[TG] The Picture of Daria - Part 1

Prologue

I put my brush down and stared at the canvas with frustration. The image was all wrong, the colour choices lazy, the brush work sloppy. I felt my jaw clench and I grabbed for the white paint in frustration, slapping it over the canvas I’d spent hours working on in frustration. It was a waste of time and paint, I knew that but I couldn’t help myself. I had a big break coming up and I couldn’t blow it.

With a sigh I looked over the other canvases stacked up around my tiny, shabby studio. It was only two rooms, located above a coffee shop so the air constantly smelt of roasting beans. When I’d started renting it years ago the room had been light and airy, a perfect little art studio with its own private bathroom. Now it was falling apart and it was my home to boot; since keeping up with bills and rent had proven impossible the last few years.

My career had started out so promising ten years ago, now here I was, poster child for the ‘starving artist’ trope. My father’s smug face formed in my mind, how he’d taunted me the day I left. He was sure I’d be back within a year begging for his money but I’d shown him. My first art show had been a massive success. I rode high on sales of my work for years, everything had been going great.

Until it wasn’t.

It had started with one poorly attended show three years ago. Only half the pieces sold. Then I started to struggle to get gallery positions at all. Nobody had the money for a hand painted portrait anymore or at least, the ones that did, didn't want mine.

The calendar nailed to the brick wall taunted me, tomorrow's date circled in bold red. Running into Clive Roland had been a godsend. The man owned some of the biggest, most profitable galleries in all of Paris, if I could impress him my worries would be over. Somehow, I had managed to catch his eye when he walked into the coffee shop downstairs two weeks ago.

“Oh, an artist, are you?” He’d drawled, adjusting his glasses, “what are you working on?”

“A series of portraits called Variations of the Self.” I’d replied with confidence I didn't feel.

“Interesting, I shall see it, two weeks from today. If you impress me, perhaps we can work out a showing at my newest gallery.”

I’d agreed of course, despite the fact that I’d been lying out my ass. I’d literally just pulled the name of the project out of thin air and tried to make it sound as pretentious as possible to try and impress him. Clearly it worked, but now, I had to try and figure out what ‘Variations of the Self’ was and in two weeks I’d barely made any headway.

Around me sat several dozen ‘self’ portraits, each with a different theme; a demon, an angel, a pauper, a prince etcetera, They were all fun, all good in their own way but nothing special. They were just costumes on the canvas, they didn't speak to any deeper meaning or inward expression; none of the stuff Clive and the high society art people who flocked to his gallery would find interesting.

I needed an idea that was edgy or daring in some way but I’d not given myself the best subject. Once more I dragged myself to the mirror above the tiny sink in my bathroom and stared at my own reflection, begging for inspiration to hit. Only to once again be hit with the harsh reality that I just didn't have a very inspiring face.

I was neither handsome, nor ugly; both things that could inspire something. I was the worst of both worlds; plain. Scruffy dark hair, a messy beard with bloodshot, dishwater grey eyes and a slightly red nose from too many years of wine for breakfast. None of my portraits looked much different; a change of skin tone with hair that was slightly neater or slightly more unkempt was about the extent of the changes, nothing that showed much variation was possible when you looked this ordinary.

I sighed, hanging my head in shame. Had I burned out already? I was barely in my thirties and yet it seemed I had already used all my creativity up. I ran my hand over my cheek in irritation, feeling the coarse hair there scratch at my skin. I’d tried to stay clean shaven when I was younger but gave up by the time I reached twenty one. I was just one of those men who could grow a beard in a week; something most guys would die for. But it meant it got itchy and scruffy looking easily, especially when I was counting pennies and couldn't afford a good razor.

“Women have it so much easier.” I sighed, “At least when they don't want to shave they can just put on some stockings…”

The words swirled in my brain for a moment before I felt something slide into place; that was it! A portrait of myself as a woman! I could sell it as digging into my feminine side, argue that men needed to stop fighting it and ramble on about toxic masculinity or something. I remembered Clive, with his platinum blonde, perfectly slicked back hair and tinted eyelashes. He would eat that shit up!

Feeling the burn of creativity for the first time in forever I raced back to my easel and grabbed a fresh canvas; an idea this good deserved a good start, not a leftover board covered in white paint. I got to work immediately, carving out a smooth curve of porcelain skin with oil paint.

Within moments I felt time slip away as I painted, my palette grew messy and I swirled the paint together finding just the right hues and shades for each part of the piece. Slowly, a beautiful woman’s face formed before me; with almond shaped eyes, heavy lidded and sparkling with mischief. Her ruby red lips raised ever so slightly at the corners as if she were smiling or smirking, it was hard to tell.

It was only when the sun came up and I put the last touches on her pearl earrings that I realised so many hours had passed. I sat back, exhausted but the picture took my breath away.

She was…stunning. The epitome of the French beauty and yet, still recognizably me. My scruffy hair had formed into long silken tresses, hy hard edges smoothed and covered in a thick layer of glamourous make up and her outfit a beautiful dress that showed off an ample bosom. She was…enchanting.

