[Fanfiction] Still Waters
Title: Still Waters [Part One]
Characters: Juan Luna, Jose Rizal, F!Philippines, and F!Spain.
Warnings: Unbeta’d, as always. Technically Nyotalia, except for Salazar. My F!Philippine’s first appearance.
Summary: Juan Luna has painted Juliana dela Cruz three times - once, on penitent morning, and twice, as the sun pressed against the white of her sleeves and the bend of her lovely neck.
Preview:
It was in Europe that he finally discovered many inspirations: from his own trials sprung plaintive scenes, from his worries sprung tragedies, from history sprung bloodshed, and from a Muse sprung a portrait of a gorgeous woman.
This Muse would come into his life, though how long she stayed always varied. Every woman was different - sometimes, her skin was an Iberian white, a Mediterranean bronze; some weeks, her hair fell down in curls that beckoned him forward like the green fields of Madrid, or were held up in tight pins so typical of those from the grey streets of Paris.
That being said, Juliana dela Cruz was not his first Muse.
Juan Luna was an easily inspired man.
Inspiration was everywhere - that was a secret philosophy - and he would often take it for himself, allowing it to bleed into his paint and into his brush, staining canvas with life and death and whatever came in between; other times, he allowed it to melt into his skin until he exploded into his fits of passion and his sweltering bursts of anger.
Easily moved.
Inconstant.
Fiery.
That was what being a Luna was about.
Perhaps then, being an artist, an imitator of life’s ecstasies and tragedies, was inappropriate for a Luna - or was it the other way around? That being a Luna, one of passion and action, was unbecoming of a painter?
In the end, it did not matter. It was an artist’s life that so enflamed Juan Luna, and it was Luna’s flames that fueled an artist’s life. He saw nothing wrong with it and moved into the bosom of the west, bringing his painting with him.
And it was in Europe that he finally discovered many inspirations: from his own trials sprung plaintive scenes, from his worries sprung tragedies, from history sprung bloodshed, and from a Muse sprung a portrait of a gorgeous woman.
This Muse would come into his life, though how long she stayed always varied. Every woman was different - sometimes, her skin was an Iberian white, a Mediterranean bronze; some weeks, her hair fell down in curls that beckoned him forward like the green fields of Madrid, or were held up in tight pins so typical of those from the grey streets of Paris.
And for a time, he would be enchanted - her smile would be his sun, and its many rays would warm him even in the night, and even in his dreams. He would watch the sunlight slide across her cheek and the winds blow her hair out of place in the midst of her laughter.
Soon after that, he would become greedy.
He would covet.
The unfortunate young woman would become everything he had ever wanted. Gone would be the earnest appreciation of her body’s curves and lines; instead, he would work before his canvas, frenzied, intent on - what was the word? encasing, possessing, copying, taking, capturing-
Yes. That was the word.
Capturing.
He would steal away the suppleness of her skin and imprison it to the canvas, immortalized and it would forever be as it was. The glint in her eye would soon be created by white paint instead of sunlight and mirth; her body would bend, not against his body as before, but against every stroke of paint he chose to caress her with, to enflame her with. Against his fingers, he would feel oil and canvas instead of skin and silk and satin and all other worldly things.
And then she would be gone, going to wherever Muses went when his inspiration was finally spent; and when she was gone, another Muse would replace her.
That being said, Juliana dela Cruz was not his first Muse. Nor was she the second, the third, or the fourth - they were a multitude of flimsy sleeves and floating skirts, soft skin and blessed busts. In fact, she her beauty had not been enough to strike him in his place until when he first laid an eye on her; it was only when she had finally been introduced to him that he noticed her.
She should not have been in any way special: but she was, and that was that.
It was only a year after Luna had finally opened his own art studio in Paris that first saw her. As the sun began the first legs of its descent into the West, two women arrived at a gathering held by a rather wealthy friend.
To be honest, he had not noticed her until much later, drawn easily to the taller woman standing in the foreground - oh, how she burned in the red sunset, how she practically scorched the room’s walls and occupants black and grey in the light of her beauty.
Doña Victoria Fernandez Carriedo of Spain, Jose Rizal had supplied, he himself a bit dazed in her presence, was not a woman to displease.
