Lost in the Vanity
Never-Fading
The painter, Basil, laid leisurely across the sitter’s sofa expressing an idle stare upon a wooden frame resting lazily against the arm of the sofa, which seized a portrait of the most beautiful man in all of London. The canvas not baring ideas of an imaginative scene only dared by fiction or of a time or land from long ago like many of his other paintings, but rather of a common, modern era clad in frock and fob titled on its naked back in the artist’s handwriting: ‘Amaranthus.’
The name was known, but dwelled in mystery––an enigma fed by the painter’s yearning and adoration towards the boy pleasantly etched on the canvas. It served as the youth’s name only to the artist. His proper identity, flowing or stationary, was lost in the vertiginous course of the hastily alive road bending around the building and many others like it, to be kept to the self.
Various times when the labored painter would fancy a consoling respite to laze or rest because of a flustering portrait he would stumble in a trance or haze, almost asleep, to the sill of the window overlooking the muddled street. All he saw was cattle, mindlessly striding around wandering in search of a purpose to fulfill their lives; to then be discouraged with human reckonings. Lords, labourers; gentlemen, common men––disheartened and ill-fated the same to the evils of society, even the painter, caught in the savage cycle.
However, it served as his only haven from the corruption. For from forth the window’s view Basil was able to find extraordinary delight in seeing the youth, Amaranthus, roving around the street daily. Innocence formed the features of the lad, and the flush of liveliness in the skin bestowed something feminine in appearance; contrasting with strong, keen, gray eyes. Contouring the face was golden-chestnut waves exalting his youth and beauty against the dying skin and faded attributes of other aging men––an angel among mortality.
Time passed, and the painter’s inspiration stopped strutting along the street-side. Over the elapse of the days, the bliss and ecstasy savored slowly rotted and became sour; and the pane became nothing more than a separation from the studio and the thoroughfare.
Basil rose from the sofa, and moved towards the fenestra in the same drowsy, lax stagger he found natural to greet the glass and wood with. Unlatching the bindings he pushed the pane open smooth and naturally, allowing the cool spring air contain in between the walls. The commotion that was the crowded avenue echoed louder in the artist’s head from its brisk, untainted form as he wistfully gazed among the faces, none of them being Amaranthus.
The painter forcefully gripped the sill and locked it within his hold. Images of his inspiration where crafted into his sight, and, though he knew he was not there, Basil could see the lad clear enough almost as if he was imitating himself across the way, promenading in his lively character, a smile on his face and his imagined step light and gay.
As he contemplated about the youth and his forged form outside, the painter found it humorous and dismaying how he could so easily be captivated and made a fool from winsomeness. Many times as a small child, he would listen attentively to his wise mother talk about beauty and the horrid vices of it. He had friend and foe preach the same in age, but towards the artist’s own personal fairness; since then he had loathed these views, refused engagement in every way, and feared himself and the sight of beauty.
But, at his own peril he still oddly longed for the young man’s fetching, exposing some break in his scares; willing to rend the anxiety till gone. He reasoned to cut at the fear and confront it along with accosting the young man. The artist rather be a fool than fearful.
Setting aside the sight of the road, Basil retreated from the window back in to the room farther and farther with brief, graceful strides. His steadied focus held the wall across from him gently in place, but it began to tighten to a glare of strong hate, twisting the painter’s features to that of disgust. For on the wall hung a looking glass; the painter’s old opera-cloak draped over the sharply cut corners to conceal reflections of his indefinite arrogance.
Although the will rebelled subsides, the fear bludgeoned deep wounds of uneasiness into the artist’s soul––questioning his unnatural actions. Eradicating instinct, the painter pursued the breaking of his self-beauty terror and grasped the cloak’s fabric, removing it with one swift, continuous motion.
The mirror hung utterly exposed to the elements, its truth-telling reflection captured a paralyzing allure and shame. Rather than slaughtering his fear the encounter merely increased it dangerously to never be broken. On its chilling glass was an image of the most beautiful man in all of London. Innocence formed the features of the lad, and the flush of liveliness in the skin bestowed something feminine in appearance; contrasting with strong, keen, gray eyes. Contouring the face was golden-chestnut waves exalting his youth and beauty against the gloss of the mirror.
