Young Writers Society

Ok well, here it is! I had a few people ask me to post this after I posted a small extract a little while ago from a later chapter. I have not posted this before as I have been working really hard on it, it's my first novel since Ice Cubes and becuase it is set in 1912 I have been doing a ton of research. Also this is based around the idea of a 'novel of manners' sort of a dedication to Edith Wharton and the way she writes. So here is the first part, not the whole chapter, enjoy and rip apart as you please

Papillon Embouteillé

The Artist

“Where there is love there is life.”

- Gandhi

The opressive heat was too much for her to bear. She stood impatiently, her posture poor, hip bones jutting out at her sides. Isaac looked at her. Her eyes were hollow, the usual mystery blanked from them. His painting would not be completed that day. He let his brush tilt aimlessly on the side of his palette, the blend of acrylics creating a delicious colour, crisp, hardening on the wood. He walked out from behind his canvas over to where she stood. Cupping her thin face into his hands he kissed her plump red lips. His hands ran through her orange tresses of hair, down her naked back and to her waist. Her skin felt clammy, fingertips sticking to her side. He pulled away and looked at her like he had never looked at a woman before. Her soft skin seemed to unravel around him. He loved the way her bones structured her frame perfectly. If his art could not capture her beauty, he simply wished he could remember this image of her forever; he would bind it with a ribbon and keep it in his jacket pocket. Just her scent was enough to make him fall in love with her all over again. She turned away from him; her gaze fell outside the window. He ran his hand through his dark brown hair, his eyes narrowing at the small market outside. He gently took her aside and closed the green wooden shutters, shutting out the prying eyes of men. Silently she made her way to their living room table, picking up the hat her husband had bought for her. It was brown with two feathers – orange and blue. She stroked the blue feather carefully, bought it to her face and ran it across her cheeks. Blue, blue made her feel calm.

Isaac paced restlessly up and down the corridor, his shoes making a dapper clicking sound as he did so. He did not have time to marvel at the marble floors, or the elaborate chandeliers. Alain Bodine was one of his oldest and closest friends, but the presentation of his work to the older male always made him impatient and nervous. He thought about Cecilia for a split second, the picture of course was of her. Any criticism to the piece was surely criticism of his wife. He frowned at the thought before pushing it out of his mind again. His eyes kept diverting up to the clock, how long did it take to look at a painting? It must have been poor, if the man could not find any good in it after half an hour. Alain was always brutally honest with him, and although he had never disliked the young artist’s work he didn’t always buy it from him. Isaac understood that although their friendship was important to Alain that it was his business, and he couldn’t possibly take on inferior pieces of work. He didn’t like the thought of letting Alain down; he hated the possibility of failing. It seemed like a lifetime before his friend emerged from his study, the painting in hand.

“Isaac! I must admit this new piece really is your finest work.” Rough hands fondled the picture of his wife, yet a smile still appeared on the young artists face.

“Why thank you Alain, it is a relief to hear you say those words.”

“You just keep getting better and better. It is about time that you drew a picture of your wife as well,” Alain’s face drew into a wide smile “She doesn’t mind that you sell paintings of her nude…you don’t mind other men-“

“Men can look; their eyes can do no harm.” Isaac gently patted his companion on the back.

“Eyes can lead others to a different path Isaac, and with such fleeting beauty that your wife possesses I would be careful.”

“I appreciate your concern Alain, but I know her well and I trust her not to stray,” his eyes turned back to the painting “Will you buy it?” Alain too looked back at the painting, his fingers caressing the sides of the canvas, his stubby thumbs carelessly flaking off parts of the paint.

“I think we can come to some sort of agreement. You know how I love your work Isaac, how I wish I could still paint but with these damn hands…” he trailed off, his eyes scanning over every wrinkle on the hands that held the canvas “You know how much profit I make, and being your friend it makes me feel awful.”

“Oh hush Alain,” Isaac laughed, his eyes crinkling slightly at the sides as he did so “It is just business, we are both out to make what we can. I would never wish to sell my work to anyone else.”

“I will never understand men like you, men who turn their backs to the wealth they could achieve. I could do an exhibition of your work; let France see your talent Isaac.” Isaac looked at his friend for a moment. The older male was experienced in the art business, a retired painter himself. Isaac trusted everything about him, apart from his eyes. Those beedy little things told stories of spite and lost love. Those eyes made him feel uncomfortable.

“An exhibition?” He replied, his eyes glancing over the new painting.

“You are like a son to me Isaac, the least I could do is offer you my studio for an exhibition. It would arouse much hype; you would make a lot of money.”

“Alain, you are too kind…”

“It is about time that I held an exhibition for you is it not? How long have we known each other Isaac? It is the least I could do.”

