“Diary of the Muses” 

By Ashley Lopez

August 19th, 1678:

My name is Catherine Dowser. I have ginger hair and hazel eyes. I am approximately 160 (cm), 15 years old, and I am muse #1. The “Artist,” that is what he told me to call him. When I first arrived here, he told me that I am his #1 muse, I do not know what that means. All I do know is that he is a very skilled painter. His first painting of me was something unique. He dresses me up, dolls up my hair, and adds these strange colors onto my face. He set me up on this stage of what looks like the ocean and just told me to stay still. Everything was quiet, the only thing that was heard was the fire in the room, the strokes of his brush on the canvas, and oh, of course, our breaths. His gaze lingers on me, the way his eyes are attuned to me as his work of art, his eyes see me as something ethereal. He never fails to captivate me, even if it is long hours sitting. Looking at him; at his black, medium-length hair, his long arms that extend too far out, and his hands that are a bit big for the brushes he has, it was a pleasurable time indeed. Once he was finished, he put it on the wall and marveled at it. I saw it too, I looked beautiful. I liked being painted by him. I like it when he calls me his muse because I am his. He continued to do his work. I quite enjoyed seeing him paint. I hope he keeps painting me. 

September 23rd, 1679: 

My name is Susanah Grace. I have black hair and brown eyes. I am approximately 170 (cm), 14 years of age and I am muse #2. I wonder what happened to Muse #1. The “Artist,” yelled at me when I asked him about his number one. His eyes went dark, he grabbed me by the neck. He asked me for forgiveness. I did. I held no malice. I knew he was kind. Once I finished forgiving him, he seemed to calm down. He then proceeded to tell me that I was his #1. He did not say anything more. If I was his number one, how come he had the paintings of another around his home, and there are even signs of someone else being here, even in this notebook? I did not question it though, he liked me. He dolls me up, puts me in different undergarments, and goes to work. His hands whenever they touched me, he thought I could never tell, since the only light in his home was that of a candle, his hands were cracked and rough. In the beginning, it startled me; he was something new but also something old, tired; like the times had caught up with him, but in a way, he was thrilled. I can not describe it. He likes how I look. I gaze attentively at the canvas in front of me, while the background he puts up behind me seems to strengthen my beauty. Once he is close to finishing, he tells me that my eyes are the final things he paints. The mirrors to his soul, he calls them. It is always quiet. Sounds of horses clopping, people speaking, and a hint of rain were a few of the echoes I heard. Whenever he painted, standing first then sitting, the atmosphere outside would tune itself out, almost like the noises knew he was working. Nothing from the background could be heard during this process but the fire, our breaths, and his brush. Whenever he spoke, his voice when he did speak would never come up above a whisper, but it was something I loved. I was the only one he would converse with. Did he converse with the other girl before me like this? If he did, was his voice also a whisper? Once he was done, that was it, I was a spectacle to behold. While I was done, his work was not. I would often see him looking at his canvas. His mind, from what I took notice of, worked in a weird way. He would just gaze upon the blankness in front of him attentively for hours, never once looking away. I loved watching him become attuned to his art. It was a sight to behold. 

June 13th, 1684

My name is Margaret Hutchinson. I have black hair and blue eyes. I am approximately 164 (cm), 13 years of age, and I am muse #7. His number one. The “Artist,” is a kind person, he knows how to make me feel special. His voice always resonated with me, the adjectives he uses when he describes how I look through his eye was something I enjoyed, so much so that the littlest out of placed black hair, he takes notice of. My arms were his special factor of mine. He always made sure my arms were uncovered or decorated with all kinds of frills. He told me once before we started, my arms reminded him of curtains, ones that would just drape over a bed to signal one slumber, but instead, they would drape over his canvas. Some garments he just had lying about, would often smell weathered and foul. He did not seem to question it, and I never wanted to ask; it never bothered me. They were still perfect clothes to wear. Spending time with him was peaceful and quiet, everything seemed to quiet down for him when he was painting. I did my best to appeal to his likeness, his way of decorating me as his muse. His desire to paint me grew with every stroke he placed. I never knew what I was going to become, it was always going to be a mystery. I could be his duchess one day and a ballerina the next, it was always something he would never spoil. He likes to set me up however he pleases, leading my body in any direction, my arms would be the seal, signaling the final stroke being landed. I just simply followed. I had to be compliant; I wanted him to look at me. His eyes needed to look at me. His gaze needed to burn something within me. In addition, and it is only a minor thing, I do know that there were more before me, six to be exact, and that is all. I am number 7, I do not know what that entails. I am his number one. What I do know is that my time here has been splendid. I am his only inspiration. 

