Becoming the Illusion

Mariposa Academia, that's the name of this place. It's a school for creativity and for art. Yeah, that's the name of the school; the founder really loved butterflies. There's even a butterfly sanctuary on campus. They believe it helps encourage creativity. And every year we have the annual showcase. They make a weeklong spectacle of releasing butterflies and showing the work of all the students. Right now, everyone is getting ready for this, including me. The campus comes to life with the butterflies and blooming plants. Inspiration is everywhere; some find it within the campus walls or in the outdoor parts of campus.

I'm a dancer, but some sing, write, or draw and paint. It's not uncommon for students to find inspiration in other students and their work, too. But I'm getting ahead of myself. For this to make sense, we have to go back before we can go forward. Last year's showcase was a weeklong experience; it had been... well, you'll see.

The floors are dark, shiny wood, and the walls are painted with earthy tones. The lights overhead are bright, but don't help much in the dark halls. The door to the studio, dark brown and painted with vines and flowers, is open, and natural light from the windows floods through. Walking in, I see many pieces of art, some half-finished, others barely completed. They're not what I'm looking for, though. A crowd stands nearby staring and talking about a painting, the painting I have come to see.

I stand near the back, trying not to draw more attention. After all, this isn't the stage, and I'm not dancing. The painting shows a dancer posing with an arm up and an arm to her side, standing in fourth position. She wears an outfit designed for practice, not the stage. But somehow every part of it is exaggerated. It's of me, but not really; it's a rendition made to be more than what it is. Even my hair is less messy, made to look acceptable. It's like a cold stab to the heart. The artist is an acquaintance of mine, well-known. He sits near the work like a statue. The tortured look did not reach his eyes. Paint stains his hands colorfully, feeling quintessentially placed for aesthetics. A paintbrush in one hand, his actions seem too practiced, but no one notices it.

"It's beautifully exquisite!"

"You're probably among the best on campus in the art department."

"Anyone would be lucky to be your muse..."

They all smile and share astonished looks. They don't see the fact that it's too faultless, not realistic enough. Is this how he sees me? How does this look right to them? My face betrays me, showing disappointment or sorrow, but I put a smile on as they look. Trying to contain the tears that wish to be released.

He had watched me dance many times, which here wasn't odd. Anytime you danced, you were performing, you were on stage. He would seem like he was watching a real-life daydream. He had even made sure to say you're as graceful as a mariposa, how fitting you attend such a place. It was such a sweet statement, but then, like this, he would draw and paint me anytime he wished to do so. At some point, you start to feel less human, or at least that's how I began feeling.

I ignored him for days in a state of disappointment, but it didn't matter. He would post drawings of butterflies from the statuary captioned "dancers of the sky." And the colorless paintings captioned "When the color in your world fades away." People, of course, picked up on my discontent with him and his tragic sadness. I had wanted to reply to pick up the paint that lay beside him, to say, the color didn't drain, he just focused on the one less colorful thing in his life. I knew better because the discomfort of others was already too present. They couldn't help but share unpleasant stares and words about how cruel I must be. How ungrateful I could be to discourage him despite his kindness in making me his muse.

That was the weeklong drama of the last showcase, and I only hope it might not be so unbearable this time. I had thought maybe everyone could move on. This time well who knows yet? Excitement and nervousness tug at my chest. This year has to be different, but maybe I know I'm wrong. However, I refuse to acknowledge it.

It was the day of my performance at the showcase before I knew it. I wore a white and blue feathery ballet costume. Feathers in my hair from a hairpiece. The costume made me feel like I was floating, having always loved birds and their imperfect grace. The crowd had been large, but he was there too, with a sketchbook at the ready. On stage, I moved lightly, turning and jumping with grace. Each movement was precise to the last ending pose, full of weight that I could only hope would be captured by the audience.

