep. In the small town where she was from, and to which she never returned now that Anna had died, it could be as deep as the main floor windowsills. One Christmas, she remembered climbing up onto the roof from a snow bank, and sliding into the street in her toboggan.

Her studio had winter white walls, and blue trim, and a hardwood floor that was now scratched and stained. She had thrown out the carpet several years before, and then had hung some shelves herself. Deb had had to come over to make them more secure, but Lucette still felt pride in having done that herself. Her oils, and acrylics, and pastels were handy on those shelves. She had two easels of different sizes always set up, and a whole blank wall where she could staple or tape her larger canvases if she wanted to. Lucette kept a work table she could move at will ? it was under the windows at the moment, covered in art and architecture magazines. Her brushes she kept on a stool between the easels. She had primed canvases of various sizes stacked against a wall. Like Georgia O?Keefe before her, she called the blanks the hopefuls.

Gallery owners and critics could never believe how tidy she was ? the floor was stained, and so was the work wall, but the rest was always orderly. Lucette always said she couldn?t work in a mess, but her critics wondered if she was even bohemian enough. Lucette never bothered to reply to those comments. She said she didn?t want to play the debutante artiste. If she had been successful in the past, it wasn?t just because of talent. It was also because she was disciplined. It took both, she knew, for an artist to be productive. Only once a month did Lucette let her housekeeper come in and clean off the dust and vacuum the floor, and every spring she washed the windows herself, and dried them with newspapers.

Lucette sat down on the stool in front of the easel. She hadn?t much hope. She had been blocked from painting for months now. She would pick a paintbrush out of her favourite glass jar, and then throw it back down. She would order her acrylics and her watercolours. She would leaf through her own portfolio or slides, or she would try and get newsprint out, and charcoal. She had even tried sitting in the garden the previous summer and just draw what she saw. Once, she had Nino pose for her, and had caressed him with her eyes. He was worth caressing, that handsome hunk of a man, masculine in the extreme, muscular, with a heavy beard, but with exquisite sensitivity and the best emotional judgment she had ever seen. He had agreed to pose naked a second time, but that hadn?t worked either. God, if sex didn?t get her creativity going, nothing would. And this is what Lucette now thought. Nothing worked. She had no inspiration. She might never have any inspiration ever again, that?s what Lucette was afraid even to think. She thought it was possible. She might never think of what she would like to paint, or draw, or collage, ever again.

In the old days, she had sat at the worktable or at her easel and picked up a brush and not even known what was coming next. She would choose yellow, and then orange, and then red, and then blue, and she wouldn?t know how the picture would continue, nor even how it would end. The shapes, the textures, the work in its several stages would be inside her and just pour out, she never had to thing about it. She had had spells where she didn?t work, but only because the ideas needed to mature inside her. Now, even the ideas were gone. She who had worked regularly every morning for several hours, and then spent the rest of the day getting ready to paint again the next day, and had maintained this routine for years, now just sat.

Sat and sighed and stewed. Not painting or drawing, that was like not eating for a day, it was something essential to her well-being. In the old days, when she still had to work to support herself, if the schedule was crazy and she didn?t have any studio time, she felt incomplete, unhappy. She would get up and paint instead of sleeping. Now it was the opposite. The blank paper, and the stretched, primed canvas, and the tubes of paint drying out slowly, were like so many accusations, guilty reminders of what she once had been, a thriving, productive artist who painted like she breathed.

Lucette had been stymied for longer than ever before. Well, this was the day she was going confront this head on. She decided that from now on she would sit in the studio for at least an hour a day, with brush and color ready, until something happened or the hour was up. That was it. That was what was going to happen from now on. If this could be solved by willpower, then by sheer will would Lucette jumpstart herself.

And so Lucette did what she said she would for the next several weeks. Sitting in the studio without the ability to paint or draw drove her crazy, and she was starting to hate even going in that place. But she grit her teeth, and went through the ritual of making tea and checking over the colors and reaching for a brush and holding it in her hand. It made her studio, her inner sanctum, into a boxing ring where she would think she was training, but actually was beating herself up. Somehow, she didn?t figure this was the right approach, but she couldn?t think of anything else to do.