But who would displease her?
She wears red - something no woman dared to wear in the monotone of Paris. Tangled in her hair was a crown of laurels. Her white skin spoke of the Iberian sun and its brightness - set aflame by the crimson that licked her body and probably should have burned her.
It was odd then, that her style of dress was not one belonging to Spain: indeed, only a handful recognized it, and all of them came from the same archipelago that sat several thousands of miles away.
[At the same time, this archipelago stood in the same room.]
A bright red dress, gliding across the floor behind that goddess, belonging to the mestizas of Intramuros.
Doña Victoria’s companion, in comparison, was dressed humbly in the mestiza’s traditional white blouse and blue skirt. One look at her golden skin and her dark hair told the Ilustrados in the room that she was indeed a Filipina, and easily, she was dismissed so the guests could gather their wits from the sight of the goddess moving into the room.
“What on earth could they possibly be doing in Paris?” Luna heard someone whisper in disbelief. “The Doña’s husband shouldn’t be tolerating this if they have business in Spain! To bring a young Filipina with her as well!”
“Who is her husband?”
“Why, he’s an advisor of the King himself! I’ve yet to meet this Don Antonio, though. He is always too busy to leave Madrid, and in Madrid, he is too busy to leave his own home! It’s a wonder that his wife can do as she pleases.”
As they hissed at each other back and forth, the woman in question came forward, her silent companion shadowing her. As she neared them, Rizal made a show of elbowing the chubbier of the two until they both turned.
“Doña Victoria!” He greeted, extending his arms. She smiled but did not come any closer. Sensing incoming embarrassment, he lowered them. “But where is your husband? Is he still in Madrid?”
“Ah, yes. My husband.” Doña Victoria said lightly. She smiled, as if at a private joke - an identical one crossed her companion’s face. “He does indeed have his business in Madrid, and we are to join him tomorrow. But how could we possibly accomplish that when our train leaves in the morning? There is no use in fretting about that. Besides, I came for a reason.”
She turned to Luna, and for the first time, he found himself under her gaze.
[How could something so fiery be so cold?]
“I wished to congratulate you, Juan Luna,” she said, still smiling - however, it had lost its warmth, “I had heard of your victory at the Exposition of National Art very early on, but I was only able to see the painting itself last week. Spoliarium, was it called?”
She looked into his eyes, and he looked into hers: but if you had asked him later on, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you what color they were.
Rizal’s eyes had since widened, and his eyes darted back and forth between them.
The doña’s companion kept her eyes trained to the floor, picking mindlessly at the sheer material on the hem of her baro.
“To be recognized by such a distinguished lady as yourself is an honor, señora. And yes, it is called Spoliarium. It was…” Luna struggled for words. “It was a difficult piece of work.”
“Oh yes, it was a very large painting. I was curious, about it, though. What on earth would spur a Filipino artist to paint such a scene? Gladiators of such a time being left to their death? It’s not something that easily crosses the mind of one of the East, and not of the West.
“Not,” her smile was wide and her teeth gleamed, “unless you said one thing and meant another, of course.”
The clarity of his own mind often surprised Luna, and for a moment, he found himself in the dark, the world smelling of grime and blood and rust. Into his very ears the groans of the damned and the dying fled from their owner’s mouths. Before him mere slaves dragged the mightiest of warriors into the center of the room, where the only light shone - he begged, he pleaded, and he cried for the end.
And with the fury of rats, the patrons descended and began to strip him of his clothes, his armor, and what little was left of his dignity. And when they finished, there was nothing more but a carcass left on the cold ground.
“I began to paint long before I knew what I was painting, if you’ll forgive my informality,” Luna attempted to laugh, though it tumbled from his lips feebly, “I was in Rome at the time: that might have been my inspiration.”
“It’s very historical,” agreed Rizal, edging closer to Luna. The two men who had begun the conversation had since edged away for fear of their losing their jobs or something of that sort.
[This was a rational fear, of course.]
She stared the two down. Her white skin remained unscathed by the flames of her dress and the heat of her eyes - no one dared mention that one sleeve had begun sliding down her shoulder: no one could complain, either.
“My charge in particular liked it very much,” Doña Victoria said finally, happy to resign, turning to her young companion, “didn’t you, Juliana?”
