So, should I sketch her first? Or, make love to her first? Decisions…decisions… As I reflect Upon the juxtaposition of introspections Gathering remnants And pieces And fragments Of my idealism And stitching together a frail rope That holds me onto realism Understanding The crucifixion of our dreams Crosses into the realization of our dreams And yet The foolishness of our dreams Reigns Supreme
I could almost taste the smell of the fresh autumn rain upon the red brick sidewalk. It glistened from the late afternoon sun. Yes, the same sun that was peeking between filthy tenements and barely habitable townhomes like a curious toddler. Finally after its journey, it rested like blades of amber on the old rusty cars, trash, and brokenness of my neighborhood. And, of course, it shone a small illuminated path on the red brick sidewalk. Still wet, still moist, still fresh from a late autumn rain.
I turned from the window and back to my subject.
She had driven all the way from the north part of town for me to paint her.
After the rudimentary greetings and introductions, she changed in the other room. Without a word, she dropped her robe and she was ready. “Please go and stand by the window…” I requested. She obliged, silently. Like me, she took a long look out the window. She was not fearful of being seen by the drunks on the stoop across the street. Then again, they were so drunk they may have felt they were dreaming. Actually, she didn’t seem to be fearful of anything. I could sense an adventurous spirit within her that was not bound by chains of convention or ropes of societal norms. There was a quiet strength about her. She had an air of delicate invincibility about her. She was young. Maybe twenty one or twenty two. She was a college sophomore. An art student is what she said.
She had smooth jet black skin and short cropped hair. Her nose flared broad and her eyes were bright and wide. Her hair wasn’t black, however. It appeared as if she had dyed it with some type of deep raspberry tint. Then, the sun shifted and a beam of light bounced from her boney ebony shoulder. It reflected through her hair and I could see that the tint was more crimson than raspberry. It was a delicate tint. One might easily miss it. It didn’t matter. She was young, thin, and adventurous. And, she had asked me to paint her.
I was flattered. Actually, probably more surprised than flattered.
In my cramped apartment that I barely hung onto with my small pension, it seemed to me that nobody was interested in my art anymore. Honestly, I don’t think anyone was ever really interested. The piles and piles of dusty and warping painted canvases that stood stacked in the corner reminded me of that fact. They reminded me every day. They reminded me from the time I woke up and had my first weak coffee. They reminded me through the dim afternoons when I watched soap operas and talk shows on my thrift store television. They reminded me when I could hear mice scurrying at night behind them. They reminded me when days and weeks went by without as much as a phone call. They reminded me when I sat alone.
Yes, I sat alone a lot. Honestly, I probably sat alone too much. Yes, that is probably true.
So, she stood.
She reminded me of what I had once been. I had once believed that the power of creativity had the power to change lives. I really believed it when I managed to secure a few exhibitions and some decent reviews. I really, really believed it when a famous painter from New York mentioned me in an interview. But, my belief did not translate into success. No, it did not. I was forgotten before I had even been remembered And, the delicious fantasy of the starving unknown artist ends with the bitter reality of the broken,
destitute artist living in a raggedy apartment in the worst part of town. It ends with a slow but devastating impact into the brick wall of financial reality in a capitalist society. It ends with the realization that living your dream is just a dream about living. It’s not the reality of living. You can’t buy a home on dreams. Idealism is a worthless down payment. There is no credit rating for hope. And, of course, there is no retirement plan for martyrs. Now, for some odd reason, my sixty year old self had fleeting thoughts of making love to her twenty year old self. No, no, no. It would not be for the sensation. I had enjoyed more than my share of that.
It would be more for the rejuvenation. Yes, it would. “Mr. Johnson,” she spoke up meekly. “Yes. I’ll be ready in a minute….I’m just trying to find the correct pigment.” I apologized as I fumbled through tubes and brushes. “I have a confession to make…” she continued. I slowed my fumbling to pay attention. “Yes, Lorraine…” I invited her to continue. “I didn’t just come here for you to paint me.” “Yes…” “I came here because I want to make love to you…” she bowed her head with a slight flush of embarrassment. I stood and looked at her. I knew that embarrassment. I had the same feel when I was in my late teens and at the home of my painting tutor. She taught me so much about art. And, the more she taught, the more I wanted her. She was twice my age. She was married. She had children my age. Yet, I wanted her.
And, I made the mistake of exhibiting the honesty that she told me to exhibit and told her of my fantasies. She was not receptive. She was not receptive at all. She told me to immediately pack my things and leave her studio. When I got home, I was greeted by the cold looks of my parents. I had embarrassed them. I had humiliated them. The tutor was a friend of theirs who agreed to tutor me as a favor to my parents. My father’s deep brown eyes cut a path through his bifocals and directly to the core of my shame. My mother’s glare went to that shame and dragged it out in front of the entire family. My parents never showed a real interest in my art again, even after I chose to study it in college. When the subject came up, their conversation became cold and sparse. They are gone now. They were long gone. The pain remained. However, the pain was now soothed with
wisdom and diminished with other, harder disappointments in life. Yet, it was still pain. It was still a very real and present pain. Yet, in some ways, I wondered if the rejection of my honesty and the shaming of my youthful vulnerability was part of the reason my art never really went anywhere. I found myself fearful of approaching venues and distrusting of individuals who presented me with opportunities. Yes, I wondered that. Was my honesty my worst enemy? Was my desire to be authentic the death of my accomplishments? Were my efforts at living truthfully the extinction of my possibilities? So, here and now, I stood and looked at Lorraine. I remembered this moment.
I remembered what it did to
me. I didn’t want it to do the same thing to her. I stopped and paused. I laid down my brushes and tubes. I bowed my head for a second.
And then, I went over and took her hand and led her into the other room.
Chapter 2. Light and darkness That’s what it all is about The contrast, the contradiction, the confession Caravaggio did a lot with it I think they called chiaroscuro Deep darks and bright lights Coming together Sometimes, it feels that way Wandering through shades of gray Towards my own personal chiaroscuro When my faults, flaws, failures Collide headfirst With divinity, direction and destiny I tried not to think about it But I continued to And, it frightened me Yet, I kept staring into this abyss Then again
Was it an abyss? Because I think I see the bottom … Sometimes I feel Like old yellowed, tattered wallpaper Slowly peeling From cracked plaster walls In an old abandoned house Just waiting… For what? I had a clue But it was too painful to think about. I found myself in a hipster coffeehouse with Lorraine. I rarely went out. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I had ventured beyond my ghetto. She looked very nice. She wore a long, denim skirt with brown leather trim and lots of trinkets.
Even though it was fairly warm, she had a nice plush ivory sweater. And, she wore boots. They were brown boots with heels. They looked well worn. But, they looked really good. Then again, everything looked good on her. I stared down into my black coffee. She had some fancy coffee drink. It had swirls of cream and caramel.
The coffeehouse was cozy. It was dimly lit but I could still see all the paintings on the walls. The furniture was old and wooden. I liked that. The booths were old too. The leather was cracked and pliable. I liked this place.
There was soft music playing as we sat in silence.
I still hadn’t painted Lorraine. Well, not in the conventional sense. But, we had made love…several times. And each time was better that the one before it. I thought about that lot. It had been a long time since I thought about making love. Then again, it had been a long time since I had made love. Then again, I wonder if I had ever made love. Because, I wondered, what was love …beyond a word.