love, and flowers entered with her,
― Marc Chagall
The writing life involves isolation. Being cut off from social intercourse often breeds emotional struggles uncommon to ordinary people.
For instance, it's not unusual for writers to fall in love with one of their characters, but I think the problem goes even deeper and involves some form of emotional displacement.
An author might feel he's obsessed with his fictional creation, when in truth, he's actually romantically obsessed with his own Muse.
At least, that's how it's worked with me and that's why I'm haunted by Margaux Astor, a minotaur of my own making.
.
Such were my thoughts on a wet fall evening when I had a fire lit, but everything was brooding—my mood, the parkette below me, and the Toronto skyline, now reduced to a jumble of yellow window squares in the mist.
Harry Baldwin had given me an overly large loft in the wedge-shaped Gooderham building, affectionately known as the Flatiron. It was a beautiful edifice, and built a decade before its counterpart in New York.
I had fallen in love with the ambience of its Victorian charm—the building boasted an original Otis elevator, fireplaces, wood paneling, and in my loft, an iron spiral staircase to the bedroom with a huge walk-in wall safe I used as a closet.
I should have been in heaven tucked away in my Dickensian dream, but was as miserable as a tenant of Hades, and equally gloomy about my prospects.
Despite my best attempts to resist the seductive whispers of my Muse, I had succumbed—fallen in love with a Siren, a figment of my own imagination and she was driving me quietly insane.
“Why don’t you write about me, Paul?”
Margaux was lounging on the plush red love seat, dressed elegantly in a black nightgown.
Most women relaxing on a wet fall night would be in pajamas and comfy slippers—but not Margaux Astor—that was definitely not her style.
“You’re asking me to blur a line, dear heart, and I am definitely not going there.”
“Oh why not, for heaven’s sakes? I certainly have more depth and glamor than the women you write about.”
“Perhaps, but they’re fictional—you help me make them up.”
She sat up on the love seat, alert as a kitten. “But that’s just it—I do help you make them up, darling—but, where does that leave me?”
“Right here, high and dry,” I smiled, making a sweeping gesture to encompass our surroundings.
“Don’t be trite, Paul—it’s not becoming for a man of your talents.”
“Face it, Margaux,” I countered, “I'm not just under the influence of some creative spirit—it's more like spiritism. You must be a ghost—probably a deceased descendent of ‘the landlords of New York’—an esteemed lineage, but definitely fallible.”
Margaux’s eyes flashed, “I am not a ghost, Paul Bennett, and I resent that imputation.”
“It’s hardly a crime, to be a deceased human,” I chuckled.
“I’m a goddess of the arts,” she sniffed haughtily, and if I am a part of anyone’s family, then name me what I am—the daughter of Zeus—certainly not the offspring of a mere mortal.”
I sighed and sat down in the green velvet armchair opposite her. “Okay, Love—I’ll grant you your goddess stature, but you have to admit, our relationship is a trifle rarefied.”
She tossed her head and stared out the window. She was still simmering.
When Margaux was passionate, stars danced in her eyes—but when furious, she’d throw off sparks. Right now her lovely eyes were emitting numberless white sparkles.
“If I’m so ethereal, then why did you commission my portrait?” She pointed to the canvas above the fireplace.
My heart sunk. Unerringly, she always found the weak point—my area of maximum vulnerability. And truth be told, I was hopelessly in love with her.
“Jean Dubois was able to paint me and fall in love with as well. I wasn’t too ‘rarefied’ for him.”
Touché.
So what was left to say? At least in the myth, Pygmalion fell in love with a statue of his own creation—Me? I had to fall in love with my Muse.
She had me cornered and I availed of my only escape. I got up and put on my coat.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “It’s only nine o’clock. We usually work until midnight.”
“I need a change of scene, Love. You can brood for me while I’m gone.”
Her jaw dropped in disbelief.
I entered the elevator cage and slammed the doors shut.
She was talking—I could see her mouth moving, but thankfully the century-old machinery drowned her out.
I was trapped in a maze of my own making and I had lost the thread that could help me retrace my steps and find a way out.