Lit in Parisian blue, a horse gallops in a field.
Lit in turquoise, Jewel stares into the camera while inside a photo reel. She walks around the field. Sticks lie on the ground. She rides the horse.
Three women, wearing black robes, walk onto the field and fold their hands in prayer. They dance.
She runs towards a white sheet.
She and a young brunette in a matching dress mimic each other.
She grips the white sheet with on both sides with her hands. She stands in the field.
Jewel hauls the laundry into the wash room. She fills the basket with the dry clothes and folds them on the counter. She turns her head as she listens to the scraping of the chisel against the wood. Her boyfriend has been working on it for months. There have been some false starts. However, he hasn’t allowed her to see it. There were drawings of it scattered on tables around the house and she was let down. She had considered him an infallible genius once.
While at an art gallery opening, she had bumped into him. He had touched a strand of her brunette hair and said she would be a great blond. They discussed Monet and Picasso. As she sipped her wine, she said she was submitting her poems but was getting rejected. She liked art but believed she would be an outsider within its world. He asked to see one of her poems. She shared a notebook of her writing with him. He suggested some pieces and where to send them. He introduced her to editors and publishers. In six months, she had landed a book deal.
During her book tour, she had heard rumors he was cheating and another woman was living in their house. She convinced herself she was okay with it. It was an artist’s life and they could be as free as they wanted. But she had no desire to see anyone else. In interviews, she called him her muse and he deserved credit for her success.
However, as he continued to show his sculptures, she listened to the same promotional spiel he gave to each reporter. She smiled during his interviews and showed the reporters around their home. Every once in a while, they would ask about her next novel. As she began her explaining, he interrupted her, stating it was simply an outline and nothing more. She learned to be quiet during the interviews.
She thinks of the guitar in the back of the closet and the teenaged version of herself, sitting on her bed, singing. Her lifts her head up in the sink, the blond stripped from the strands and looks at herself in the mirror as a brunette again. She reads a magazine as she waits for it to set.
Director: N/A Year: 1997