One fine day, however, Richard the friendly ghost was back. He showed up when Lucette was in the bathroom getting ready for the day.

?Get away from me, at least while I take my shower and go to the bathroom,? said Lucette.

The presence took a step back and she could at least brush her teeth without being too concerned. But a few minutes later, in the kitchen when she was making a cup of tea, she was bothered by it again.

?Who are you?? Lucette said out loud. ?What are you doing here??

?I?m Richard Jordan. I?m here to help,? said Richard.

?Richard Jordan? The actor?? said Lucette.

?Yes,? said Richard.

Lucette had continued to think it wasn?t a problem to have a fantasy about a dead actor, but she was wrong. Here he was, still seriously dead.

?Great,? said Lucette, ?no one will ever believe me.?

?I?m here to help,? said Richard.

?Help me with what?? said Lucette.

It was weird for Lucette to be talking out loud but to hear answers not with her ears, but inside her head. Richard did not answer her this particular time. Maybe Lucette would have more privacy than she thought. Maybe this spirit would not be around absolutely all the time. But what was he here to do?

When going to bed that night, Lucette turned her mind to Richard, and tried to summon up his presence. Just to see. The first few times she did this, she just saw his face in her mind, but nothing else. To try and get her head around all of this, the next day Lucette watched more of his old movies again. She wasn?t always enthralled. Some of the bits were corny, she thought.

?Corny bits?? said Richard.

?Well, yes, Richard, sometimes the stuff is dated,? said Lucette.

?Well, I didn?t get to write it,? said Richard.

?And some of the stuff is just corny, made to market you as a heartthrob,? said Lucette.

?Did it work?? said Richard.

?Of course it did, I couldn?t take my eyes off you. It?s how you found your way to me,? said Lucette.

?It?s how fate chose to use what you had to learn,? said Richard.

?Well, the important thing is it worked,? said Lucette.

?The important thing, Lucette, is for you to realize that your womanhood and your spirituality were glowing and acted like beacons for spirits like me. I came to you because of your magnificent womanhood. Fate sent me to you for that reason,? said Richard.

?But what about my art??

?You are a great artist,? said Richard.

?Well, you can say that, but I?m not painting,? said Lucette.

?For whom do you paint?? said Richard.

?I told you, I?m not painting right now!? said Lucette.

?When you paint, who are you painting for?? said Richard.

?You mean before?? said Lucette

?Yes, I mean before. Who did you used to paint for?? said Richard.

?Well, I used to paint for my mother, especially when I was in school. She wanted to be an artist, and she couldn?t be, so I painted instead of her,? said Lucette.

?Do you still paint for her?? said Richard.

?No,? said Lucette.

?Is there anyone you paint for now?? said Richard.

?Well, yes, but this is hard for me to admit. I painted for the compliments of my teachers for a long time. Even after I left school, even after they disappeared from my life, I still would remember for a long time what they had said to me, and I would try and please them, or be worthy of them,? said Lucette.

?And are you worthy of them now?? said Richard.

?Yes. Yes, I think I am,? said Lucette.

?And who do you want to paint for now?? said Richard.

?Nobody, that?s just it. I can?t paint, so I can?t paint for anyone,? said Lucette.

?But if you were to imagine painting right now, who would it be for?? said Richard.

?Well, I have this fantasy that I am invisible and that I can walk around my own exhibitions, sometimes in the greatest museums, without anyone knowing who I am,? said Lucette.

?And what do those people do?? said Richard.

?They are changed by my paintings,? said Lucette.

?What is changed about them?? said Richard.

?Well, their lives. My painting changes their lives,? said Lucette

?Oh, is that all?? said Richard.

?Well, you asked, you know,? said Lucette. ?That?s my honest answer.?

