***
The rest of the day, he had me doing stills again. This time, I stood completely naked on top, facing the blank canvas that had half a picture of me printed on it.
“I don’t understand why I have to be naked for this,” I said, my hand covering my naked chest. The girls were covered in gooseflesh, and I didn’t think that made for a very nice picture. My hair was down and wild once more, only this time he’d had someone come in and professionally mess it up. That had me laughing so hard he left the space on a turn of his heel to go check on his other work. Really, I knew I was annoying him. He probably wasn’t used to his muses talking back or giving him a hard time. Made me wonder how many muses he’d had in the past. The thought that I was just one of many irked me.
“Have you ever hired a muse?” I really didn’t want to know the answer but couldn’t refrain from asking.
The camera clicked and he spoke to one of his attendants in French who adjusted the big lights a few inches. Another click. “No, ma jolie. You’re the only one,” he finally answered. And it was enough. I liked being his only muse for hire. Not sure that made me any better than the other models, but for my own mental stability, I pretended it did.
“What are we doing anyway?” I asked facing the blank section of canvas on the unfinished picture.
“I’m going to make you love your image. Which will translate to the viewer as loving yourself.”
I’m certain my eyes narrowed unattractively at his statement. “Come again?”
He let out a tired breath. “Ma jolie, I need to finish these stills so I can paint and have dinner with you, make love to you, then paint your image onto canvas. There is much to do,” he said like a broken record.
That wasn’t what slithered through my subconscious though. It was the way he made a laundry list of things he had to do and having dinner with me and “making love” to me where part of his chores this evening. “Don’t do anything on my account,” I responded angrily.
“Mia, your mood is affecting your image. Please stop thinking about being frustrated with me and focus on the job at hand.”
I turned around beyond pissed, hands on hips, forgetting my tits were flailing in the wind for all to gawk at. “I can’t do that,” my voice rose several octaves, getting additional attention from his men in black working around the room. I thrust a hand over my bared breasts trying for a modicum of modesty. “I don’t even know what you want me to do!” came out through my clenched teeth.
Alec came over to me and positioned me back at the wall. He leaned in close, pushing the hair off my shoulder and neck where he nuzzled in. “Ma jolie, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to anger you. Tensions are high. Let’s focus together, and we’ll talk more later. Oui?” He said in that calm tone that, after only two days, seemed to work like a charm at calming me and centering my focus at the same time. With the barest of pressure, he kissed the top of my shoulder. It felt like a promise, one I’d be making sure he kept later this evening.
“Now, place your hand here,” he lifted my right arm alongside the wall. The other, I want at the bottom of the canvas over your image’s heart. I placed my hand delicately on the canvas. Even though it was a silkscreen image I didn’t want to mess it up. Alec went back to his camera. “Okay Mia, please stare at your image. Think back to a time where you felt loved. Beautiful. At home in your own skin.”
Instantly, I was catapulted to a memory of being a small child. It was before my Mom abandoned us. We were a happy family of four then. I had just won the lead part in our county’s children’s play. Mom was even happy for me, and she usually was primarily focused on her own desires and wins. But not that day. That day, she gave me a hug and a kiss, and told me she was proud of me and would always love me. Then my Dad scooped me into his arms and held me close. He whispered into my ear how he always knew I had something special. Something no other little girl had. And in that moment, secure in my dad’s arms and my mother’s love, I believed him. Best day of my life.
The camera clicked like wild. Then the memory continued, the next day, Mom left and never came back. I never did star in that play. For a long time I thought it was my fault that she left. Because I did something so well and got all Dad’s attention, something I knew she craved a lot of, even when I was only ten years old. Now as an adult, I knew different. Well, mostly.