Margot, Boho Artist.

Dear Diary #308 Margot, Boho Artist.
Lee

Paint splatters the walls, the floor, skin, and sometimes the canvas. Margot has decided she is an artist; an artist long in the making, and now ready to be emancipated from her lackadaisical heart and tortured soul. Aren’t all artists tortured? But I know Margot, every inch of her: from the penny-sized birthmark high on her inner left thigh; the piercings where the sun doesn’t the shine, and the hidden, deeper Margot, who rarely wears the same face/mood twice, so I’m not entirely convinced. She’s a human see-saw who tilts this way and that, wherever her fancy leans, and has less concentration than that of a 5 year old and less willpower than a junkie. It’s a fad, her latest painkiller which will pass before the paint has time to dry…

“Margot?”
“Yes, what is it?” she says, without taking her eyes from her latest masterpiece, (I haven’t any idea what it is yet).
“Why are you only in your underwear? Shouldn’t you be wearing the garb of a painter? At least something to keep you from getting so dirty?”
“Freedom,” she huffs. “I channel my work better when I’m free from clothes and society’s doctrine of what is normal and acceptable and what isn’t.” 
She dabs, dabs and dabs her brush upon the canvas, each dab more forceful than the last. “And dirty? I thought you preferred me dirty? Besides, don’t you like what you see,” she says before turning around to face the answer.
“You mean the painting or—“
—“the painting. What d’ya think?”
“I’m not really the right person to ask…I’m no critic and I’m not sure what it is, I mean the colours, the shapes, the splatter…it’s a bit of mess if I’m honest.”
Margot grinned then cleared her throat before taking a seat on the sofa next to me. She cradled her arm across the back of my shoulders, twirling the paintbrush between her finger and thumb. Turps, Chanel No.5, menthol cigarettes and champagne wafted from her.
“You’re the perfect critic, and anyway, it’s your portrait,” she says holding eye contact, “so I think ‘a bit of mess,’ has captured you just right, don’t you?”