?And who are these people?? said Richard.

?Just people, I guess,? said Lucette.

?No one you know?? said Richard.

?No, I don?t think so,? said Lucette.

?Do these same people watch you paint in your studio?? said Richard.

?I?m a little embarrassed about this, but yes, it?s like I paint and they are all there, oohing and aahing,? said Lucette.

?Have you ever tried being alone in your studio, without these people?? said Richard.

?I sometimes think I live my whole life with the thought of what others will think or say,? said Lucette.

?You?ve been pretty innovative and daring so far for that to be true,? said Richard.

?It doesn?t hold me back, exactly, it?s more like an inner barrier I have to climb over every day,? said Lucette.

?And are all these people around right now?? said Richard.

?Yes,? said Lucette.

?Why don?t you try ushering them out of your studio, just for fifteen minutes, and see what happens when you next pick up the brush,? said Richard.

?Even you will be ushered out?? said Lucette.

?Yes, even me. You can close the door, and work by yourself just for a little while,? said Richard.

Lucette smiled, but she did mentally usher all the spectators out, she pictured herself acting as an usher in a movie theatre or an opera house, and she pictured Richard closing the door behind him as he left. She set the timer for fifteen minutes, and picked up her charcoal. She made a few strokes on the paper, and then got her coloured chalks out.

?There?s a lot more to go wrong with color,? she said aloud.

But she set about drawing very intently, and she didn?t hear the timer go off, and she didn?t stop when she got a cramp in her left hand. In fact, she didn?t stop until the chalks were crumbling in her fingers. Her tea had even gone cold while she worked. Lucette hated cold tea. But it was afterward when she straightened up, with a sigh, and picked up her cup and saucer, that she realized.

Lucette was elated. There was still something she could do.

But the next day, back in her studio, Lucette found she couldn?t work, nor the day after that, or even the day after that. The breakthrough was not followed by other good work sessions, it looked to Lucette like a one-off. Nonetheless, Lucette at least had reason to want to explore what Richard had to do with her.

It took her a while to get used to him. She was reticent about the whole thing, and she was reticent about talking about anything to do with her inner life at the best of times.

?Now,? thought Lucette, ?I?m really going gaga.?

Lucette thought that all the more because the quality or calibre or intensity of Richard?s presence had changed. Lucette could feel his presence in an almost physical way -- she saw his smooth chest, she almost felt him lying down next to her at night. Richard was persistent. Or always there. Or whatever. Lucette didn?t even have words for this experience.

She kept going to her studio every morning nonetheless. Lucette would set out her water colors and her acrylics and her brushes and she would staple paper to her easel, or she would stretch canvas onto frames, or prime them. But she had nothing in her mind, she had no impulse beyond doing as much as that. Her sketch pad was always with her, but she never had any impulse beyond that. She waited in her workshop, made tea, tidied up the rag basket under her shelving. She sighed over and over again, with increasing frustration, time after time, until she just had to get out of there.

She decided to go for a walk. Her back hurt her when she was painting, it wasn?t hurting now, but she would go for a walk and mobilize the muscles of her lower back anyway. It was an investment in her future.

?You?re supposed to be doing something for me, Richard. What is a muse for?? Lucette said in her mind.

She walked through the almost oppressive quiet streets. Her feet were getting wet from the light snow on the ground.

?Oh, I?m here, I?m working with you,? said Richard.

?Well, that?s good, because I?m not working,? said Lucette.

?My darling, I?m going to ask you to give up something that is so prominent, so obvious, so intrinsic to you that you don?t even know you?re doing it,? said Richard.

?What is that? Why did you call me darling?? said Lucette.

?Are you willing?? said Richard.

?Are you going to answer me?? said Lucette.

?Aren?t I doing just that?? said Richard.

?No, I meant about why you called me darling,? said Lucette.

?Oh that. It?s just a Hollywood thing,? said Richard.

?A Hollywood thing?? said Lucette.

?Yes,? said Richard.