Isaac remembered his life before he met Cecilia. He was sixteen when he was accepted into the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna, pressured into applying by his overpowering father. It frightened him to be in another country, intimidated by the new culture and language. But what pride his father had shown when his ‘boy’ was accepted into such a place. “You need to be an important person Isaac, only important people get remembered, you do not want to have a blank grave stone.” He knew full well that his father had only the best intentions for him, yet such hatred for the man dwelled inside him, such words he wished he could say…he wished he still could say. Even now as a man his Father was the one person he feared the most, yet his now elderly father had not ever bothered to see any of his small exhibitions, and he would no doubt be too busy to attend this large one. His Mother was a different person altogether, she was kind and loving towards her son, much like a Mother should be. Being an only child she devoted herself fully to his well being, buying him smart clothes, taking him everywhere with her. She used to pick him up and carry him after an evening out, his arms wrapped loosely around her neck as he slept in her arms, his Father marching ahead in front of them. Her death was sudden. Such a shock that he couldn’t mourn her properly, he delved into his studies, he forgot about her by the time he was in Vienna. Not even her familiar voice could be recalled to him then.

The Academy of Fine Arts was a fine splendour of a building in itself. Isaac felt intimidated by the building, like it was the building that ruled him. Vienna was an unusual place to him as well, although being at the Academy was probably the best place to him, it was a far cry from Paris. He lived in such a time when art was of fine elegance, nudity was not painted, and if it was it was done with beautiful gold colours, obscuring the ‘real life’ side of humans, the figures looking godlike. Either that or people just drew landscapes. It wasn’t that he wanted to just see naked women, but grass and animals really did not appeal to him. His desire to explore the natural form shocked his teachers, yet his want to have a more free expression were not new for an artist at the time. How he admired artists such as Klimt and Schiele, he loved how his style reflected theirs, intimate, delicate. He wanted to have the bravery they did, to put their art out there for all to see, not really thinking about the consequences. It was frustrating for the young artist to be told how and what to draw. Still, he did feel proud to be accepted into such a prestigious school, it was the most notable thing to happen to someone in his family, he felt sorry for any younger relatives who had to live up to him, to his impending fortune. It was not until he had returned to France two years later that he tasted his first mouthful of money, which went to his Father to pay for the costs of sending him to Vienna in the first place. He felt somewhat conned by the man – how could he possibly be in debt to someone who practically forced him to do the thing he was in debt for in the first place? He now felt pity on his Father when it was him who came knocking on his door, asking for just a little bit of money to pay the bills, which, despite the dark feelings he felt towards the man, he always gave him the money without a second thought.

His first exhibition was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him; it was at his first exhibition that he met a certain prestigious artist that he eventually found his father figure in, Mr Alain Bodine. Alain encouraged him in a much more positive way than his real Father, and although Alain told him to keep the more intimate paintings for when he had a wider reputation, he praised every piece that he did. The first exhibition showed young dancers mid movement, their clothes twirling, embroidering into each other, vast landscapes painted with such vibrancy it took your breath away, and flowers, flowers so well drawn you could almost pick them up and smell them. As much as he wanted to enjoy his exhibition, he was a bag of nerves, eager to please the people coming to look at his work. No matter what emotions he felt that night, he still felt it was the most important night of his life, he would never forget it.

The high social life that followed his success was down to Alain Bodine. Alain took him to parties, rooms full of up and coming new art types, from poets to painters, Alain took him to meet them all. Alain was still drawing at that time, seeking even more inspiration from the young artist. They spent days together, sitting in Alain’s house, the windows open in the summer, wrapped in warm blankets in the winter, just painting. Isaac had never felt such guilt when he was invited to parties and told not to bring Alain, yet he felt such need to be part of that society that he attended them on his own, without his mentor. He enjoyed the new people he met without Alain there; he loved how conversations turned to how much they loved watching ‘Le voyage dans la lune’ which to him at the time was the best film ever created. He lived for those parties, indulging in the ingenious mixture of alcohol and tobacco, kissing the pretty women. Yet Alain was always in the back of his mind. Little did he know, but Alain knew that he was no longer part of this prestigious circle of artists, simply because he could no longer paint the way he did. His hands had been devoured by arthritis, his bones now brittle. He older man was more than happy to pass down his friends onto Isaac; he had moved in the art circle for too many years, he feared that any more of the all night parties and drugs would probably kill him. Alain was glad that he had met Isaac, glad to have passed that torch down to someone so deserving of the fame and fortune he was bound to inherit. Alain already had new ideas about what was next in his life, his own art studio made him more money than any of his art had ever done, and what better way for him to stay in the art world, by actually buying the art, exhibiting it, he was technically on top of the art culture in Paris, at no real risk to his health, only to his wallet.