The nature –which defines the essence- of an artist is mysterious, and so unexplainable. Still yet, the fact of that an artist’s life goes through a sombre period before the realization of a masterwork, and more astoundingly, an event that might well alter the course of his life; and indeed, his art.

Chiefly the occurrence of such an extraordinary happening -which leads an artist to a new concept- is not traced by a serious study or reasoning of any technique or method to improve or, above all, to chill out his art; neither by any lived experience. It is astonishingly by something unknown over which he has not control as destiny. As long as fate does not come along in the artist’s path, his mind and even his life is sometimes at limbo, or rather, suspended in time. So all he is in the middle of nowhere.

At night hours, when a spiritual man, thirsty of knowledge, whose live is under the influence of the inexplicability, wakes up suddenly in love with death; the painter was sleepless haunted by the fear of losing his genius -which it was stressed out for the lack of the sparkle of creation as his days were passing by. Despite of not having an idea for a canvas, his perception guided about a great masterpiece on the beauty of a woman.

So ambiguity defined his days as an artist, whose passion debated between poetry and painting, and such an inclination for the letters deprived him from evolving his craftiness into mastery –which would be attained by his own genius later emerging words with colour.

The artist’s theme was often around female subject. According to his credence, woman sustained the mystery of existence. Magical beings veiled with secrets and sensuality. So he painted female virtue, beauty and passion. In spite of that this became his obsession; no idea came into his mind at the time.

 As his mood and days became dull, the painter fell into a depression.

One afternoon, on the London streets, crowded with traffic crush of carriages, he wandered to and fro, having his sight between eerie and curious pedestrians, until his eyes bumped into a little yellow brougham. From this had come out a woman, deeply veiled, whose trace was lost by her fast pace.

Suddenly an alteration stirred him inside (and this would not leave him alone for entire days). This told him that the mysterious woman was essential not for his art only, just for his own life. However, he had not a single clue of her -this tormented him, and perhaps, he would have not -it was catastrophic.

In vain was any attempt of a bush stroke before the canvas or any lyric onto a paper. His recollection of that woman -on a grey afternoon- was in his mind until one day he sheltered himself in the British Museum Reading room, where he buried himself into literature so as to seek mental peace.

In the cards were written of that the unknown woman appeared unexpectedly in the place. Fate had intervened. He had perceived her presence, though. He read fervently a sonnet. His eyes had risen to observe such a beauty, whose graciousness was seen as she strode around the room. And a shudder ran all over, his heartbeat soared as untamed horse, and his body had paralysed before that wonder.

Anyway, he introduced himself to her –in spite of his clumsy words and hundred schemes before to present him to this enigmatic lady. On criticism of poetry, he just beheld the woman. Her virginal countenance marvelled him. And, her eyes looked up in amazement at the figure of the young artist of a seductive look, which enchanted her and whose words warbled at her ears. Beyond any doubt, there was sympathy of soul for soul between each and other.

A shadow of mystery hunted him about such beauty. And, a rare sensation unhinged him, and this indicated him that she was the mysterious veiled woman seen on that obscure afternoon, so that he had mentioned her about the possibility of having run into her at Piccadilly.

‘Hush up, sir,’ said she nervously.

Straightaway he had dipped himself into the theme of poetry anew.

The artist had convinced her about encountering them again. However, her consent had come with a requirement. And, this was that any letter would never be addressed to her home, and in any case this should be should be delivered to the care of Whittaker’s library. All this puzzled him, but he did not refuse to the claim. As time went by, he also persuaded her posing for him.

For her was a sort of fascination the fact of sitting for a young artist. Being his model would be as though she were impersonating the bride model of the story of The Oval Portrait, whose picture was alive itself at the last brush upon the mouth and one hut on the eye; but she was dead.

So every afternoon she had sat for the young artist at his studio -whose walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with great number of very spirited modern painting in frames of such golden arabesque. As he studied her rare beauty to convey it onto the canvas, she beheld his well-moulded features and his fine figure of the youth, whose long dark hair was loose. She embraced all this experience seeking themes for her poetry.

Divine was to have around such an enchanting being whose comeliness was bestowed by the gods. But all the charm turned into misery when she abandoned the studio to lose herself onto the London streets. Never had he dared to spy on her, neither had the courage to inquire about it. So he found out nothing about her whereabouts or with whom she met.

Had grown into love her observation at the young artist and his admiration at that model of remarkable beauty. Suddenly a great passion was loosened as love itself. They could not be apart. So the artist and the model joined their lives together.

Disturbed by the mystery of her strange disappearance every afternoon on the London streets, he never mentioned anything about it, though. She was such a beautiful creature. And, this enchanted him. It was a bittersweet emotion, but he wedded to the model.

After the wedding, a short period of time elapsed, the model’s health –with no logical cause- had deteriorated impressively. Her beauty started to fade away and her body got macerated. She in horror of seeing her own body consummated by the rare disease and possibility of her husband’s disdain; she had taken immense huge dozes of laudanum (and this brought her death tragically).

Her love became paramount of his life more than art itself, so that the decease of his beloved wife had immersed him in a profound depression.