October 28th, 1685: 

My name is Constance Thatcher. I have blonde hair and gray eyes. I am approximately 165 (cm), 17 years of age and I am muse #8. But I am his number one. Spending time with the “Artist” can be interesting at times. On some days, it would be mostly about painting me. On others, he would inform me of his leave. Before he departed, I would hear a church bell echoing out into what I assume was the streets. I was not allowed near the door, if I got near it, he would yell. I never did like that. He would disguise himself as he left, wearing some form of beard, head garment, or dress, rather peculiar garments he would wear. He had said that he never wanted to be bothered outside. Inspiration is what he sought out. He would call me his elegant sculpture. That word always fascinated me, he would treat me like an elegant woman even if I was still an improper lady, but he never saw me as such. He would always sit me down, pose me, paint me, and I would be set for him. No blemishes, not one. No faults, zero. My face was the masterpiece he sought out, cheekbones so pronounced, a nose just the perfect size, with lips so plump and cherry red. He needed me to be his pearl-painted sculpture, and I was going to make sure I was that. I wanted to be needed by him, it did not matter who he had before me or after. I was his sculpture, his artwork at this very moment, who knows how long we will have together. Whenever he was done, the paintings he would create of me always turned out magnificent, just like the others. He was quite masterful with a brush. Being a muse was always peaceful, although there were times he got loud. He would become quiet after that, but I always knew he was upset. He would get mad, but never at me. He forgave me, but he still would not speak to me, no matter how hard I tried, mumbling to himself, an octave so low, it pierced through me. I feared those days, never knowing what to do. I am his number one muse. I just needed to be patient, even if we do not speak, we will talk to one another through his art. As I read the other entries, I wondered if the ones before me enjoyed their time here. I know I do. 

July 18th, 1695:

My name is Eleanor Hooper. I have brown hair and greenish-blue eyes. I am approximately 172 (cm), 18 years of age and I am muse #18. The first thing I noticed was the number of paintings The “Artist,” had, of young girls before me. He showed me when I was… I do not remember when… it was a while, I suppose. He had a lot of them, but he told me I was his number one, I believe his words. He says it with sincere eyes and a loving voice. It does not faze me; all it makes me want to do is try harder for him than any other muse he has had. There is something about him that feels wise, he would just sit down, take one look at me, and then his hands would move on his own in unison with his eye, as if he has done this multiple times before, and then I was made into a masterpiece. True beauty is what he calls me. He says my skin is that of porcelain, that nothing will ruin it, not even by his own hands. My hair is the prominent thing in his pieces, with the one glance I get, my hair looks like nothing more than a pile of horse manure, at least that is what I think it reminds me of. He tells me it reminds him of something he has seen before but does not remember when. He tells me it reminds him of something he has seen before but does not remember when. It reminds him of a bundle of brown leaves falling on my face, ones that accentuate it, that is what my hair means to him. I found it quite amusing. His compliments hold so much power to them, grasping at my heartstrings, never wanting to let go. Were the other girls taken by them? It never matters how long he spends painting me, all that matters is the time we share. Not one complaint will come out of mouth, he can paint me however long he pleases to. I will be the best muse for him, the “Artist’s,” number one. The final muse he will ever desire, I hope I can make that wish come true. 

November 29th, 1696: 

My name is Judith Bridges. I have black hair and red eyes. I am approximately 154 (cm), 12 years of age and I am muse #19. From what I gathered from reading the other entries, every girl before me was older than I am, and that will not stop me. I will do whatever it is he has in store for me to win his affection. Unique, that is the word he uses when he speaks to me. I am his unique innocent muse, that is the reason he chose me. His dragon-borne princess, he speaks so highly of me. I want him to see me as the dragon he paints me as. The dragon with black scales and red fiery eyes, he sees me in a way that makes me giggle. He cares for me, is that how much he loved the other girls? There were more, but I am his number one little dragon. Everyone in this book speaks of him with kindness. He is a kind man. He shows me his version of love like a father would his daughter. I entertain him through his art, and he lets me entertain myself, on occasion, I am allowed to explore the space we are in. A space not that big on the inside, a room for him, for me, his space for his paintings and fun colors in the middle, and on occasion when I am left alone, I hear the sound of pittering rain coming from outside, although I can not see it. Even if the ground in my room below me is cold and it smells funny, even if I do get scared without him here with me. He will come back, that I am sure of. I will remain by his side. This is our home; the place he and I spend our time together. His art will truly make me happy, his affections for me will be captured on an empty, unfinished canvas. I will be his dragon muse. Oh, to be loved by him is such a wonderful thing. He calls me his one and only. No matter if he had others before me, I will be the one he can not forget, the one with more paintings than anyone else. The few candlelights we have illuminated his warm gaze. The fireplace will be burning. His breathing is slow and calm like a sleeping father dragon, my father dragon. His hands are rough from the brushes he uses, but he is still going strong. Everything about him is striking, but he cares and looks at me with admiration. 

