The Naked Muse

The Naked Muse

1

Apartment 4D was a spacious, almost dilapidated room with the stench of nicotine permanently etched on its walls. It was a fourth storey apartment. It was along M. Fernando St., and was mostly inhabited by Asian immigrants.

The apartment walls were painted moss green, but one could no longer make out the color from the water and paint stains. An RCA Victor and a faded rug comprised a humble living room. There was no dining table, only a double counter. There was no bedroom, only a double mattress with coffee-stained sheets.  There were virtually no signs that could make it homely.

Half of the apartment was converted into a studio. It was the only thing that made it home to the tenant. The studio had four windows where the light could easily penetrate the floors, and the wind could easily aerate the stench of paint and fresh canvass.

One window was especially special for the tenant. It overlooked the long line of neighborhood apartments. Every morning, the tenant would sit by the window, a coffee on his hand and a cigarette on the other, and he would simply watch from above. The view was spectacular for the tenant. Not that it could rival the dance of neon lights of the city at night, but he felt an omniscient power over it. He drew inspiration from it. He felt like the neighborhood was something raw, something original, and something true.

A phonograph rested on one corner of the room. It was playing a record of Edith Piaf, her French songs flooding the studio with an overpowering dance of notes and bitterness. Among the other corners of the studio rested several paintings. Some were neatly stacked like a deck of cards, few were hung on the walls.

Most of the paintings were ordinary sceneries. Mrs. Ying walking her dog and little Patel playing with fireworks. The mailman walking under the rain. Deaf Mr. Lee taking out the trash. The landlord making one of his wood carvings. They were ordinary but they were powerfully captivating; each stroke emotional; the colors playing with expressions and interpretations. It was both art and life. A shade in between the stillness and creativity, an equilibrium transcendence of both.

Dean Ambers finished the last of his coffee. The beans were crowding what remained of the lukewarm liquid. And he wondered if the beans were comparative to life, that most people crowd at necessities when it’s almost gone. He laughed at himself. He laughed for being so deep at seven in the morning.

Dean Ambers was twenty-nine, uninsured, broke and an aspiring and often unnoticed artist. He once illustrated magazine art for four years but decided it was a waste of his talent. So he took a leap of fate and decided to leave the world of publishing and went freelance. For two years, he’d been unemployed, painting endlessly with the vigor of his youth. He’s scouted himself to several local galleries but none would risk launching an unnamed artist. So he contented himself with selling his pieces for less than a hundred dollars apiece. Oftentimes some small time independent art “salesmen” would vouch for him and he’d score at least three hundred dollars; and these were extremely rare cases.

Dean sighed for a long time, examining his studio. He can’t deny it anymore: he was a failure. No one would buy anything from him anymore. He’s spent the last of his money on eight canvass boards and a box of oil paint and he couldn’t even think of what to paint this time. Truth is, he was a good painter, but he was a bad juju. He was bad luck. Even if he repainted the Mona Lisa in perfect comparison, no one would notice him.

Nobody ever does.

He shut his windows, threw himself on his bed and let the stench of mold and coffee engulf him. He turned his head to his right and a syringe rested on a stack of books. He reached for it, pulled the cap off and even without a tourniquet, aimed for his arm. He knew exactly where to stab, he knew exactly where the green vein of life ran through.

And he threw himself into lucid dreams. In his dreams, he was famous, he was rich. And this time, a naked muse posed before him.

~~

Robb Tate smiled and posed as told by the fat bald guy in front of him. When he was asked to take off his shirt, he gladly did so. When he was asked to pull down his pants, without hesitation, he snaked off of it. When he was asked to bulge his muscles, he was more than happy to show off his testosterone-filled flesh. But when he was asked to exit the room with promises of being called back, he knew exactly what the fat bald guys meant: he was being rejected.

It was the fourth agency that had gladly rejected him. Of course, he was a pretty boy, everybody who auditioned were pretty boys. But Robb Tate lacked one thing: personality, whatever the hell that means. Sure, his black hair didn’t stand out like the blondies or the brown haired curlies, or his brown eyes doesn’t pop out like those blue eyed Europeans boys, but he was altogether handsome. His face wasn’t exotic, but his whole aura was pure, almost angelic. But the fat bald guy of every agency said that angelic faces do not sell deodorants and tight jeans or even get to star in motion films.

So Robb walked wearily out of the building and trotted back to his apartment which he shared with his cousins. But he couldn’t just walk in and spill the bad news. He’s brought too much bad news for the last six months.

Fifteen minutes later, he found himself sitting in a pub, a bottle of cold beer and nuts consoling his rejected butt. A tiny radio was playing music behind the bartender, he wasn’t sure of it but the musician sounded like a French woman.

After three bottles of beer less than two hours later, his head was already feeling dizzy, he was never a good drinker. He decided he should head back home now and reached for his coat pocket for a dollar or two. He found a five dollar bill and a paper. He tossed the bill beside his cup of nuts and realized that the paper seemed familiar.

Dean Ambers

4D Ling Tsui Building, M. Fernando St.

He snickered in disbelief. It was the crazy guy he met in a pub three weeks ago. He thought the guy was gay for he’d been eyeing him uncomfortably for hours. Turns out he was an artist, or at least he thinks he does. And he made Robb the craziest offer: to be his naked muse. If he hadn’t been drunk that night he would have punched the yatsoo in the face but instead he accepted the offer and promised to come visit the address for a posing audition. But he never did.

Too bad he may never know if he was real deal. Or could he? He knew the building, it was a couple of blocks away. Hell, what could happen? He’d been rejected four times, he might as well take every opportunity that goes in his path.

And so, Robb Tate, trotted along M. Fernando St., the haze of the alcohol still lingering in his body, and for some reasons that could change his life altogether, he knocked on apartment 4D.