Chapter Text
Mr. Sarai had told him the basics. This was a family without an estate or an inheritance, without much to call their own but the clothes on their backs and the small sum of money they kept on them. They weren’t the nobles Edgar was used to mingling with. He only hoped they would be able to appreciate his art.
It was morning when the painter began his work for the Balsa family, which meant the lighting was at its worst. His workroom had windows on every single wall except the one facing east. Mornings were notoriously dark for him.
Normally, Edgar had a strict rule against painting before midday. But he hadn’t made these arrangements. Mr. Sarai had, and he was much more easily swayed by a pretty penny than the painter himself was. The Balsas had paid extra to be seen earlier. Something about not being able to schedule across more than one day. Edgar figured the family was too poor to afford his services a second time or heaven forbid a third, and it was a better investment to convince Mr. Sarai to let them in early.
Not that it would matter. Even with less than ideal lighting, nothing Edgar painted was ever of poor quality. At the young age of thirteen, he was already leaps and bounds beyond all of his peers when it came to issues of artistic skill. Even a piece that he deemed messy, inadequate, and a shame to his craft would easily be considered by others to be a masterpiece.
In the end, Edgar was really the only one who would notice the issue with the light. Not even Mr. Sarai would pay it mind, the fool that he was. Edgar knew this, and as such did his best to brush it off, more for his own sake than for his clients or his master.
Easier said than done. As Edgar began his initial sketch, he found himself muttering gripes and curses under his breath. The room at that time of day just didn’t allow for a perfect view of his subjects. This painting would be an insult to the arts, surely.
But he did his best. With a gentle hand, lighter than air, Edgar started with the matron of the family. She had a certain contour to her face; sharp and extreme. Edgar was partial to it, he had to admit. As his eyes stayed glued to her, she didn’t flinch, didn’t shy away. She was proud to be observed and held herself accordingly. Edgar made a mental note to catch that confident gleam in her eye when he was ready to add color.
Next up was the father, who stood a good inch shorter than his wife. Fat and soft, he reminded Edgar of a pillow stuffed with downy feathers. There was a nervous energy in him. He looked away from Edgar’s scrutinizing stare. Obviously the portrait had been the mother’s idea. He was kind, Edgar could see that right away. Kind but weak, bending to everyone else’s whims. That made him a good working man, perfect for his family’s needs.
Finally, Edgar came to their child, who stood on his mother’s right side, her firm hand planted on his shoulder, pushing down as if trying desperately to keep him in place. Edgar concluded quickly that he was a fine mix of both of his parents. He had his mother’s confidence and jawline but his father’s soft nature and the hands of a determined worker.
His hands. Edgar’s eyes kept flicking down to the son’s hands. The boy couldn’t have been more than a year older than the painter himself, but his hands were something seen on an old man. They were rough, callused in places they shouldn’t yet have been, the nails dirty and chewed down to nubs. Just for a moment, Edgar glanced at his own hands. He had calluses too, where he held his brushes and pencils. But nothing like those worn down things.
The boy’s eyes darted around the room, searching for something. Or maybe awed by the decor. Surely it was unlike anything he’d ever seen. They never stayed in one place for too long, often moving sporadically, frighteningly fast. Edgar found himself almost dizzy from tracking his pupils.
His hair was a mess. It looked as though any attempts to brush down the stray locks that danced like madmen atop his crown were made in vain. Not even the ponytail, tight on his head, pulling at his scalp, could keep everything in place. Edgar could imagine the mother with a brush between her teeth, cursing at her son as she yanked his hair back into place. It suited him, though, that mess of hair. Paired with everything else there was to him, he wore the style well.
His smile. Edgar almost didn't notice it. Most of the time when he painted portraits, he would have to use his best judgment and determine what a smile would look like when plastered on his subject’s face. It was a difficult thing to keep one on for the entirety of the painting process, and most people didn’t start off wearing one for that exact reason. But this boy was different. He came in beaming and beaming he remained. It would have been frightening if it wasn’t so endearing, so exciting to see.
Finally, Edgar looked at the three of them, saw them all together as a family. They were plain. Obviously without much to their name. Surely they wore their best clothing for this occasion and still they were dull, even when compared to Edgar’s messy smock. But they were genuine people. A confident mother, a soft father, and a son who held them both within himself. Their son, Edgar decided, would be the focus of the painting. How could he not be?
By the time midday came around, Edgar had long since moved on to painting. The lighting in the room was better now, much more suited for his work. But he no longer needed the sun to guide his hand. The boy was the sun in this piece. He gave off an ethereal glow, engulfing his mother and father in his warm illumination.
The light started in his hands and moved up to the top of his head, finally settling in his teeth, peeking out from behind chapped, raw lips. His parents weren’t in the shadows though, no, not in the slightest. The boy cast his light onto them, highlighting the contours of his mother’s jaw and the rhythmic rise and fall of his father’s form. Where his parents’ eyes gazed forward, staring into the viewer, the boy’s eyes were to the side, watching something unseen. Maybe that’s why he was the light. Maybe he saw something his parents couldn’t.
It was a religious painting. At least it felt like one. The boy with his light and the mother and father with their calm, proud looks to them. A simple family with a fantastic son. Edgar almost laughed as he realized exactly what message he had portrayed through his work.
