Sunflowers (Tournesols) II 10 страница

Gerard sat down at the table, coffee in one hand, and then began to butter his toast with the other. "Yes, actually. It was the strangest feeling. I haven't been hungry at all since we had come back, but this hit me like a wave in the middle of the night. I was turning over, and then it felt as if my stomach had torn in two." He took a bite and then noticed the candle. "I tried to be quiet and not turn on the light, but appetite knows no bounds."

He put out the candle and since I was standing up, I flicked the switch for the kitchen light before I sat down. I picked up a piece of toast and began to put jam on it. I was pretty hungry, but not as much as Gerard seemed to be, and my appetite was charged through the smell of what had gone on while I was asleep. As I chewed, I thought about what he had said. He really didn't seem to be eating a lot before this and, in Paris, I knew he didn't eat much at all because he simply couldn't afford to. Maybe the sudden realization the there was food he could eat, food that was laying around and would be here for awhile, was just too much for him. His body had finally come out of hiding and now wanted to be fed.

I found myself, just starting with something small, becoming overwhelmed when I thought of the time in Paris, and the hunger of some nights. We really had been starving artists then, but now we didn't have to be.

"This is nice," I said. We passed food to one another, and I started to drink some coffee too, oblivious to the time and not needing to care.

"I knew you would like it, but I also didn't want to wake you up. You looked really peaceful sleeping." He smiled, and went back to the food. I smiled back and then started to serve myself from Vivian's casserole dish.

I breathed in slowly, and I felt like for the first time in my life, I was using all five of my senses. Even looking at the food was different; the colours seemed to jump off the fruit, and their richness seemed to blend perfectly into the food they complemented. The peanut butter in the crevices of the toast looked earthy, porous, like a piece of artwork, plaster and clay. Texture and smell combined, and I swear I could see the flavours in front of me. But maybe I was still dreaming.

"You know what this means, right?" I teased. Gerard looked up. "Vivian's right. I think we've finally realised how important, and how artful, food can be."

He stopped chewing long enough to smile, and comment, "You should have realized a long, long time ago that Vivian is almost always right."

We both laughed over this, and then, in the spirit of our midnight feast, took our coffee cups up high and toasted to the wisest friend we had. "To Vivian," we cheered, and then, began to eat with every part of our being, because we were not dead, and it felt as if we would never die.

Chapter Four

The coffee we drank didn't prevent us from sleeping. In fact, the morning light seemed to have the reverse effect on us: it made us want to go back to bed. We placed all of our dishes in the sink, some with food still on it (we tried to put away a lot of the leftovers and save what we could, but can you really save toast with three bites left?), and then curled up contentedly under the covers. My stomach felt huge, distended, like I had eaten for the last time and this would last me my entire life. Gerard groaned a bit as well, and I was sure it was a complete shock to his system. But we didn't complain; we had done this to ourselves, and it was such a nice change. Instead of being awake all night because our stomachs were rumbling like they had in Paris, we were heading to bed for a dreamless full sleep for much of the morning. People who say that dreams are affected by what they eat are wrong, I thought. It was hunger that twisted the subconscious into things that dared not come out during the day. I was getting pretty sick of those dreams with their constant falling and sudden jolts. For the past three nights, I had been falling and sometimes not even waking up before I hit the ground. In one of them, I did fall through completely, hit the pavement, and exploded. I somehow managed to see my own explosion, and it was actually beautiful, in spite of itself. I was filled with many, many colours when I burst open, as if a piñata lived inside of me. As pretty as it was, I was glad that on this night, filled with food, there was no further rupture.

When I woke up, it was late afternoon. Gerard had just gotten up before me, but it was to use the bathroom. He came back to bed afterwards, but picked up the book of Rimbaud poetry I had been reading and indulged his French proclivities until I woke up more fully. He began to kiss my face when I opened my eyes, and then asked if I was ready for another round of food.

"I could make le pain perdu this time," he suggested, more comically than anything. There was not that same spark in his eye that he had had the night before. The hunger was gone from both of us.

"Just some coffee; I won't have to eat again for years."

He passed me a mug after it had been made and I went over to the balcony window with it. I suddenly wanted a cigarette and I borrowed the pack from him and went outside to look at the Jersey afternoon. People were a little more active than they had been recently. The snow that we had gotten the second day had already melted; the sun was out now and most of the sidewalks were dry and clear. It looked more like an April day than a day in midwinter, as if we had just come out of the long sleep and scarcity of February and March and were now celebrating abundance. It certainly felt like that, at least on the inside of the apartment, and inside of myself, but the chill undercutting the wind would correct me. I took in a deep breath of smoke and exhaled, feeling okay for the first time in years.