After I walk into the comfort of the strong, dark hallways, he waits. He smiles with elegance that's impossible to be accidental. His hair is flawless in unimaginable neatness, but he reaches to fix it like a spotlight shines down on him. The warmth from the stage has disappeared, replaced by chill, and I almost shiver.

He hands me the paper from his sketchbook. "You were incredible, so I couldn't help but draw you."

I smile, trying not to look awkward, but I know I most likely failed. I grab the paper and look in shock. It's not really me; it's the variant he wants me to be. The feathers and the feathery costume were replaced by a butterfly-themed costume. The most basic turn, but excellently stopped on paper, in a way that doesn't quite fit. It's too idyllic to be me in a painful, cutting way, like crawling through broken glass.

Other dancers glance at it, and so do students who belong to differing departments. They gasp as I hold back uncontainable tears. I'm in a spotlight on a stage I never asked to be on. Unprepared and pushed to be a part of this unfair show.

"You're so lucky, I wish I were capable of being such an inspiration."

"He captured it exactly, wow!"

"You both must really love each other..."

The words blend to form a crushing defeat. I drop the paper, a tear falling as I walk away as fast as I can. I didn't sign up for my entire life on and off stage to be a performance. I feel used, disrespected, and disregarded. The worst part is that none of them would notice beyond their selfishness how that might feel. How I might feel.

The next few days were unpredictably challenging. He sculpts a butterfly with broken wings. Even posting and captioning, not every muse wishes to stay. People look at me with hate or maybe disgust at my actions. They comment that saying, "not every muse deserves to be one," and "a muse never understands how tough it is it too be the artist."

I never meant to be cruel, but maybe I had taken it too far. Maybe I was wrong. He was nice and trying to capture something. My stomach twists with sickness, and my body feels drained of its energy. All I wanted was to truly be seen, not just one version, but seen for even my complexities. No, I wanted to be known and seen. Maybe this was as seen and as known as I could ever be, maybe. Despite my heart warning me to hold onto my strength, I fall and message him.

[Are you okay?] I type and send, hands sweating from nerves.

He replies quicker than I wanted or expected. [I'm glad you asked! I'm okay, I was just feeling a little down. Thank you for checking in, I deeply appreciate it!]

[Of course, I'm glad you're doing okay.] The guilt is heavy and weighs down my shoulders. It's all my fault because I couldn't just bite my tongue. I sigh out loud, but it doesn't give any comfort.

[Hey, I just wanted to show you my painting. I'm in the studio if you might want to come see it?] He said it like he might break if I don't agree.

I take a minute to reply, but I know I must agree. [Yeah, I would love to. I'll be there in a few minutes!]

The earthy, dark halls don't carry the same homey feel now. They feel as if they are closing in on me. I reach the studio, and it's dark, one lone lamp lighting the room. I see the painting clearly and walk closer. It's huge, and it's me again. Such a soft, polished adaptation dream-like me. I know it's not right, but what could I say? I stand in a ballet pose surrounded by colorful butterflies, one hand reaching towards a lone washed-out butterfly. It's plain and simple, but it's exemplary, the perfect I wanted but couldn't achieve.

I saw him watching my amazement, but I let him reveal his intent. I want to be honest and tell him everything, all the pain this has caused. But it wouldn't be kind. I don't want to continue hurting him; I've been cruel enough. I want to hide, but I want to scream. I want to cry, but I want to laugh. I want to not have to betray myself, that's not an option. This is his story to write; everyone else is just a mere side character, including me.

"I love you," he lets the words land as if he doesn't know whether he means it or not. He lets his eyes scan my face, my stance, to evaluate me and my reaction. I know what I must say. I'm still willing myself the bravery to do it.

"Do you love me too..." He asks it with a desperate, cry-like tone. He yearns for his illusion to become true. I hear it. The worst is that he doesn't even seem to realize that it's erroneous. I relinquish my strength to fight this perception I'm expected to be.

"I do." I smile and look to the ground, knowing I don't mean it. Knowing this is the interpretation he wanted, I kindly give it away.