?I looked you up on Wikipedia and it said you were first an actor on Broadway,? said Lucette.

?Everyone calls everyone darling on Broadway as well,? said Richard.

?Are you being honest with me?? said Lucette.

?No,? said Richard.

?Why not?? said Lucette.

?Because you are not ready to hear the truth,? said Richard.

?Of course, I am. I?m more than willing. What is it?? said Lucette.

Richard replied, but Lucette could not make out his reply, and Richard?s presence then faded. This hadn?t happened before. Richard had spoken to her, but she wouldn?t necessarily understand. So Lucette kept walking, and kept going through her day, answering phone calls and emails, and going to work out, and asking herself over and over again what it was that Richard wanted her to give up.

?Does it have something to do with David?? said Lucette.

She wondered whether it might. Lucette had accepted his death, she thought, and had done so for some time. She had found the new normal everyone talked about after the death of a child.

?What does my failure to work have to do with that?? said Lucette.

Was it that she was afraid of her own talent? One of her art teachers had said once that it was scary to be talented. But Lucette accepted that she had a talent that was great and yet hard to recognize. She accepted that she had to work without thought of recognition, although she had received quite a bit of recognition for her work, enough anyway to get a Guggenheim fellowship.

?Do I need to come off my high horse?? said Lucette.

Was it that she needed to curb her diva-like tendencies? No, she knew all about that. She hadn?t started writing into her gallery contracts that Cheetos had to be served at all her openings into the contract with galleries, at least not yet. ON the other hand, she knew how particular she was about the color of the walls and the lighting and the flooring where she showed her work.

Lucette got back into the house, changed her shoes and socks for dry ones, made more tea, and went upstairs. She sat in her studio for another thirty-four minutes, not that she was counting of course, and then she went downstairs to where the computer with Internet was.

She Googled artist?s block and started reading. The more she read, the more she laughed. There were more suggestions than she knew what to do with, including an inventive Australian artist photographer who gave the recipe for his block-breaking talisman dish, complete with accompanying wine; someone who suggested cruising bars and picking up strangers to see what happened, and another who went for a nap if she couldn?t work. Of course, some of the time she just wound up sleeping a lot? Lucette decided, though, not to take the chakra test, to see if her chakras were clear. She felt that her chakras were doing just fine without being particularly cleared.

Richard came to her as she sat by the screen and said:

?Why don?t you just sit down for a bit, and let us be together,? said Richard.

Lucette couldn?t see the harm in that, and sat down by the picture window. Richard?s image rose before her mind?s eye. He was a tall man, and like Rochester in Jane Eyre he was unusually broad in the chest, almost barrel- chested, with long arms, and long, almost spindly legs. Lucette found these imperfections of his figure reassuring, almost like he couldn?t be a figment of her imagination because he was of a shape and size that she hadn?t seen before. Richard might have been an actor in his lifetime, and Lucette had seen films in which he acted, but she had never noticed him before the dazzling blue eyes flashing in Logan?s Run.

?Let me hold your hand,? said Richard.

And in Lucette?s mind?s eye, she saw his hand, large, with blunt nails and palms a little rough, take hers. Lucette could almost feel the touch. That was how real the feeling of his company was to her. It was mind boggling to her. Nonetheless, she took some sort of reassurance, some comfort, maybe even a little energy, from it. Even so soon after Richard first appeared in her life, Lucette felt something like companionship. Her solitude was somehow less.

?What is our relationship supposed to be like?? said Lucette.

?Like whatever you need, Lucette,? said Richard. ?Like whatever you are comfortable with.?

Lucette remembered this in later years, and realized that their relationship had been like that of a man and a woman because that was the model, the image, the metaphor used to, what she was most able to compare it to.

?Look, Richard, I?ve looked up artists? block, and I had a good laugh, but I?m not sure this is what is going to help,? said Lucette.

?Well, what is going to help, Lucette?? said Richard.