The young Juliana seemed stunned to actually being addressed by her caretaker. With a flutter of long eyelashes, she recovered and nodded earnestly, her eyes resting on Luna and her lips curved at the edges.
Luna found himself inadvertently longing to brush aside a lock of hair that had strayed from the loose knot at the back of her head to the edges of her smooth jaw.
Somehow he feels that he’s met her before - in this life, the previous, or perhaps in heaven. From beside him, Luna can feel Rizal coming to the same conclusion, paying much more attention to her than he had before.
“Oh, don’t bother, gentlemen,” Doña Victoria cut in, the warmth returning to her gaze, “My niece is already engaged to a rather wealthy man in Intramuros - I am well aware of your respective proficiencies in fencing, but you would die terrible deaths before seeing him fall to you.”
Juliana’s cheeks flushed right down to the chords of her swanlike neck, but she smiled nonetheless - perhaps at the memory of her no-doubt strapping fiancée or perhaps at the idea of more suitors at this point.
Rizal’s face, on the other hand, had gone pale: perhaps reminded of a certain women he had attempted to court in Madrid. Luna knew the story all too well and was often well amused by it, despite his deepest of sympathies to his dear friend.
“You must excuse us. We must greet our host: I’ve not seen the captain in much too long.”
With another smile from both women, they swept their skirts off to their host, who had anxiously been watching them the whole time, fumbling with his sleeves in wary anticipation.
As they walked, Juliana turned to look back at him once - did she grace her gaze upon Luna or upon Rizal? Neither cared, for each was convinced that her brown eyes trailed slowly across his own face before she turned back to her caretaker.
Rizal sighed wistfully.
“I must get home. My story shall not write itself.”
“Leaving already? But the night’s barely begun!” Carefully, Luna threw his head in Juliana and Doña Victoria’s general direction.
“And that is exactly why I must leave,” he looked at them also, a smile tugging the edges of his lips, “I find myself inspired. Maria Clara will finally have beauty to speak of, after all. I’ll say goodbye to the captain. Goodnight, Juan.”
Luna nodded and turned to watch his friend move forward.
He had made his way to the coat rack first, draping his overcoat of his arm and haphazardly popping the bowler hat onto his head - a wise choice, as the captain had just started distributing glasses of brandy and wine to his guests once more.
Of course, the hat was a signal fire to everyone in the vicinity, and its presence caused several to comment on his early exit, their host included. Without much ado, Rizal bid his farewells to the captain and kissed the Doña’s hand first, and then Juliana’s; though his fingers may have lingered a bit too long as he gently lowered her slender hand back to where she had held them at her waist originally, brushing against the blue of her skirt.
Her face flushed once more, and her cheeks were as round as two juicy apples.
With a tip of his hat back in Luna’s direction, Jose Rizal left the Parisian gathering, looking very much the way he had described his own Crisostomo Ibarra - young and hopeful.
“You sly fox,” Luna muttered under his breath. He helped himself to more wine.
The rest of the night proved to be uneventful, as all dinner parties were in Paris. The yellow light of the chandeliers splashed and blurred the skins and clothes of the captain’s guests, meshing and blending the way he would combine paint on a palette or the way fine wine would combine the light and shadow in a man’s eyes.
However, everything becomes clear when two women leave the house, the elder guiding the younger with a gentle hand at the waist.
Luna returns home in the late hours, the streets lit by his namesake and the streetlamps. There is smoke, and there is fog, but he does not lose his way.
In the darkness of night, he dreams of the day, the sun, and a bucolic peace.
And so he paints - he paints in the dimly lit corner of his room, where an easel stood, a clean canvas leaning against it. The lights of Paris never reach for him over the frame of his window, and the cool breeze never brushes past the sheer curtains.
He sees it:
Yellow light, and two women, ascending a staircase littered with flowers. They have their backs turned to him: he cannot bring himself to paint their faces, each as lovely as the other.
One woman wore crimson - the red of fire, blood, and carnations.
Her shoulders were wide, powerful enough to support wings, should they have sprouted from that back. She might have been an angel of fire, a seraphim, but most definitely female - the elegant curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts giving her away. If one was not convinced of her being an angel (-too red, too sinful-), then they may have been convinced that she was a goddess of the flame. A crown of laurels tangled itself into her brown hair - hair so brown it was almost red, even more so in the sunlight.