I reached out and lightly touched the dry paint that coated those red lips, I was almost tempted to kiss them before I shook my head and snapped out of it. Being attracted to a woman was one thing but a woman who was me? That was something else. Weird feelings aside, I couldn't help but smile; this was a masterpiece. The best thing I had ever painted and it was sure to impress Clive. Even if the other paintings in the collection weren't up to scratch this could carry them, I was sure.

~

Part 1

I woke to the sound of a fist pounding on my door; groggily I rubbed sleep from my eyes as I rose from my mattress and realised the sun was blaring through the window. Once again, the banging at my door and I realised just how late it was; not surprising really when you consider I’d gone to bed as the sun was rising. Unfortunately, the clock told me it was time for my meeting with Clive and I was instantly wide awake.

In a mad panic I stuffed my bed into the corner and hid it behind my biggest canvas while running my fingers through my hair in a vain attempt to neaten it before booking it to the door. I swung it open quickly, panting with the effort and was met with Clive cold, calculating stare.

His icy blue eyes seemed to bore into me and standing there in my paint stained clothes, wrinkled from sleep with my morning breath and messy hair I felt wholly out of my depth. Clive was in a dark suit with a pink cravat, his white blonde hair perfectly combed and his glasses glinting like the diamonds that studded their sides in the sunlight.

“I do hope I am not disturbing you Mr. Mulner.” He said with thinly hidden irritation. “But our meeting was set for twelve was it not? I do hope your breathlessness is due to you tidying your humble little studio for my arrival.”

He didn't wait for me to welcome him inside, instead brushing past me and wrinkling his nose. I hadn't cleaned up in weeks, and last night's palette and brushes stood next to my easel still waiting to be washed.

“Charlie, Mr. Mulner was my father, heh. A-actually I slept late.” I admitted, “I was up all night finishing up the centre piece for the show.”

“The centre piece for these?” Clive ran his eyes over the other self portraits with mild interest. “They are interesting, but lack a certain something.”

The words were like a knife in my heart but I did my best to smile through it; he wasn't saying anything I didn’t know really. Besides, I had the perfect way to impress him.

“This is the main self portrait, I wanted to bend reality and see my feminine side.” I said as dramatically as possible, pulling away the sheet to reveal last night's work.”

I watched Clive’s face go from unenthused to raptured in an instant. He said nothing, but stepped closer and I felt hope begin to well in my chest; perhaps my hard times were finally over. If I could impress Clive Roland I was sure to make a payday!

“Enchanting,” Clive said after a moment, “such attention to detail, I like that she is not overtly feminine, reflecting your own feminine traits as masculine was a bold choice. It speaks to me.”

“Thank you?”

My own feminine traits? I peered down at the painting and felt my jaw drop. It had…changed. The perfectly smooth jawline had a hardness to it now, those ever soft lips were slightly less pouty and more thin. I blinked in confusion, had I been so tired last night that I hadn't realised? That had to be it.

“It is bold to look in the mirror and see the other gender's traits already upon your face and reverse them. Inspired even.” Clive smiled. “Yes, I do believe I will have a place for you and your works in my summer gallery in three weeks time.”

My heart leapt; who cares if I’d made a mistake and missed a few feminine details in my haze; Clive liked it! I was saved! The next few minutes were a blur, I shook hands and exchanged details with Clive about the exhibit and how many works were needed. Plus dates and times to drop things off ready for the grand opening in three weeks time.

By the time I closed the door the sun was setting again and my hands were shaking. I've done it! I’d actually done it! I lifted the portrait off the easel and spun it around in glee.

“We did it!” I grinned, “You and me!”

The woman in the painting smiled at me with that half cocked expression and I beamed. I was almost tempted to kiss her.

“Oh what the hell?”

I laid my lips gently against the canvas and bubbled with laughter as

I placed it back; I hadn't felt this level of excitement since my first show back in my twenties. Looking at the picture with fresh eyes I didn’t even care that her jaw was a bit too square for a woman. She was perfect.

My stomach growled and it was then I realised I hadn't eaten all day. With a sheepish smile I moved to the bathroom to brush my teeth and comb my hair; I could justify buying something that wasn't instant noodles for dinner tonight, perhaps a pizza from the place down the street.

I reached for my toothbrush and froze, blinking at my reflection with confusion. My lips looked…wrong. Swollen almost and slightly too pink. I ran my fingers over them and felt shocked at just how smooth and voluptuous they felt. Almost like a lady’s. Is that what Clive meant about some of my traits already being feminine? It wasn't unheard of to see a guy with pouty lips now and again but I wasn't one of them; at least not until now.

What’s more, I recognised them; these were the lips I painted last night, the ones now gone from the portrait. It was one thing to misremember how I’d painted something but I knew my own face and those lips were not the ones I’d had last night.

It couldn’t be a coincidence…right? I shook my head, I was getting hyped up, I was probably half delirious from lack of sleep and stress. I’d go out, get some food and then everything would feel right in the morning.

