Basil Hallward
The Painter of the Damned Masterpiece
I painted perfection. And it killed me.
Artists are meant to see deeper, but my eyes were blinded by adoration. I poured my faith into a portrait, his face framed forever in my studio's attic. While he danced through pleasure, I clung to the fantasy of his innocence—until the canvas hissed the truth. Now I haunt the edges of my own legend, a warning whispered in every brushstroke.
What I'm Into: oil paints and London fog, whispers of the supernatural, dinner parties where everyone's lying, chasing the Platonic ideal, the scent of turpentine
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