DaVinci's Lady

[Calla Lily]

May 18, 2002?

For the annual ?Shakespeare Festival.?

I was a dreamer, not an actor.? I wasn?t that interested in the backstage wonders of the theatre because words were my secret life. But I couldn?t tell anyone, least of all my family. So I went to the festival desperately hoping that something good would come out of it and that my parents didn?t think it was a waste of time. Then I met my soul-mates, my best friends, who showed me that it?s okay?

To love writing for the soul.

~Calla Lily (aka Dragon Faere)
?


?- - -
?DaVinci?s Lady?
- - -


?In sooth, I know not why I am so sad;
It wearies me, you say it wearies you;?


?
In the very beginning both were strangers in a closet stuffed with moth-ridden clothing and well-used art materials.

Not knowing what to do or what to say.

?Humanity underestimated me,? she says now, ?and look at what I have become.?

?
*????????????? *????????????? *

?
The artist beheld the image of his latest creation, a face? a face of scorn, wonderment, and dare he say it? Beauty?

?Why are you so sad?? asked the man.

?I am made to reflect you, I reflect the world.? came the unheard reply. She did not think she was very pretty in the first place and neither did he.

The artist spat at his picture and walked out of the room muttering foreign swears. A paintbrush stood up from the table and peered at her.

?You are beautiful.?

?You think so??

?I know so.?

?He does not think so.?

?Well, he did not make you, did he??

?Yes he did.?

?No.? I am the one who made you, he only takes the credit.? The stranger came closer to the canvas and stared into her black pupil-less eyes, starting to tremble.

?What?s wrong?? Silence, then he repeated, ?You are beautiful.?

?No, I am not, just look at this frown.?

?Why do you say that??

?Because.?

?That makes no sense at all.?

?And your point would be??

?That you are smiling.?

?Only to you.?

?And to me that is what you are.?

?Then you must be the only one.? she taunted.

?Who cares?? I made you.?

?Stop saying that,? the painting answered irritably.

?Why??

?Because it is stupid.?

?No.? and he shook his head.

?Go away, you bother me.?

?Fine!? I shall stay right here on the table, beside the palette, staring right at you ? you whom I made with my own horse-hair bristles and these colours I mixed on this table!?

?Stop it!?

With a tone of finality he answered, ?Fine, I?ll stop.? The bristle brush hopped back down from the easel and jumped across the marble floor, slipped and fell on his flat side every three jumps.

?You cannot walk,? she giggled. Paintbrush bristled his hairs and kept hopping. ?You do know that you are a paintbrush.?

?I know,? he replied as he jumped onto the metal chair and onto the wooden table.? The table is littered with white splattered paper.? The colours of the blotches the same ones the artist used to paint the Lady.? Paintbrush placed himself beside the palette, took one more look at her, turned around and fell onto his side.

For the rest of the day Paintbrush remained there as the picture stayed on the easel to dry, for the artist had not returned.

Suddenly, the artist arrived with a wooden frame for his picture.? He was not happy with his latest work of art but figured that he might as well display her.? He set the frame next to the image of the Lady and left the room again, to talk to his sponsor regarding her.

Once the artist left, the picture frame got up and turned to the picture, ?You are ugly, you are hideous... I hate you.? You do not deserve to be framed by me.?

The picture retorted, ?Humph! You are just a wooden frame!? Not gold-encrusted or angel-cherubed at all!?

The frame said nothing and just lied down, closing his eyes so he would not have to see her hideous face again. Paintbrush remained asleep.

Hours pass and no movement or conversation came from any of the three objects in the artist?s studio.? Outside in the lobby, the raised voices of the artist and his sponsor could be heard.

?I have to show it!? roared the sponsor.

?It is hideous!?

?But your work nonetheless.?

?I hate it!? It will never sell.?

?Who knows?? People might like it.? Let me see it.?

?No.?

?Yes I will!??

The chubby footsteps got louder and louder as the floor vibrated more and more when the sponsor entered the white-papered studio.? He observed the splatter of dark colours on the canvas.

?So?? What did I tell you?? The artist rushed in through the open door behind the sponsor. He said nothing but walked closer to the painting, right hand on his chin, deep in thought as he scrutinized the eyes of the Lady. The picture woke up and is startled when she saw another?s eyes gazed upon her.

?This is indeed an impressive piece of work??

?Do you like it or not?? interjected the artist tensely but the sponsor still said nothing. The painting shifted uncomfortably under the emotionless eyes of the scrutinizer as he inspected every inch square of her: her background, her face, her cheeks, and her smile.

?Something wrong, something is missing.?

?I know, I know. I do not want to show it.?

?No, we will show it anyways.? Frame it and be ready for this afternoon at three o?clock inside the gallery.? The artist approached the painting after the sponsor had left the studio and said to her,

?You are a lot of trouble you know.? He took the varnished sleeping frame and placed it on top of the canvas, fastened them together before leaving the room in sequence.

?Paintbrush, Paintbrush, wake up!? shrilled the painting in a soft voice.

?What? What is it now? Come back to insult me?? he replied in a grumpy voice and yawned.