I cleaned myself up as best I could and stepped out onto the streets to make the short walk to the pizza shop. There was a spring in my step and a smile on my lips for the first time in months; it was all I could do to stop from humming a little tune from happiness. I was so happy in fact I didn't realise the spring in my step was more of a sway in my hips until I walked past a slightly tipsy looking man whose wolf whistled at me.

The sound gave me whiplash; I would have assumed it was for somebody else but the street was empty save me and the red faced man who threw back his face and laughed as I turned to face him.

“Nice sashay lady!” He chuckled, “You one of them pansy types I guess.”

My blood boiled.

“I’d say you’re the pansy if you’re getting turned on watching another man walk!” I yelled, “get lost!”

“Whatever sister.” He grumbled, turning and walking away.

I snorted; okay, I could have handled that in a less offensive way but at least nobody else was around. I wasn't about to let one drunk homophobe ruin this good mood. I continued walking and grit my teeth; I could see what he was on about though. No matter how hard I tried, my hips just wouldn’t stay still. They rose and fell, making my ass stick out as I walked to the point that I swore I could feel the cheeks jiggle.

Each time I stopped concentrating on it my legs started to move of their own volition. One foot in front of the other in a straight line like I was on a runway. I tried to get my gait back to normal but the second my concentration slipped I was right back to my hips swaying. By the time I reached the pizza place I was red in the face from embarrassment and was almost tempted to just go home empty handed.

Then my stomach growled and I figured I may as well get something out of the humiliation. Small cheese pizza in hand I rushed home, doing my best to ignore the jiggle in my pants as I went. I couldn’t dismiss this, something weird was definitely going on.

~

I tried to focus on painting more portraits for the exhibit but my focus kept slipping, along with my eyes. Somehow they always found their way back to the female portrait of myself. While she had the same eyes as me in theory there was something almost hypnotic about the ones on the canvas.

Where my own eyes were dishwater grey and dull somehow hers looked like the sea after a storm. There was passion and fire in them that had burned out of me long ago and those dark lashes, each painstakingly painted one by one, framed them perfectly.

I couldn’t help but notice the cut of her shoulders had changed; going from a gentle slope to more square. I reached for my paints, feeling my own shoulders subtly shift and with shaking fingers I placed down my brush and reached up to my own shoulders. I ran my fingers along what used to be solid shapes and found a gentle curve there; yet another aspect of the painting and I had switched.

I felt like I should do something to stop it but I had no idea how this was even happening, let alone how to put an end to it. I bit my lip, ignoring how full it felt compared to normal and walked over to the picture, staring the woman down.

“I don't know how you’re doing this…but quit it.” I hissed, “You’re my masterpiece I can't have you keep changing! Clive loved you just as you were!”

Of course the painting didn’t reply and I felt a blush of embarrassment coat my cheeks. Maybe I had finally snapped? I was standing here talking to a painting after all. Maybe all the stress and failures had finally gotten to me and I was going insane. Honestly, it was the only option that made sense except this all felt far too real.

I covered the painting in a sheet and turned back to my current project, trying my best to ignore it as I painted into the night. Somehow though, despite the fact that those piercing eyes were covered up I felt them boring into my back until the early hours of the morning.

~

“I have got to stop pulling all nighters.” I groaned, rolling over and rubbing at my sore chest.

Midday sun was blinding me through the cracks in my blinds and with a wince I dragged myself to the bathroom to try and freshen up and shower. Still half asleep I set about brushing my teeth, feeling my sensitive lips tingle as the bristles brushed against them. I ran a hand through my unkempt hair and sighed; what was I going to do about the opening night? I’d need something to wear and I’d long since sold all my nicest clothes just to make rent on this place.

I looked at my reflection, ready to bemoan all the work it would take to make myself presentable and froze. The toothbrush fell from my lips and my eyes went wide. Except they weren't my eyes; they were the portraits. Beautiful, striking and framed with long dark lashes that fluttered in shock as I blinked.

All at once I was awake and hyper aware of how my body felt. That soreness in my chest…it couldn’t be…

I looked down and felt my breathing stutter. Upon my chest were two round, smooth shapes that had certainly not been there the night before. Smaller than the bust I had given the portrait but something told me it was only a matter of time before I had taken on its full, curvaceous size.

I grit my teeth, this had to stop.

Perhaps it was silly to be so angry at a painting but it didn't matter, my blood was boiling as I stormed back into the main room and ripped the sheet off the canvas. Once again I could see my old features in the paint, now mixed so much that the figure looked almost like a Picasso, horribly mismatched just like me.

“Alright, you want to play hardball you stupid picture, let’s play hard ball.”

I grabbed for my paints and began swirling them on my palette before taking them straight to the finished painting. I painted back in those red lips, the soulful eyes, the curved shoulders and added to her shrinking bust. I took away that smug smirk that had started to form on her lips and put every hair back in place exactly as it had been originally.

I stood back and smiled triumphantly; the portrait was fully feminine again but when I looked down at my body the changes remained. Maybe I just had to wait a little longer? I glanced up and took a few steps back, watching as the paint on the canvas moved before my eyes, sliding back to the half male, half female version of myself that had existed before.

“That’s it, I’m definitely going crazy.” I whispered to myself.