I met an Artist the other day while browsing the seedy shops and local flavor of Jad down on the waterfront at Canal Park. He introduced himself to me as Sven. He is, like most of his caste, a pauper, working for handouts and bits of coin. Yet he is unlike the others in that I sense in him a communal flame that burns by the fire of the Muses, and like me, he is driven.
I watched him for many hours, painting at his easel like a madman. Sven wore no shirt and his upper body and hair were flecked with the multi oil colors of his palette. For a long time he paid me no mind, yet at some point the Artist became aware of me and graced me with a bit of coy flirtation.
Later that night, when I spoke to Marius of the Artist, he tried to dispel some of my notion that the Artist is as infatuated with me, as I am of him. Marius says that all street Artists are hustlers, and that I am just an unwitting mark. It is simply that Sven assumed because I dress in fine clothing, that I have coin to squander.
But I do not buy into this theory. I admire the intelligence and insight of my Master, but I am sure on this account he is wrong.
I've met with Sven several more times since that first encounter, and he has assured me on each occasion that I am far too beautiful not to be captured on canvas by his hand. The fee is so nominal -- just six copper tarsks. Marius is much too cavalier and just not on the same wavelength that Sven and I share.
On our last meeting he took me to his studio, which was little more than a grotto chisled into the stone support beam beneath one of the piers, and I became for him a welcomed succor wherein he emptied his lust into me between ravaging kisses.
I fear I will do anything to obtain those six measly copper tarsks.
I am not a hustler's mark.
I am the possessed lover of a rising star -- Sven the Artist.
And I believe his name shall be upon the lips of the avant garde in every city.
In every house.
Beating with passion in every breast.
I watched him for many hours, painting at his easel like a madman. Sven wore no shirt and his upper body and hair were flecked with the multi oil colors of his palette. For a long time he paid me no mind, yet at some point the Artist became aware of me and graced me with a bit of coy flirtation.
Later that night, when I spoke to Marius of the Artist, he tried to dispel some of my notion that the Artist is as infatuated with me, as I am of him. Marius says that all street Artists are hustlers, and that I am just an unwitting mark. It is simply that Sven assumed because I dress in fine clothing, that I have coin to squander.
But I do not buy into this theory. I admire the intelligence and insight of my Master, but I am sure on this account he is wrong.
I've met with Sven several more times since that first encounter, and he has assured me on each occasion that I am far too beautiful not to be captured on canvas by his hand. The fee is so nominal -- just six copper tarsks. Marius is much too cavalier and just not on the same wavelength that Sven and I share.
On our last meeting he took me to his studio, which was little more than a grotto chisled into the stone support beam beneath one of the piers, and I became for him a welcomed succor wherein he emptied his lust into me between ravaging kisses.
I fear I will do anything to obtain those six measly copper tarsks.
I am not a hustler's mark.
I am the possessed lover of a rising star -- Sven the Artist.
And I believe his name shall be upon the lips of the avant garde in every city.
In every house.
Beating with passion in every breast.
