Muse
Along the canvas, slight brushstrokes here and there. Some colourful, some plain. There was no need for excessive measures; that's what she had said. He supposed she was right but art was an expression. And how could he not express his feelings onto the canvas? Not without her finding it unnecessary.
Only the creak of the wooden stool could be heard, the slight rustle of fabric as his arm moved backward and forward, then the faint scratching sound that came from the brush gliding along the cotton. The silence had been welcoming. In good spirits, the window had been opened and the sunlight streamed in, hoping to light his lovely subject. Not that it was needed.
The chirp of a starling was less welcome. Recognising it as an old friend, he had been shooed away by an irritated hand. Remarking that, for once, they be left alone.
Back straight, shoulders squared, Mary Poppins turned her face to look out of the window. She might have been a wooden doll for all intents and purposes. Hardly moving, it barely looked as if she were breathing. Yet, she took this job very seriously.
She had asked which way she should sit- front facing, sideways; at the windowsill or on the drooping sofa. Bert had told her it needn't matter. He would be inspired, either way.
So, she had simply sat on a kitchen chair, staring out of the open window. Bert could only assume she was interested in what lay beyond his flat. The shouting of children, the bustle of working men as they passed to and fro, and the rustle of flowers as they blew in the wind. Sounds could not be captured in art but somehow, Bert knew he had done it. That's what happens when She was around.
Cheeks perfectly rosy, her nose tilting upward at the end, Mary looked as she always had. Not made of wood, but of china. Her raven hair pulled back into a practical bun, no hat to hide behind. Even in plain clothes, she was radiant. From the pearl brooch at her neck, covering her top button, to the silver fastenings on her boots that seemed to shine brighter than usual.
Mary truly did not disappoint. And as practically perfect as his drawings were, Bert knew he could never truly capture her beauty. She did not belong in the oiled stagnation of time, only in imagination. Unfortunately for him, imagination was not privy to stick around on a canvas. It belonged to everyone. Bert would be selfish to think he could keep it to himself.