Out of merciless wrath the man threw the looking-glass on the floor, causing it to shatter; sating himself with the irrational reality––unable to accept the absurd notion that Amaranthus was an illusion of prideful intimation with himself.
The name was known, but dwelled in mystery––an enigma fed by the painter’s yearning and adoration towards the boy pleasantly etched on the canvas. It served as the youth’s name only to the artist. His proper identity, flowing or stationary, was lost in the vertiginous course of the hastily alive road bending around the building and many others like it, to be kept to the self.
Various times when the labored painter would fancy a consoling respite to laze or rest because of a flustering portrait he would stumble in a trance or haze, almost asleep, to the sill of the window overlooking the muddled street. All he saw was cattle, mindlessly striding around wandering in search of a purpose to fulfill their lives; to then be discouraged with human reckonings. Lords, labourers; gentlemen, common men––disheartened and ill-fated the same to the evils of society, even the painter, caught in the savage cycle.
However, it served as his only haven from the corruption. For from forth the window’s view Basil was able to find extraordinary delight in seeing the youth, Amaranthus, roving around the street daily. Innocence formed the features of the lad, and the flush of liveliness in the skin bestowed something feminine in appearance; contrasting with strong, keen, gray eyes. Contouring the face was golden-chestnut waves exalting his youth and beauty against the dying skin and faded attributes of other aging men––an angel among mortality.
Time passed, and the painter’s inspiration stopped strutting along the street-side. Over the elapse of the days, the bliss and ecstasy savored slowly rotted and became sour; and the pane became nothing more than a separation from the studio and the thoroughfare.
Basil rose from the sofa, and moved towards the fenestra in the same drowsy, lax stagger he found natural to greet the glass and wood with. Unlatching the bindings he pushed the pane open smooth and naturally, allowing the cool spring air contain in between the walls. The commotion that was the crowded avenue echoed louder in the artist’s head from its brisk, untainted form as he wistfully gazed among the faces, none of them being Amaranthus.
The painter forcefully gripped the sill and locked it within his hold. Images of his inspiration where crafted into his sight, and, though he knew he was not there, Basil could see the lad clear enough almost as if he was imitating himself across the way, promenading in his lively character, a smile on his face and his imagined step light and gay.
As he contemplated about the youth and his forged form outside, the painter found it humorous and dismaying how he could so easily be captivated and made a fool from winsomeness. Many times as a small child, he would listen attentively to his wise mother talk about beauty and the horrid vices of it. He had friend and foe preach the same in age, but towards the artist’s own personal fairness; since then he had loathed these views, refused engagement in every way, and feared himself and the sight of beauty.
But, at his own peril he still oddly longed for the young man’s fetching, exposing some break in his scares; willing to rend the anxiety till gone. He reasoned to cut at the fear and confront it along with accosting the young man. The artist rather be a fool than fearful.
Setting aside the sight of the road, Basil retreated from the window back in to the room farther and farther with brief, graceful strides. His steadied focus held the wall across from him gently in place, but it began to tighten to a glare of strong hate, twisting the painter’s features to that of disgust. For on the wall hung a looking glass; the painter’s old opera-cloak draped over the sharply cut corners to conceal reflections of his indefinite arrogance.
Although the will rebelled subsides, the fear bludgeoned deep wounds of uneasiness into the artist’s soul––questioning his unnatural actions. Eradicating instinct, the painter pursued the breaking of his self-beauty terror and grasped the cloak’s fabric, removing it with one swift, continuous motion.
The mirror hung utterly exposed to the elements, its truth-telling reflection captured a paralyzing allure and shame. Rather than slaughtering his fear the encounter merely increased it dangerously to never be broken. On its chilling glass was an image of the most beautiful man in all of London. Innocence formed the features of the lad, and the flush of liveliness in the skin bestowed something feminine in appearance; contrasting with strong, keen, gray eyes. Contouring the face was golden-chestnut waves exalting his youth and beauty against the gloss of the mirror.
Out of merciless wrath the man threw the looking-glass on the floor, causing it to shatter; sating himself with the irrational reality––unable to accept the absurd notion that Amaranthus was an illusion of prideful intimation with himself.