Faded Dreams

We all have memories of dreams, the troubles we once held, consumed day to passing night. A couple of years ago I had a dream of elegant nature, not a creature of a life like so many of my dreams, it was a repast of a life.

I had the dream that I would become an artist’s model and not by beauty but by heart I should garner my fame as a desire. An utmost need to every artist who knew or only have yet to know they require a warm body to create true life in still nothing of color. From painter to photographer to sculptor would I be tossed around the globe, sought, created, glorified and scrutinized by artists who seek out only what is. In this life I require no riches but only a friendly hand, an open smile and one warm meal a day. I expected no glamour, no fame but only opportunity, chance to know of the greatest minds, to see creation, to see the world moving and dying behind eyes of innocence. I would by great heart create my charm, by quick mind earn my reputation. I have no desire to be an artist in this life no, no I wished to move through the heated breath of creators who toil in the filth of the ditches with a scrubbed face and teach philosophy fractured with belief. To lay my hand on each sweat rich brow and speak, to think is to be.

Through knowledge of living, through knowledge of lies, through lessons of heart would I give the bearing of soul to each piece. To each item of beauty would I give a piece of myself, sunny and silk to cotton and loneliness but never would it give a drop of beauty to me. Because I would not squander my right and duty, to bear soul upon not only beauty but to represent common workers with hair dark as oil, to missing children whom wandered off from home, to the homeless who forge on still, forgotten walkers of cold streets, mothers, daughters, those with broken hands, the resented, the plagued, those fallen in the dirt, with bleeding lips, limps, those who know no treasure but memory, eyes in the dark and rosy cheeks never seen. Touch them with hands of care, offer the open palm and shed light through tears.

At the same time I am acutely aware of my other obligation, to birth in you inspiration, to provide the fool’s gold, hope. My caress, my song, my warmth, to allow you to bathe in a glory that is not mine, no I merely pour the warm waters down your back and wipe your face clean. I am to love you as you come and I shall, to each person who stands before me I shall be pitiful. It is my duty because I am not human, I am art, I am thought, to think is to be and I am nothing else but raw existence.

Need less to say this dream never came to be and I suppose I shall close the book on it.

Goodbye my loves and troubles.

Artists in order of appearance:

1. Joanna Zjawinska

2. Loic Allemand

3. Frank Weston Benson

4. Richard Emil Miller

5. Renoir