#obsessive core

You had met him coincidentally at a cafe in a smaller down in the south of France. You were there for pleasure. Leisurely spending your days indulging in sunshine and the delicacies France has to offer.

You’re sitting in the courtyard of a beautiful hotel cafe when you spot each other.

He’s a mature gentleman, eccentric more than gentle I suppose. Unruly hair, a sooty look that comes with years of charcoal painting. He sees you and from across the yard you can visibly see his eyes widen and his face express a state of pure shock.

That day you ended up walking the estate you were staying at and being invited to his, as well as his studio in the city.

You become his muse from the moment he is eyes set upon you. You are the incarnation of every moment of inspiration he has ever experience. The refined expression of the abstract creations he has produced over the years of his career. You are the manifestation of his madness and he must witness you as much as possible.

He sends letters. Yes, he is a man of the ages and he loves to write you letters. The only time you would ever possibly receive a message from him digitally would be one from one of his assistants requesting your presence.

His letters use an arrangement of the materials he keeps in the studio and ever letter has a sketch. One that would be akin to one that Van Gogh would scribble on a napkin that would go from six figures. Honestly he is such a kind soul for sending you assets on the daily.

When you are together he is manic. He must have you in every light. Every angle every moment and possible setting. You as an empress, you as flowers, you as the river nile. The starts, the moons, all of Olympia.

He was never a man of god. Although He was a man who seemed to be the right hand of god given his skill. And he used any gifts given to him to elevate and immortalize you. You become the only thing he comes to paint.

He wants the world to memorialize you and worship you through their worship of his craftsmanship. You are his god and he must consecrate you into the context of history.

You are in his studio and all you can hear are his heavy exhales and at time curses.

You go on walks and he goes on rants of his ideas of captivating you into the canvas.

his accent thick as the acrylic he uses.

Anytime a friend or associate comes or goes through the studio they can see he is solely focused upon you.

He gives offhanded comments or answers tot hem. Not even a gaze in there direction unless it’s one that expresses “go now.”

All the days he spends with you are always compensated. As many letters as he sends you, gifts follow, the days he spends with you are followed by dinners or intermissions by shopping in the city. He buys you gems and jewels in exchange for painting you with them on.

He uses your life stories and plans to mythologize you. To create the concepts of his art. If you share a story of child hood he is able to translate it into a work of feeling into a canvas.

He hates art shows. He’s a hermit at best but as a worshipper he now feels for the first time in his life the necessity to go and explain the depths of methodology used to express you.

It’s the first time the public has ever seen him seem in the realm of humans.

Your days in Paris or in Europe for the matter never go without notice to him. You could be in Spain for a deal or shoot and you’ll receive a letter sent to your hotel room and when you go to scan it you instantly recognize his hand writing.

It’s always something so devoted and demented:

“My Darling, it has been so long since I have seen you. You must come relish me in your presence. I must see you. I had a vision the night before last. It was you in sapphire. The background images of lust and devotion.

I miss you so.

Only yours, X”

And with it a box with a sapphire necklace.

I’m a woman of color(so the image is supposed to be inclusive!!!!!!!!!) colored women unite-