Friends, Family, and associates

At Home

KaChi. Artists are Artists, no matter the species - and KaChi is one who proves that. She's a dolphin with the technology to communicate with humans and a style of painting all her own. Her images are made from sonar, in a special medium, and feature the sights of the sea; she's best known for her works on the great ocean liners and the deep sea vents.

Mary Shelley. In her life before she came home, she was best known for her novel Frankenstein. Here, we know her for the trilogy - and the heavenly batches of absinthe she and Percy make up every year. She's one of my best friends.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. Percy's poetry is the closest you can come to divine here at home. It has a grace that I never expected when I first met him - but then, I suppose the best parts of poetry are drawn from experience, and that he has in spades. He's another of my best friends.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Ah, Henri, my oldest and dearest friend. He's been around since my first memory, taking me for long walks in London and Paris and Venice, showing me the night life and teaching me about color and texture, life and love. I was heartbroken when he passed into the West the year I turned 13. But he came back, like all Artists, and he's only passed that way once since. We still go brothel-crawling together every few months.

Oscar Wilde. Dear, sweet, witty, wise, wonderful Oscar. We had a fling one summer, but it was as doomed as all of Oscar's flirtations. We're still friends - after all, we both knew it wouldn't last, so there were no hard feelings to be had. He shows up at parties and composes fragments of poetry for me, and I make him outrageous sketches of our fellow merrymakers.

Abroad

Bleys. First he was a friend - now he's an Uncle. I hope he doesn't expect me to call him that yet. It's all a little too new. He's still my teacher, though; first he taught me things about art so real you can almost walk into it. Then he told me you could. And now he's showing me how to go to places I used to only daydream about.

Deirdre. My mother, or so I've been told now. I don't really remember...

Border graphic from http://www.grsites.com.