?I think I need to find out how other artists have dealt with this, but not in real time, more what has proven over time to help the greater artists,? said Lucette.

?How are you going to find that out?? said Richard.

?Can you find me some ghosts of famous painters to work with?? said Lucette.

Richard laughed.

?It doesn?t work that way,? said Richard. ?These things are given or they are not given, I can?t control them.?

?You mean, it?s on a need-to-know basis?? said Lucette.

?You could say that,? said Richard.

?Well, then, I?ll have to read some biographies of artists, that?s all,? said Lucette.

?Great idea,? said Richard. ?Don?t stop there.?

?What do you mean?? said Lucette.

?I mean, talk this over with some artist friends and see how they cope,? said Richard. ?You might even ask to meet with people, buy them coffee or lunch, so that you can see how much they know about their artistic process.?

?You mean, then, that I have an artistic process too, and that I can fuel it? That I should get to know it?? said Lucette.

?Exactly! And you can get to know it as much by finding out what your process is not, as you can by finding out what your process is,? said Richard.

?So I can be like Georgia O?Keefe, say, and have a studio on a ranch with a housekeeper, to free myself to paint prodigiously every day, or like Isak Dinesen, starting writing my stories as a kid, taking them to Copenhagen as an art student, then to Africa as a farmer, and then back to Denmark again,? said Lucette.

?But you don?t have to be an anorexic like Dinesen, or have tuberculosis like Katherine Mansfield, or an absinthe addiction like Toulouse-Lautrec,? said Richard. ?And especially you don?t have to keep repeating your father?s abandonment on your own children, like I did.?

?What do you mean? Did you really?? said Lucette.

?Yes,? said Richard. ?My father left my mother when I was two years old. It was back in the forties, when these things didn?t happen much, and especially not in society. And then, in my lifetime, I had two children, with two different women, and each time I left the house first when my daughter, and then later when my son were about two years old. I?m telling you, Lucette, it?s much better to face your emotional issues as soon as possible.?

Richard was certainly honest with her, and that honesty had an effect on Lucette. From that moment, Lucette paid attention to her creative process, what helped it, what fed it, and what took away from it. She came to realize what worked and what did not. She listened to music in a different way, she read novels and magazines in a different way, she read the biographies of the dead white men, but she also read interviews with contemporary artists. She couldn?t help but notice in her reading that all the successful artists were very much aware of their own process, understood it and respected it.

The biggest surprise for Lucette was that her own fallow periods, periods where she did not work, were actually very important. The artists didn?t necessarily call it that, but there were always periods, sometimes years, where they did not work but where their art was maturing in some way. Lucette herself looked back on her career and see the times of absence of drawing or painting. She could see the role they played in the periods where she barely could sleep at night, because she was burgeoning with ideas. Lucette even realized that, at times, she had to do research, and at others she had to let go of intellectual stimulation. She learned that sometimes a painting was just finished, not because it was perfect, but because she had let it go, or because she wanted to get to another idea, or even because she knew it wasn?t working, but she couldn?t think what to do with it any more.

Sometimes a work was not about what she thought it was about. Sometimes Lucette could see so many options within a particular work that she was paralyzed by the all the possibilities, all the directions she could go in, and the onslaught of ideas in itself made her head spin. Those were the times where she needed to get up at night and sketch some of them out, not so much so she didn?t forget them, but to get them out of her mind. If it was daytime, she had to stop, and not just metaphorically, to take a deep breath. If it was night, she needed to get up and sketch so she could get to sleep. It was on one of those times that she got into the habit of drinking tea. It forced her to slow down, and it forced her to sit down for ten minutes in the middle of a day?s work.

But this awareness also showed Lucette all the more clearly how stymied she now actually was. This fallow period was different. She felt blocked. She felt that the juices weren?t flowing inside her. She felt there was a stopper where a tap should be, and she didn?t know how to pull it out. She felt like she was expecting her period, except it never came, she never got to relax, she never got to rest, she never got to feel better.