He was finished by dusk. When Mr. Sarai came in to see his final product, the man went pale. “Edgar,” he said under his breath, “just what exactly have you painted here?”
“Do you quite like it?” Edgar asked, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair with a sort of pride that was signature to him. “I’m still thinking of a title.”
Mr. Sarai only shook his head, motioned the family over, and began to discuss payment before they even got the chance to see the work. While the adults were busy discussing money matters, the boy wandered over. Edgar watched him, made sure his gaze was right where it was meant to be. The Balsa boy stood next to where Edgar sat, folded his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels as he observed the painting.
They were silent for a long while. It was the first time Edgar had seen the boy’s eyes stay in one place for more than ten seconds. The longer Edgar waited, the more tense the air became. Did he not like it? Edgar toyed with the idea in his mind. Impossible. This was a masterpiece, just as all of his pieces were.
“Well?” Edgar finally said, voice quieter than he intended it to be, “What do you think?”
“You missed a spot.”
Just for a moment, Edgar was dumbfounded. After that came the anger. “Excuse me?”
“Right there.” The boy pointed, finger only a small space away from the canvas. He was pointing to the upper-left corner where, when Edgar squinted, he could see a faint area where the paint hadn’t been brushed on as thickly. White speckles peeked through the otherwise dim palette. “See? It’s bare.”
Edgar stuttered for a moment. “That’s hardly bare. It’s an easy fix. But it was on purpose, you know. It adds…” He had to think. “Depth. Perspective. You wouldn’t get it.”
The boy shrugged. “Probably not. Sorry, sorry, it’s really a beautiful piece of art. Mother was right, your skills are unmatched. I just have an eye for fine details, you know? I couldn’t help but notice the bare area.”
“It’s not bare,” Edgar said, more firmly now. The boy only chuckled. His laugh was snide, nasally, snarky. Edgar sucked in a sharp breath. “You say you have an eye for detail. Did you notice then that you’re the focus of the piece?”
The boy blinked. “What?” He squinted. “No way. Woah, yeah, I see it now.”
“Do you really?”
“Nope. I have an eye for detail, not art.” With a small nod, Edgar toyed with the bristly tip of one of his brushes. “I kind of have to see the little things. I mean, we’re inventors, after all.”
“Inventors?” He looked up to find the Balsa boy studying the painting, even closer than before. “I didn’t know that. What is it that you invent?”
“Huh? Ah, well, nothing yet. Nothing big, anyway.” He shrugged. “But we’re getting there, we are. One day we’ll be great.” His body relaxed and his eyes unfocused as he went somewhere far away. “Yeah, one day.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Edgar said a bit mindlessly.
“Oh, wow, thanks Eddie.” With that, Edgar’s brushes fell to the floor with a loud clatter. “Uh…Sorry. Should I call you the young Mister Valden? That’s what my mother calls you.” He laughed again, that same chuckle. “I might have stepped out of line. Not used to your way of doing things.”
“No. E-Eddie is fine.” What was he saying? Of course Eddie wasn’t fine. It was so casual. So unprofessional. So…He didn’t have the words. It was different. Not unwelcome. Refreshing. That might be the word. “What, uh, what can I call you?”
That’s when the boy stuck out his hand with the dirty, chewed up nails and the calluses in all the wrong places. “Luca Balsa,” he said proudly, with the confidence of a grown man, although he couldn’t have been any older than fourteen. Edgar shook his hand without thinking, without flinching. It took him a year to shake his mentor’s hand and here he was letting Luca Balsa have him. He couldn’t help himself. Luca was so open, so inviting. What could Edgar do but let himself in?
Once the Balsa family had paid their dues, fawned and gushed over Edgar’s work, and set up a date for the portrait to be properly delivered, they went to the door of his workshop, ready to head back to wherever they were staying for the time being. Before leaving, Luca looked back, still wearing his smile. Did he ever drop it? He waved to Edgar, a short half-salute. In response, Edgar wiggled his slender fingers.
The next morning, Edgar went back to his workshop where the portrait stayed on display. A title came to him while he waited for sleep the night before. Nativity, he decided, was a fitting name for this work, given its subject and nature.
In his sketchbook, he drew Luca Balsa as he appeared on the canvas. When Nativity was delivered, Edgar would probably never see it again. He was probably never seeing Luca Balsa ever again either. So he wanted to remember every strand of hair, every callus on his hands, every way his eyes moved, and every tooth in his smile. It felt important. When Edgar looked at Luca, either in person or in the painting, he was filled with something unfamiliar.
Inspiration, he decided the feeling was. He had never felt truly inspired before this day.
When the drawing was done, a perfect rendition of the young boy stared at him, a grin tugging up his lips. Edgar flipped the page and began to draw him again, this time seeing how well he could do it from memory.
Nativity was taken away within the week, delivered to the people who had paid for it. Still, Edgar drew Luca Balsa. When he felt stuck or blocked, when he needed a subject, it was Luca to whom he returned. For years it was this way. For years Luca occupied Edgar’s mind. Not always in the forefront, but always there. And always smiling.
At the young age of thirteen, Edgar Valden found his muse.