I realized, more or less, that I had always been operating with a vague sense of dread around this time of year. Not only were the days shortening and the tenuous winter and holidays approaching, but winter had a different connotation for me. It meant Gerard. I realized then that the winter I had spent with him had been the only happy one I had ever experienced outside of childhood. All others were okay, bearable, but I was never really alive during them, except for short intervals if I was lucky. I would smoke and drink and just end up waiting for summer. I couldn't walk anywhere, driving was horrendous, and it was just too damn cold. So I stayed indoors, by myself. While I enjoyed spending time alone and that meant I had time for my art, my mind would always wander back to the time when I was seventeen, and I believed myself to be happy. I had been accused numerous times by Vivian and Jasmine that I just could not grow up and grow out of this obsession with being inside, Paris, doves, art, and well, obviously Gerard. I always felt stunted in my growth somehow by my perpetual revelation towards this time period in my life, and would try to make it up excessively during the summer by working non-stop in either paid jobs or art projects. But I couldn't help this constant shift in my mind; it was a movie always on in the background, a book I knew so well I could recite the passages by heart, and something that had burrowed itself into my subconscious and was now a part of me that I could not separate out.

On the balcony, it made more sense now than ever before. Winter was hard, and this was the only way that I was happy. I wasn't stunted in maturity or anything, even if I couldn't dress very well or do all these adult things just yet, I was where I needed to be when the time occurred. If I had not had that winter with Gerard, I didn't know how I would have gotten on for as long as I did. Those seven years were tough, and even Jasmine, in her quiet moments, acknowledged the harshness of winter outside of the childhood concoctions of Santa Claus. She was one of the people who would hound me about my internal life and shunning of reality, but there would be days where she would crawl into the bed with me as well, and I would be the one telling her stories.

"I never got to believe in Santa for very long, you know," she informed me one winter, just as her classes got out for the break. "Dave didn't let me, really. He knew before I did that it was our parents lying and he was sick of liars at that point."

Her voice had been sad then, and I had tried to comfort her. Her biological brother, Dave, was a tough subject, one she didn't bring up very often and only with certain people. He would occasionally make his way into our conversations, but I knew that she wanted to keep him out as much as possible. This fissure in her line of secrecy caught me off guard, and I wanted to make sure she was okay. She brushed me away, and didn't talk about it anymore after that, but she had been kinder to me about my own reclusion that year. This was after I had dropped out school, and she began to not lecture me anymore. Maybe she understood the importance of the fantasy, having had hers torn away prematurely. We both saw the crack in one another's exterior, and though there was a certain inarticulate quality to Jasmine that I never could extract, I knew that I didn't have to in order to love and appreciate her presence with me, especially during winter.

A shiver went through me, and I finished my cigarette so I could go and get warm again. As I tossed it off the balcony, I muttered with a smile "sacré bleu" under my breath, making a cross-stitch of seasonal memories in my mind. I was very conscious suddenly with just how old that phrase was - and yet it felt like no time had passed at all. If I was arrested in some type of development, maybe now that Gerard was here with me, I could finally move on. I saw him walking around, a new idea already distracting his ever-busy mind, and I knew that winter wasn't going to be so bad this year. I could feel it. Things were so different now.

Inside, I walked over to him and put my arms around him. He was wearing his "painting clothes" - ones that looked like anything he ever wore, but were spattered with paint at the cuffs and collars when you got really close. They also stank of acrylic. I kissed him on his unshaven and rough neck and teased him about his odour. "Have you even cleaned these since Paris?"

He kissed me back, but then shrugged. "I suppose we should do laundry, especially since we got all that stuff yesterday."

I gasped, fear overtaking me, and placing a hand to my forehead.

"Okay, since Vivian got us all that stuff," he corrected himself, misreading my gasp. I didn't care if he got who bought the clothing wrong, what mattered was the bags that they came in. The red Savers writing on the bags hidden in the corner seemed to mock me from where I stood and I didn't know how to move on.

"Oh fuck oh fuck, fuck," I said, doing a literal face palm. I looked into the kitchen for the clock, though I knew it was no use - it was way past two o'clock, almost three - meaning it was nearly twelve hours after our midnight feast. I had slept through my interview that morning and there was no way I'd be able to go back there and beg for another one. It was too late. And what was my excuse? Sorry I had a midnight snack with my... my what? Fuck, how was I even going to explain this?

I began to pace back and forth, trying to search for excuses and calm myself down. It was actually Vivian I was more worried about than Terry. The job was kind of hoisted upon me and not exactly my choice. Although there was so much magic crammed into thrift stores, working for one would be like knowing all of the tricks and take the fun out of it. Since I also didn't plan on owning a business or going into that field of work, the job itself was pretty pointless. It wasn't worth getting upset over; if I could have gotten an interview there, without a résumé, that easily, then I could get one someplace else that easy with a résumé. I had a lot of good experience, just not many with companies. I thrived on small jobs and occasional part-time seasonal efforts. I moved around and switched things up a lot. I would be fine; I could adapt, and although I felt shitty and somewhat disoriented because of the sleeping in, I knew that it didn't really matter in the end. It was not like it was an art gig or anything really important.

But Vivian. I actually feared for my life. Were she and Terry friends? Is that how she had gotten me the interview? (Probably not, I realized later, she was just a good talker). Would she take it personally? I knew she would; there was no point in even framing that question. She always took stuff like that personally. Even if my missing it had nothing to do with her, she had gotten me the job, and she was worried about me. About us. She had bought us groceries and she had taken us clothing shopping. She wouldn't have been willing to do that if she thought we were just going to waste it. Lose it.