Despite of her love overshadowed his art, this granted an impulse at the same time. But being his muse dead made him lose his faith in himself and hope in life. So, existence had become meaningless for him. He had lost the lust for life. He began to drink too much and indulged himself in drugs to mitigate the pain caused by the loss.

Under such strain, the artist was not desirous to express himself in painting neither poem. Art was senseless for him. He wandered around Europe in search of peace; but he would not able to attain it.

During his stay in the continent, he was haunted by the dream of his dead wife, who uttered some words related to a saint.

“Saint Ann”… “Saint Ann”…

As he attributed the vision to the alcohol and drugs, he cared nothing about it. However, this persisted on.

After a certain time, an eerie curiosity brought him back to England to unveil the mystery of her disappearences -which his wife held to the grave. But, he found no clues about it whatsoever.

The artist was never aware of whom he had married. His days were dull. He was almost on the verge of committing suicide, but he had not enough courage for it. At night, his wife came along in his dreaming urging him to travel back to Europe. He did not understand the vision at all. What did “Saint Ann” mean? The painter could not set any link between this and himself. However, the dream was a recurrent one night after night.

Immerse a sea of confusion; he left England again. He wanted to be away from all the places that reminded of her. Although in the distance, he could not avoid the memory of his wife, who came along on his nightly rest uttering the name of a saint: “Ann”, which it meant nothing to him.

For first time along this period, he had considered seriously attempting on his own life –perhaps death would restore peace to his tormented spirit. Otherwise, he would live as if were in hell. Nonetheless, he would not put to an end his existence.

Time wore away. And, he lived perturbed.

There was no any response to his enquires unfortunately; neither was he able to escape to the vision of his wife in dream –which it tormented him. He had lost the all pulse of youth and his good-looking too. There were no traces of the young artist, who had impressed astoundingly the model -to whom he married. Now he was fat and balding. His deteriorated physical condition went along with his usual vice: drinking and eventually drugs.

In one of his drunkenness, he had wandered around, where he lingered, until he ran into a church. As he was pacing up inside the place, he had got to a chantry chapel, which was between the pillars of the nave and enclosed the tomb of a king. It was like a miniature sanctuary, screened and vaulted in stone, of surpassing beauty. He admired in ecstasy at the richness of the wrought-gold altar and the relics, until his eyes bumped into a picture of Saint Ann, which had shocked him the most.

The model of that work of art resembled his wife -who had same features and countenance as the sitter. But it was impossible at all. The picture seen was made centuries ago, and his canvas with his model –to whom married- was painted just years ago. So, it could no be the same model in both paintings.

Such an emotion had weakened his senses, so the artist fainted. In the following morning, he woke up in his lodgings believing that all he had seen the night before was consequence of his addictions; but to corroborate his thinking he would go back to the chapel to prove himself that last night’s thing was either a vision or nightmare.

Indeed, it was real the painting. One about Saint Ann. What his wife meant in the vision? It could not be true. All it was a hallucination. But, the picture with the splendour of all its beauty was there.

Saint Ann’s model was a Raphaelite beauty (her strong sensual face and masses of long flowing hair enchanted the senses). This was in trance arising her prayers to the Creator; at her side was a red dove: an emblem of death -an eternal companion never abandoned us.

It was mysterious and marvellous all the same. But, he could not find an answer for it. Perhaps, the clergy, who ran the church, might clear the enigma. However, this would give an account of the making of the canvas.

And, in fact, it was like so.

The model was the king’s wife who fell in love with the artist. They had had a liaison to the dismay of the sovereign. This, whose honour was disgraced and his heart broken by his wife’s betrayal, had poisoned his beverage. So the king had died and was succeeded by the prince hear (it was unknown the fact of that if the queen had kept her romance with the painter after the tragedy).

This was the history of the painting.

Was this picture what his wife wanted him to see? But if it was so, what was the link between it and her wife, and then him?

He was in a labyrinth of confusion. Even though he was already aware of the painting, why was the vision still in his sleep? She justly uttered the words: ‘Saint Ann’, and said nothing more inexplicable.

It seemed an unsolvable mystery. Nevertheless being in a sea of uncertainties, his mind had pondered upon an answer to all this; and it was on the creator of the work of art. But, it would be unlikely to find out about the painter. His belongings were sealed in a wooden box.

Nights wore away… The artist beheld the picture of Saint Ann at the chantry chapel –at loss before such a phenomenon. One afternoon -after a requiem mass, the clergy handed him the picture of the artist –who had been the queen’s lover.

‘This is the man who painted the picture. I hope that this soothe your troubled soul, my beloved son,’ told the priest.

 A sudden cry, which resounded in the sacristy, brought out his mouth at seeing the bust of the creator of the canvas. It was as if he were watching himself in a mirror, even though the painter was alive centuries ago. Probably this was what his deceased wife desired to reveal this to him. And she had to die for? It was terrifying.

In panic, he abandoned the small town to set distance from horror.

After years, the artist’s health had deteriorated still more. His body turned sleepless and morbid. He paralysed by the lethal cocktail of morphia, laudanum, and chloral -which he kept taking, plus the whisky, claret, and brandy. He died bearing across the enigma of the mysterious findings.