He was the kind of person who inspired others - a muse, April had called him. She'd tried to capture him in lines, in curves,in shades of black and white and gray and rainbows. She'd tried to capture the cocky grin, the mischievous glint in his eye. She never quite managed it, but looking at the drawings after she died told a story of love and addiction and perfection.

Not that Roger was perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but sometimes... sometimes, on film, Mark could almost believe it. He could forget that Roger wasn't perfect and just see the passionate muse that would be remembered long after the real Roger was gone. There was no way to capture him without that one aspect drowning out everything else.

After he died, Mark thought as he filmed Roger laughing with Mimi, all that would be left would be these incomplete portraits of a larger-than-life rock star. And somehow, that seemed right.