“Right, how are you with flowers?” He came storming into the studio in his usual presumptive manner.
“Well, they’re pretty and colourful and….” I stammered in reply. He was always like this when work was scarce. Perhaps I’m being too charitable with that last statement. He was always like this.
“That’s not an answer!” His face bore right down on me, so close I could see the desperation in his jaundiced eyes and taste the rancid smell of last night’s rotten meat dinner on his breath.
We hadn’t had anything worthwhile since the last commission for the Mairie de Lyon, and, although I was becoming used to the pangs of hunger associated with being a mere artist’s assistant, Monsieur L’Artiste clearly had no intention of doing so.
“I’ve just had a re-commission from the Mairie. Obviously they were so impressed by the last one. I knew fame and recognition wouldn’t elude me”
The arrogance of Monsieur L’Artiste was something to which I had long ago become accustomed; like a faithful dog at his master’s side.
“I need you to ‘obtain’ as many different types of flower as you can from the flower market. That shouldn’t be too difficult, even for you” The way in which he laboured the word ‘obtain’ left me in no doubt as to what was expected of me. Short of money and with the last of the rancid meat we had ‘obtained’ from the crooked butcher now well and truly gone, my heart sank at the prospect of my mission. If I were to be caught, the life of a starving artist’s assistant surviving on scraps of week old meat would seem epicurean in contrast to that of a convicted thief.
“Yes, sir. And when do you need them?”, the faithful dog whined.
“Today. I want to get started as soon as possible. I’ve had enough of sketching, daubing, thinking and listening to your whining about being hungry all the time. If you had done a better job, maybe we wouldn’t have had to wait so long for a re-commission.”
That’s rich, I thought. Who was responsible for the last commission of a portrait of the Comtesse de Villeroi, and the subsequent ridicule heaped upon the ‘handsome’ Comtesse and her husband? Certainly not the humble artist’s assistant, who merely painted the background to the travesty. Hm, travesty, yes, that’s exactly what it was as it served to confirm only what the good citizens of Villeroi had long suspected.
Now we’re doing flowers, I thought. Not much that can go wrong there. At least you don’t run the risk of portraying a poppy or hollyhock as the wrong gender.
The searing summer sun struck against my pallid face as I set out on my mission to the flower market. Perhaps we would have something to eat tonight after all.
