There was once an artist and a philanthropist who was not satisfied with his work. He could not find the right colours. The right canvas. The tools were mediocre. Common, easy to get tones were incapable of conveying his message. He was looking for the perfect hue. The perfect combination of saturation, texture and expression. So far, his efforts bore no fruit.
To pass the time, he worked in a soup kitchen to aid the less fortunate.
Until he met her. Her skin was alabaster. Her hair black as midnight. Both contrasted with her pursed, crimson lips. At last, he found her muse.
She was not shy. Far from it, she had a mind of her own. She was hot-tempered and the leader of her own life. Her passionate outlook on life only fuelled his interest towards her further. He knew he was staring at a diamond in the rough. With some adjustments, she’d be perfect.
Her feisty demeanour made it easy to propose to her a position as a model for one of his works. She saw it as an opportunity to step up within the social ladder. For him, it was a step closer to grasping the perfect magnum opus.
He invited her to her study. Its size was modest but brimming with personality. Overflowing with his obsessions.
While confident, she seemed unsettled by his art corner. He offered her a cup of tea in order for her to relax. It was a special blend, he assured her. A mix of strands combined with a technique passed by generations. It let you understand art to a higher degree.
After preparing the tea, she gulped the tea with no question. That is all it took for her to black out.
At last, the artist could start to work. With a delicate grasp, he took his crafting knife and began the incisions. They were accurate, done with a perfect pulse, and most of all, with pure love.
He needed painting to use for his work. Nothing a swift, decisive strike to the carotid artery could not fix. Blood gushed out in an spectacle of scarlet beauty. Etched in his mind, the crimson fountain would be a fond memory for time to come.
The vivid, wine tone of her lips dissipated. Darkening and thinning. His act of violence whisked away what beauty had left on her lips.
After some time, he managed to strip her out of her prized skin. It would make for a magnificent canvas. It was plentiful and stout enough to stretch over the entirety of the canvas. It provided an unprecedented texture and quality to it.
Last but not least, he needed materials for his brushes. Her exquisite mane would do. He was certain of it. Once again, separating her scalpel from her skull was a work of art in itself. He felt delight when manufacturing one-of-a-kind brushes. Of course, made from the hair strands of his muse. Not even the finest bristle from the most prized beasts could hope to compare. Such superb tools would let him paint a masterpiece, one that would be redefine the very essence of the term.
He toiled without a hint of a break all night long. Delirious, out of this world. That is how you would describe him and his finished masterpiece. It was a rose field, the most life-like rendition humanity would ever hope to gaze their eyes upon.
Finally, he achieved the masterpiece he always yearned.
The morning after, the destitute at the soup kitchen had an extraordinary feast. Plates of tender, ripe meat accompanied with fresh vegetables and spices. While they were grateful it was not gruel, they did notice a queer flavor in the dishes.
The meat, in particular.