January 2nd, 1721: 

My name is Hannah Mitchell. I have chestnut-brown hair and amber eyes. I am approximately 173 (cm), 16 years of age, and I am muse #44. As I read the many tales in this book of all those who came before me, I wonder if they had as much fun as I am having here with the “Artist,”. Was this home of his their home as well, and if so, where are they now, and did they feel this fondness towards him as I do? His home is a dimly lit space, with no sunlight pouring in. There is a window but I consider it too small, it can be cold but warm at the same time, it is hard to describe; I could be shivering, but whenever he looks at me with those dark eyes of his, all that coldness I felt before was replaced with this fiery heat. This place has this mysterious ambiance to it; almost like there is an added layer of anxiousness coming from The “Artist,” like he is in a hurry to perfect me as his masterpiece. He always calls me his #1 muse and says I am special, more than I could ever imagine. I am the muse that grows his artistic side, the one who allows him to paint such fantastic creations. He knows I have a baby-like innocence, that also has a mature essence about herself, an added bit of sultriness, he says; when he says that it brings a smile to my face like you can not imagine. He allows me to put on these beautiful dresses. Granted, some are a bit small, and some fit me just right. They were a bit worn out like they were being eaten from the inside by some creature. He does not care what I wear, he just tells me to sit down and look like royalty. He calls me his queen and says that no one can compare to my beauty, and why would anyone compare? I am his Queen, the one with sunset hair and honey-colored eyes; a striking look that combines my voluptuous legs that are adorned with nothing but the finest silk. As someone who has always been with him, I know that as an artist, he grows tired, yet he still calls me his “Queen Muse.” He has this maturity about him, it must just be his height; he is quite tall, towers over me a bit, or can it be the way he carries himself? He has this tiredness about him but, his inspiration for me never wanes, painting me in colors that are fit for his Queen, and I find that just awe-inspiring. He always has ideas for me. It is silly to me just how much that head of his can conjure up, any form of queen I shall be for him. Our time together is one full of mellowness, nothing happens when he paints, and nothing needs to happen. I am content with him just painting me, and he is content with being the only one who can look at me, who gets the chance to see me every day and every night, it boggles my mind just how much I can mean to him. Being together with him is all I can ask for, and it does not matter if He gets angry with me, that anger of his will never bother me, even if he lays his hands on me. He says it is not my fault. He is the frustrated one, but never at me. The fire stays on. His breath shortens with each brush stroke he makes, pulling through until all of his brushes are filled to the brim with color. His eyes will always be glued to me, the artistic muse he is enraptured in, looking intensely only at me. It is something that I could get acclimated to. I hope I can stay here for a long while. I hope we will stay like this for the days to come. 

February 14th, 1747: 

Finally, you discovered me. I hope these findings were worth the wait. I was hoping this would be a much greater escapade. From the looks of these entries, you might think I am somewhat of a psychopath, but I am not. I took care of my muses when they were in my care. They were given a home. A place where their duties or names do not matter. I fed them. I painted them. I loved them. I even made them into my beautiful models. They were my precious dolls. They were my porcelain treasures. I would never get angry with them. My failures were never their fault. They had no reason to fear me. They were in good hands. At least, that is what I told myself. If you found these entries my time as the “Artist,” on this Earth is up. I am no longer able to fulfill my duties, my mind can no longer create my masterpieces, my body feels so heavy, and my hands are so brittle they can no longer hold the brushes I used. All these girls served their purpose. They gave me the inspiration I needed until I was DONE with them. Until they no longer served their purpose for me. I gave these girls everything. Their stories did not matter to me, all that mattered to me was what I could paint them into. All of them were my little Muses. I cherished every one of them. What I know, and what you should know too, is that I LOVED my muses till their very end, till the inspiration I got from them was all dried up. I used them until they were of no use to me. I hope you enjoyed their tales; I know I enjoyed making them happen. 

Sincerely, 

The “Artist” 

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