The white skin on the broad plane of her back ignited at the touch of sheer and heavy flame alike: she is the sunset, the dawn, the beginning, and the end. And in a majestic sweep of her dress, she ascended the steps steadily, easily, as if she had climbed them many times before.
The other woman was shorter, gentler, and frailer - too frail and too still. It is not in her voice that she finds power, not in the strength of her body or in the will of tone - her back is slender, and her spine rolled on down in an elegant curve.
One hand stretched away, she looked much like a swan before flight, looking towards whatever light shone at her from above. She was the ocean, hugging the sands of a distant shoreline, the sheerness of her blouse the foam of the sea and the skin of a worn shell.
She was the ocean, for what else could she have been? Though the grandest of caravels and the smallest of rafts traversed her vastness, she remained forgiving and pushed them on with the currents of her own daughters and sons. The heat of the sun wore away at her waters, creating the mists and the salty mists and sprays that hung so low, yet she still stood, as whole as she ever was and as whole as she would ever be: her youth and beauty was forever.
Though her depths remain unexplored, her treasures were swept onto the shoreline, and her children once more gifted with her love.
The dawn had cracked the shell of night by the time Luna had fallen into sleep in front of his easel. It had been hours since he had begun, and it would be days before he would finally finish.
When he does finish, he names it Madrileña y Filipina.
Later he sees too many things in the canvas - the gentle hand on the waist and the faces turned towards a light that no one, not even he, can ever see or imagine - and he renames it.
España y Filipinas.
Fin.
Hullo, everyone! I’m back from my extended hiatus, just in time to belatedly celebrate my first anniversary on the community. What better way to do so than to introduce my own female Philippines with my own crappy writing?
By writing crack, duh.
So this is my dear Juliana dela Cruz! You might notice the fact that I ripped the name off of an El Filibusterismo character, but I’d rather not explain that here, considering that my historical notes will be abnormally long this time.
I suppose this can actually stand alone for now, but I can promise you that there will be at least one more chapter. I’m trying to make it three, but the other parts will not cooperate, and I’m still in the process of writing. That being said, I have absolutely no idea when this will be updated.
Feel free to ask me about Juliana (or even Juan Luna or la Doña, if you like), though! I’d be happy to answer any questions you have. There are, after all, several differences between her and my darling chiquitito, pequenito little Juanito.
[Did you happen to notice anything different I did with her, though?]
Historical Notes (Warning: extra long)
The two Luna paintings mentioned in this chapter are Spoliarium and España y Filipinas.
Spoliarium is (arguably) the most famous painting of Filipino art, ironically depicting a rather Roman scene. Luna painted this as an allegory of the Spanish colonization of the Philippines, and because I cannot put it any better, Rizal describes it like this: “Luna's Spoliarium with its bloody carcasses of slave gladiators being dragged away from the arena where they had entertained their Roman oppressors with their lives...stripped to satisfy the lewd contempt of their Roman persecutors with their honor..."
This painting won the first prize in the Exposición Nacional de Bellas Artes in 1884, and was sold to the Diputación Provincial de Barcelona in 1886. Of course, this was one hell of an achievement for an indio, and Luna was the first to garner international recognition for anything, so let’s give a mighty hand to him, shall we?
España y Filipinas is also an allegory, though I’m sure you’ll find that it’s quite blatantly stated this time. Another name given to this is “Spain Leading the Philippines”: Spain points the Philippines up the steps of progress, one arm gently draped over the other’s waist.
The contrast between the two is simply amazing, in my opinion. The dark to the light, the reality to the dream - I love it.
During the dinner party (which I have set no specific date, to be honest), Rizal was still writing Noli me Tangere, and would end up publishing it in 1887.
Oh, and yes, Jose Rizal and Juan Luna indeed have a load of bromance going on back then. It was to the point that they actually lent each other money with ease and kept up a correspondence that lasted even after Rizal was exiled to Dapitan.
Their love is just too strong!
EDIT: This was originally part of a series, but I will not be continuing it. This will be a one-shot.