YOU ARE INVITED TO THE ARTIST’S UNMAKING

by Liz Levin

Which artist?  

• They made you feel seen, their protagonists your double. But when the artist championed the overlooked, they never meant you. 
• They penned diabolical monsters you longed to vanquish. But when the artist confessed that every character was them in disguise, they should have added, “Especially the monsters.” 
• They mentored you once, or twice, or only in dreams. You would have paid any amount to earn their praise. Then one day, you glimpsed the wolf beneath the scholar’s robes. 

In short, the one who grew giant in your regard.  

When: Tomorrow, or next month, or next year, or next decade. I’ll be waiting. 

Where: The museum on the cliff. Press your invitation to the door and whisper, “A writer only begins a book. A reader finishes it.” Pass the vases on pedestals depicting me and my sisters eight; find the hidden temple. Inside, a portal to my realm. Step into a valley framed by rolling hills. (Or don’t. Change your mind at any time.)  

What does one do at an unmaking? 

In the valley, find the artist bound by chains their most resourceful villain could not break.  

Scurry across their body as a mouse. Use sharp teeth and claws to rend and bite. Dig out eyes and burrow into cold noodle brain. Sniff out glittery moments of insight; swallow them without shame. We are all stardust, made from the same cosmos. Let the good stuff nourish and shit out the crap. 

Human again, seek warmth from the bonfire. For tinder, feed it their tongue and hands. Add their books, if they are yours to offer. (Never burn those stolen through lies or force.) Or hold the words far from the flames. I will not judge you. 

After, sit back and watch the land reclaim the bones. Sun and rain bleach and weaken; artist becomes soil. A village grows where once a giant lay. The villagers do not care. When a buried tooth breaks their plow, they use it to replace wind-stolen fencing. If asked, they would say, “After all, everyone has teeth.”  

You are invited to build a house on this calcium foundation. The ground is firm, though the ghosts are many. I, Calliope, will not blame you if you accept. How could I, when so much has been blamed on me? “It was their muse,” they say. “It was the pressure of genius.” If only I had not breathed a godlike voice into them. They would have done better. They would have been humble. To that, I say bullshit. What is raised can be lowered. What is lowered can be forgotten. What is forgotten becomes dust, then soil, then growing things.  

Special Note: While here, you may see other guests. Do not be alarmed if the artist’s visage shifts and blue irises bleed to green before claws and teeth tunnel through them. My guest list is long. 

No regrets, please. Those are reserved for the artist, if they were so capable.