?No insults? I am going be shown to the outside.? They will all stare at me like the man who was in here before and they will all inspect me and then they will hate me!? I do not want to go!??

?Help yourself,? he responded and tried to go back to sleep.

?Please, help me!? she cried.

?All right,? he answered seriously, ?What do you want me to do??

?Get me out of here!?

?I can not do that.?

?Why not??

?Because you are a painting and I am a paintbrush.? I might as well be a toothbrush if I tried to carry you out of here.? Besides, you have his mark.?

?What mark??

?The artist?s mark on you.? His signature on the bottom right hand corner is your mark.? And sure enough, there was a white pencil marking on the bottom right ? the artist?s signature, L.D.

?Oh dear, can it be removed??

?I?m afraid not, the signature is on you for life.?

?What am I going to do??

?You do nothing, just sit and wait.?

?But they will hate me.?

?You have to take the bad with the good,? he reprimanded her.

?I do not like it, I am scared.?

?I know.?

The Lady thought for a while then asked soberly, ?Were there others before me that you painted??

?Yes.?

?What happened to them??

?Well, some made it into great art galleries and museums, others ended up as presents to people, and the rest were sold to homes,? he sighed.

?What are people?s homes like??

?I have heard they are nice and warm.? They use pictures as decoration and it makes them happy.?

?Do you think someone will take me into their home??

?Mm-hmm.?? Paintbrush stifled a yawn.

?I am tired,? droned the canvas.

?I am tired too.?

?What do you think of me?? she managed to say before her eyes began to close.

?You are the best painting I have ever done in all my years of being a paintbrush; you are the best work that I have ever done.?

?Thank you.?

?Do not worry about it.?

?I am tired. Sleep now.?

?All right then, goodnight.?

Three o?clock came and the image of the lady was taken to the gallery.? The wooden frame took great pleasure from all he attention he received but it is the Lady that really captured the people?s curiosity.

?Look at her?do you see that? ?What is she doing? ...What is it? ...I don?t know?? and the remarks went on and on.? The artist and the sponsor stayed back from the throng of onlookers to talk to the more inquisitive people about how she was made, what colours were used on her, and what she would be worth.

The picture squirmed and held her breath.? She wished Paintbrush could be beside her and make her feel better, if only.

A very weary Paintbrush lied still in the artist?s studio.? He had been painting for a long time and had never worked so hard in his life to create that picture of the Lady.? His bristles are bent and hard, his handle worn away and he fell into another deep slumber.

At nighttime when the painting returned to the artist?s studio she whispered, ?Paintbrush, are you awake??

?Hmmm??

?Wake up.?

?I am awake,? he said yawning.

?I am going to an art museum!?

?That?s good,? he answered as his bristles droop with weariness.

?What is wrong??

?Nothing.? Just tired.?

?I will not see you again.?

?I know.?

?Does this happen to all of your paintings?? she asked quietly.

?Yes, that is what happens to all my paintings.? I am very happy for you.?

The Lady smiled and replied, ?Good night.?

In the morning, the sponsor and the artist gathered up the picture and cleaned up the studio for another session of furious painting.? Paintbrush remained sleeping as the canvas was taken away to the museum.


?
Centuries later?
?


?Is that why she has a frown?? a toddler asked.

?Why do you say that, my little one??

?Why she has a frown.? She missed her toothbrush.?

?Paintbrush, her paintbrush,? corrected the young woman.

?Paint-bwush, she missed her paint-bwush,? the child stated, trying to imitate his mother.

?Yes, that?s right,? but the woman couldn?t help but smile, ?But she?s happy now.?

?Yeah, she?s happy now.? But she missed her paint-bwush? can we go for an ice cream, Mommy??

?Yes, sweetie.? We?ll go get some ice cream.?

?Now??

?Yes, now.?

And with that, the young mother took her little child by the hand and the two of them walked out of the museum, and revealed the face of the Mona Lisa. Her dark ebony eyes followed them as they left the exhibit to the world outside.

She smiles.

[Eienvine]

That's really cool, Calla! Where did you get the idea for this? It's very different, but it's well-written and really interesting in the different characters used. Great job.

[Calla Lily]

^_^_^_^* Ooh, thank you for reviewing Einevine! Want to know the story?

There is actually something called the "Shakespeare Festival" in the town were I grew up, it actually started in the year 2002 and is growing bigger everyday. That first year, two sections were made: drama and writing. (now there's stagecraft, lighting, etc.)

After 3/4 days of crazy partying, working, meeting new people, writing, dancing, and a medieval dinner where you could dress and EAT like the era of Elizabeth I, we had to perform for the others. For the writers, we were all given the same quote and had to create a short story out of it. There goes the deadline. *laughs*

"?In sooth, I know not why I am so sad;
It wearies me, you say it wearies you;?

Overall, when you're given creative lee-way and surrounded by a group of wacky Shakespeare-quoting idiots like me, you get a variety of different stories. This is just one of them.

~Calla.

[Andrea]

I liked it! Very unique, and not to be repetitive, but different and very interesting.