I always loved art galleries. The personal one my parents maintained had always inspired me. Each pie their colle a testament to the deepest emotions of the artist made ma.
I remember my favorite piece from their gallery being of a little girl on a swing, in motion, in the middle of a void. It robably the first piece where I had to look freater meaning by seeking out the artist. Despite the happy look on the girl's face, the painting had clearly meant to portray anguish, and I o know why.
Trag the artist down was no easy task, back then. However, I refused to give up, aually found her in a sha a small town. She was w on a new piece, rather sdalous what with the church's rules, of two women holding hands, cuddling. However, as she added details, I spoke up. "Excuse me, I've e a long way looking for an artist and happeo enter your home. Your painting took me by surprise. Are you doing this from memory?"
She turo me, quite old by the look of her face, and smiled, "Wele in. And thank you. Yes, this is me and my wife, when we were younger. Every year, I lose a bit more, so I'm trying to capture my memory in my artwork."
I was stuhis painting carried a sense of loss from the loss of her memory? But the style was exactly like the one in my parent's gallery! "You wouldn't have happeo have taken an appre some point, would you? Your art style is unique, and I think I may have seen a work in this style before."
"Ah yes," she reminisced. "That'd be my memory of pying on a swing. I tried for many days to get the surroundiails, you know, but there's nothing I could do. The pain surrounding me as a girl was too great to bear my memories on, so I portrayed that instead."
Ever sihat day, I preferred feeding off of artists, and I was rather picky. I once refused to feed for nearly a decade because I couldn't find someoo suit my palette. While there was never a she of creatives, something was just quantifiably *better* about the women I fed from.
In the "modern" era, as they're santly calling the current day, it's been far easier to find artists, and they've bee increasingly ied in my offer. Something about society not quite appreciating them, having trouble maki, eased their of me. Fools, everyone who didn't see in these beautiful souls what I did.
Despite artists themselves being easier to find, certain ones have been progressively pushed out of the art se. Which is a shame really, sihose are my prefere really only meant that it would take me loo find one.
I'd been t an art museum in a city, appreciating the art, when I paused, my heart nearly beating. I found my parthe piece wasn't by any means the most elegant, but it reminded me of the painting in my parents' art gallery.
It was of a young person, not quite defined, face written over with anguish. They were leaning rabbing their stomad there were wounds on their arms and legs. The rest of the painting seemed to be of a happy family, eating dinner, chatting jovially. pletely unaware of the pain of their supposed family member.
I took note of the painting, The Happy Family, with what was obviously a fake name. I tracked down one of the museum coordinators and asked wheist would be around. "Hmm, it seems they've got a scheduled preview for their pieorrow at 2. Try ing back then."
The wait was excruciating, but well worth it. The best feeding partners always were.
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Artist POV
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I'd been having an incredibly shitty m. My phone broke when I fot I had slept with it, and I had to quickly put together a fundraising campaign using the library puter so I could scrape together the money for it. Thankfully, my unity reached out with support and my phone was now fixed, but it was nearly time for my showcase and I still haden otten dressed for it.
Getting back, I checked social media, being intensely jealous of some of the trans women in my unity. They seemed to be living their life, but I couldn't? What they were talking about, the ges on HRT, never quite appealed to me, even though I'd thought about it quite a lot. Still, they were always there to help me out and had even adopted me, so I couldn't be too mad at them.
I hastily threw on my clothes, buttoning them up on my way out the door. Hopefully, there was someone who wao purchase my piece today so I could have some breathing room. The call I got from the museum coordinatave me high hopes in that regard, but she seemed to dodge around my questions when I tried to inquire about who they were and why they liked my piece. Well, I guess it's money. So long as they don't ask for some *really* weird shit, I should be fine.
The bus was cutting it a little close today, but it was fairly on time, one of the reasons I moved here. I ran iting my hair down as I went. It's getting long, hopefully I get it cut soon. I was certain I looked barely presentable.
Running inside like this wasn't something I liked doing, as I liked to see what new details I could noti the architecture each day. Yesterday's was the i pattern oop of the arches, tulips. I had looked it up ht and apparently the architect was Dutbsp;Seeing such small details be overlooked by most was a little sad, but felt like a nice surprise for those who cared.
As I made my way to the desk, I noticed that there were more people than normal. I ended up having to push my way through the crowds to reach the front desk, hoping they could tell me where the coordinator was. To my surprise, the coordinator was there and she looked like she had been waiting for me.
"It's about time you got here, I was worried I'd have to tell your most promising ce for a beor yet that you'd not be able to show up. I'm not sure what she sees in your work, but you o get over there, she wants to meet in person." She talked over me and refused to eve me get a word in. I just nodded dumbly and followed her to my painting.
Ohere, what I saw could only be described as the most etrian I had ever seen. Every single piece of clothing she wore seemed to be directly out of a different era. And I don't mean that the pieces were designed after the styles of different eras, I mean they looked like they had been lovingly taken care of, sometimes for turies.
My mind split in two, one half simping for her, the other half imagining all the different looks this woman's wardrobe must be able to put together and how much I wao paint them all. I think I found my muse.
Theuro me, and my mind bnked.