It took Lucette a few days to figure all of it out, and during this time Richard didn?t speak. But after about five days, Richard came to her.

?Now do you see why you need me?? said Richard.

?Because I?m really and truly stuck? I didn?t need you to figure that out,? said Lucette.

?Well, whatever you are thinking, sticking it out willy-nilly in the studio, come what may, I don?t think is the way to do it,? said Richard. ?For one thing, you are beginning to hate it.?

?What the hell do you know about it?? said Lucette.

?Well, I can help,? said Richard.

?You?re an actor, not a painter,? said Lucette

?To some extent, all creative people are the same. I understand the artistic process. They need to feed their process, and they need to work regularly. Even when they are not performing or producing anything specific, they still work regularly to keep themselves limber,? said Richard.

?So a dancer has to dance every day. Well, that?s why I?m in the studio every day,? said Lucette.

?Moira Shearer, the ballerina, once said that taking a month off from practice might set a dancer back five years. An actor isn?t like that, a writer isn?t like that. But I suppose a musician is,? said Richard.

?And an artist?? said Lucette.

?I would think an artist would need to work regularly, but for the sake of keeping your hand in, not because your skill will decrease,? said Richard. ?And like an actor, a young artist is green. A young actor has to live and experience many things before he has access to all the emotions he needs. In a way, an artist is like an actor. You paint with colour, but I paint with emotion. I watch people to learn how they behave, and I listen to what people say, so that I have fuel for my imagination. So tell me, you?ve been looking into this. What is your fuel, for your own particular imagination??

?Oh, I don?t know,? said Lucette

?Does looking at other people?s art interest you?? said Richard.

?Of course,? said Lucette. ?Well, that?s not quite true. I look at it to some extent. There are lots of fads out there, and I?m not too fond of those.?

?You say that, but I wonder,? said Richard. ?What if you?re just giving me the pat answers??

?What?s it to you?? said Lucette.

?Does reading about other artists interest you?? said Richard.

?Yes. Don?t you know? I just read a pile,? said Lucette.

?I don?t know anything you don?t show me or tell me,? said Richard. ?I can only go as far as you let me.?

?Well, I?ve been reading about the lives of the great artists. And right now, it mostly makes me jealous,? said Lucette.

?Jealous of what?? said Richard.

?Jealous of the attention their work got, jealous of their shows, jealous of the work they produced,? said Lucette.

?Is their work better than yours?? said Richard.

?Than Leonardo or Matisse? Well, of course,? said Lucette.

?OK, I asked for that, I guess,? said Richard. ?I meant your colleagues, other artists of your own vintage.?

?I don?t know. How can I?? said Lucette. ?Time is the harsh winnower, so for all of us it?s just what we think of each other, and what the critics think of us, that matters.?

?Well, you just learned a great deal, these last few days,? said Richard.

?True, but is that enough?? said Lucette.

?Can?t you judge?? said Richard.

?It?s going to sound strange, but I dislike the judgment part of art. Why do you we need to qualify everything? By what criteria do we judge something to be good? And who decides what those criteria are?? said Lucette.

?Those are all good points, but let?s get back to you. What does any of this mean for you? You?ve read about artists? lives, now how about looking at their works in the context of their lives? After a while, you?ll educate yourself on the grand topic of life transmuted into art,? said Richard.

?You mean I should study art history, not just artists? biographies,? said Lucette.

?That would be a start,? said Richard.

?Where do I start?? said Lucette.

?Where do you think?? said Richard

?Well, I can think of two places: a library with lots of art books, or the Internet,? said Lucette.

?Which do you think would be easier?? said Richard

?Easier or quicker?? said Lucette

?I see what you are doing, Lucette, you are deliberately playing dumb, to test my patience. Well, I?m very patient. I have all the time in the world,? said Richard.

?Now that you?re dead,? said Lucette.

?Right, now that I?m dead. So what would be quicker, Lucette?? said R

Source: http://paquetteresearch.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-muse-novel.html

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