Sometimes the best works of art are the ones you put all of your senses into......
Bijou Crawford, socialite and heiress, fluttered her hellos with Gucci Bag in hand, while walking the grand marble halls of the Metropolitan museum in Amherst, "Let's do Lunch!" being her favorite phrase to all of her socialite friends.
She made her way through the hall, stopping to browse at each modern art exhibit. Bijou considered herself a foremost critic on modern expressionism, when in all fairness her pocketbook was the better judge of work. Bijou spent thousands upon thousands of dollars every week on another painting or sculpture. After one artist would pass away the value would increase and she'd collect her money, then on to another, whether she was in need of it or not. She was a proverbial ambulance chaser of the art world.
As she walked on stopping to admire a Picaso, Bijou found herself in a collision with the most fearsome French expressionist of the times, Pierre De Rochelle. Most art critics feared him because of his violent undertones, which were found throughout all of his works. A tale was passed along about Pierre. Rumor was one critic made the fatal mistake of circulating a bad review of Pierre's work. Pierre's reaction was less than civil, witnesses would state. It was said Pierre made an appointment with the critic, and during this visit allegedly took a knife and cut off all ten of his digits, to ensure no more bad reviews. Of course this was just a rumor. Even if it weren't, Bijou didn't seem to pay much mind. As soon as she realized it was Pierre she made due with her apologies.
"Pierre, I do apologize."
Bijou took hold of his arm with her bony fingers.
"You know, I myself respect the expressiveness of all artists. The Picaso I just passed, always one of my favorites!"
She raved with bent wrist.
Pierre only replied with an angered sneer. He pushed passed her muttering something in French. Bijou followed after him.
Pierre was hanging up his own canvas on the barren white walls. Most likely the professionals who did this ordinarily, refused to be insulted by Pierre and his need for personal perfection. Women thought him to be the most handsome. He stood tall with dark brown hair and shocking blue eyes. As soon as his volatile personality emerged, his looks became a passing fancy, and went only as far as that.
The emotionally charged artist stood on his ladder adjusting the black
"Looks a little crooked, Dear!"
Bijou shouted up to him. When he ignored her, Bijou said it again.
"I say your little painting is crooked, Pierre!"
This time Pierre peered down at the obnoxious heiress, shooting her a cold and unwelcoming stare. Pierre was contented with his painting and so he left it the way he wished, crooked or not. Pierre descended the ladder, nearly stepping down on Bijou's open toed sandals, which was his precise intention.
Even though he showed her such disrespect, Bijou was not taking it
personal, and refused to leave Pierre be.
"Is this one of your new works, Pierre?"
Pierre turned to her and glared.
"Don't you have anywhere else to be?"
It was as if Bijou didn't hear a word he said. She went right ahead
gabbing in his ears.
"Through the World's Eyes!" Bijou read the wall plaque.
"I think I understand what you're trying to say with this, Pierre. The only thing I don't understand is why you have used all this red, and just one splotch of white? Is that supposed to be a bunny rabbit?"
Pierre's face exploded an angry red, almost the shade of his painting.
"No, it is not a bunny rabbit, you twit! It is the end of the world! That burst of white is an eyeball, which has exploded after Armageddon!"
Pierre raged. He looked down on Bijou as he sauntered toward her.
"No one insults my work!"
"Can I see some of your other works, Pierre?"
Bijou wasn't getting the hint, but it was a more than wonderful idea to Pierre.
"Of course, in fact, you have inspired me. Please come with me."
Pierre turned and headed down the corridor.
Bijou was excited.
"Imagine that, me, Bijou Crawford, a muse! Then again, I have always had a knack for inspiring men!"
Bijou quickly followed after him down the hall.
Once in while a great artist is left so passionate about one piece of work they never create again. Which in Pierre's case was true. After Bijou, he retired from the art world. Bijou in fact did inspire one of his greatest works. He called it Just B. The exhibition committee was taking their first glimpse of his acclaimed work. They all marveled at his genius, Peter Aldo from the committee and Allison Wentworth from the curator's office.
"The eyes on your work are magnificent, Pierre!"
"They are so lifelike, Pierre! It's almost as if you could reach out and
touch them. What materials did you use?"
"It's a trade secret, mon ami, but she certainly is my greatest piece."
Hanging above them was a blue, red and purple swirled painting, his usual expressionist method, but with one very different attribute. Two horror-filled blue eyes bulging with fear stared out from the canvas.
Bijou learned the hard way Pierre's sensitivity toward his work. No one insults his artistry without losing something of his or her own, by Pierre's will alone.
To be his muse, his inspiration, Bijou's heart just wasn't in
but her eyes certainly did fit.