Dakota

hey all. so i'm writing a bunch of journal entires about this girl who is an apprentice for Salvador Dali and can basically jump in and explore paintings. any suggestions would help and feel free to read/comment on whatever.

June 4, 1931

Tears of hurt, embarrassment, fear, and pain define me. All my innocence of a young woman is corrupted, gone, and ruined. The ability that was treasured and esteemed, that made me who I am is hindered. But my innocence is what spurred this opportunity, which has lead to my seamless depression. I don’t know how to start, or what to say but I know that I can’t tell anyone. I can’t ruin this man’s reputation all because of me, a poor maid who hails from Sweden. I remember once hearing Reverend Nilsson say to us one Sunday that in times of trouble and heartache, writing is the best way to consol our hurt. I hope that he is right because I’m at the point where I want to tear the hair out of my scalp, where I want to cry until my eyes remain blotchy red sports forever. I need to write, somehow, to get my story told. March 17, 1931 When I met the great painter he took me into his Catalonian villa and simply greeted me with paint soaked hands and walked the other way. I could see it beaming in his studio; I was so memorized by its beauty and elegance, its complexity and simplicity that I couldn’t move. I just stood there in his foyer while she watched me and glared like a hawk. “I’m Gala, your room is in the basement. Dinner is at six, if you need me I’ll be in the bedroom upstairs, the one with the velvet door.” She left swiftly and slowly, opened the red door and slithered inside. The look and desperation on her face when Gala met me, reminded me of Mama’s when I left her at Stockholm Central Train Station. It was the first time I ever left her and jealousy just like the type that was on Gala’s face was present in her pallet of mixed emotions. She looked at me with red swollen eyes, her apron stained with cow blood and fish stew, the identifying factors of life as a maid. “Annabelle’ she said with tears streaming down her face ‘don’t forget to thank him, to tell him how grateful you are to be his chambermaid”. She didn’t know my secret. I never told her. I knew she wouldn’t be able to handle it. She would be scared that I had the ability to be more than what she was, scared that I would have the power to face the world by myself. “Annabelle, don’t forget to write to your family, don’t forget that we are still here.” She took me into her arms, her large bosom pressed up against me in the brisk March chill. She clung tight to my sweater clad arms, she clung tight to the daughter she was letting go. With a kiss on the cheek she was gone, back to her life of dusting and cleaning houses she could only dream of owning. She was going back to the life that so many on Kungstensgaten had. That was the life I never wanted. The door shut gently with a silent click. Its empty, a big house with a magnificent staircase, empty devoid of human life. Secrets hidden by doors of mystery. I walk around searching for something to make me feel at home, anything to remind me of mama’s kanelbulle, or Sven’s laughter. I pick up the small floral suitcase papa gave me right before I left and descend down dark stairs leading me to my new solitary layer.

March 18, 1931 I never told anyone but Joanna about what I could do with art. She wanted so much more for me than the peasant life I was predestined to. She called her moster who had a friend who’s daughter was a new famous art manager. It all happened so fast, in less than a month I went from a poor Swedish girl who cleaned pots and pans in the Olsson residence, to the talk of town. I became the girl who had all the luck in the world, the girl who could move to Spain and start anew. Joanna had tears in her eyes when I told her that I was going to move. “Sister” she said, “the new adventures you will have, the new friends you will make.” “But you wont be with me. You wont get to go in with me” I pleaded and pleaded, until my voice was lost in dry heaves of sorrow. A kiss on the cheek and she walked out the tiny hallway in the apartment on Kungstensgaten, walked out of my life. Joanna was always there for me; she was the one I discovered this god-forsaken talent with. It was back when we were eleven; we were standing in the sitting room of one of the houses we were cleaning. We stopped in front of this big painting with a willow tree weeping into a vast blue lake. Swans stirred amongst wandering insects gracing the waters surface. We just stood there memorized by the landscape created by a man named Monet. I started to feel tingly inside, like something was stirring within me. I grabbed Joanna’s hand and closed my eyes, I thought of something better. Something better than papa hitting mama, something more than eating cabbage stew everyday, anything better than wearing Anna’s old dresses and Sven’s old shoes. All these thoughts just kept on circulating in my head; I was reminded of my childish desire to become something I wasn’t. Joanna’s hand left mine as squawking filled my ears and marsh soil dirtied my boots. I pushed blonde bangs from my eyes and was emerged within a landscape by a man named Monet. Joanna sat with her skirt up to her knees, twirling her finger around the water, forming small ringlets. We turned to each other with awe spilled on our faces and disbelief in our eyes. This is when I discovered my skill that would change my life.