I looked into the kitchen and saw the food we had gotten out during out feast, but not finished. I thought of the fact that the afternoon was half over, and we had done nothing but waste time. I felt like an awful person and I began to want to hide my actions in one way or another, only I had no idea how to begin. It had been so long since I had felt shame this intense. Probably not since Gerard and I had been found out, and I was forced to hide and dive around all sorts of allegations. I was used to honesty at this point in my life and preferred it. The idea of hiding behind clothing, and then covering up lies of wasted time made my skin crawl with worry, fear, shame, and that wonderful emotion - guilt.

"What's wrong, Frank?" Gerard asked me as I dashed into the kitchen. I began to scrub and clean dishes just to make any evidence of the feast go away. I suddenly felt like Vivian might be calling on us at any time. Did she still have the keys? I hadn't seen Gerard use his pair, so maybe she still did.

Gerard came up behind me, discarding the paint that he held in his hands, and ran his fingers through my hair and down my back. It sent chills up my spine, slowing my pace a bit, but not convincing me enough to stop. "Shhh, it's okay. Whatever it is, it's okay."

"I know, but, fuck," I stammered. "I didn't go to my interview, and now Vivian..."

"She won't know. It is unfortunate you missed it, but she doesn't have to know."

"But she will know, she always knows when I'm lying." It was true. Over the last seven years, she had gotten to know me too well and knew anytime a falsehood came out of my mouth. But maybe I was just transparent, because Jasmine was pretty good at telling as well. Not that I lied too often, but it seemed like anytime I did, I was caught. It was another reason I preferred honesty; if I wasn't able to lie, then other people shouldn't to me as well.

"I'll tell her then. You went, but didn't get the job. All there is to it." He gestured his hands in the air as if to articulate this point further. " Moreover, I feel as if some of this is my fault. We should have set an alarm."

Or not gone to bed at all, I thought in my head, but didn't want to say. I was bitter and a small part of me was extremely upset with Gerard. If we had not gotten out of bed and eaten pointlessly then, we would have had more food now and I would not have missed my interview. I wouldn't feel this guilt creeping into my body, though I knew it was useless. I seemed to fight it twice as hard, because I knew how trivial it all was.

Eventually, I just let Gerard hug me and I didn't say much of anything at all. He just rubbed my back and I tried to sort out my thoughts. They all came at me at once whenever I got this frustrated and upset. I didn't want to be upset with him or anything we had done. I had waited seven years to do those things and it didn't matter if they fucked up an interview that I could get again at any time. It was just really hard some days when I tried to deal with things like jobs and money and Vivian's impending sense of responsibility and pragmatics. I was still sensitive, after all these years, of Professor Smith's rejection of my art, failing out of school, and then extrapolating that everywhere. I just needed some time with Gerard, where I could revisit a better time, before I calmed down. Then I would be responsible, I told myself, I promised myself.

Wordlessly, after I had returned to a better state, he began to help me with the dishes. We got them all done and managed to clean up the kitchen and even sort out some laundry as well. We didn't do it right then, because Gerard still wanted to paint and keep on the same clothes he had until he was done. Then we would clean more.

"But, I do believe I deserve a break, and now it is time to get to my real work." He smiled at me. I followed him to the bench where he sat down and began to go through his sketchpad and began to figure out what he would do for his next painting. He was talking to me, here and there, about the art he had seen in Paris outside of the museums: the large murals of a Dali portrait going "shhhhh," graffiti by Banksy, buskers and street performers. He was telling me about all he wanted to capture in his own work, as well, and was just the escape that I needed. It was fascinating and I ate up every last piece.

But then Vivian, like a force, came back into my mind, around the framework of economics. "Do you think you'll get famous this time around?" I asked suddenly, cutting him off. "I mean, do you think you'll make money from your paintings? Even if you just end up selling things like you did in the market at Paris?"

Gerard clucked his tongue and drew a few quick pencil lines before he considered coming back to my question. "I never minded selling my paintings. They were all originals, I had worked hard, and yes, you better pay me for my time and effort. I thanked all those who bought them with as much dignity as I could muster while at the same time, being incredibly thankful because that meant I had money and was appreciated. It's unfortunate though, how sometimes, I wasn't all too dignified and just plain desperate for money. I hated it. I mean, I needed it, but I hated it. I hated being so vulnerable, but then I got over that aspect because I realized that by selling my art, I was already being vulnerable in selling my thoughts, feelings, and emotions. I got over it."

I nodded. I knew what he meant. When one of my first pictures was bought - Love - it hurt. I was so relieved, not so much for the money, but relieved in the sense that I had approval. Someone liked what I liked. When it happened a few more times with other buyers, I began to want to know these people because I figured if they liked my work, then they must like me. It wasn't always the case, and it was sometimes hard to tell. I had a lot of over-friendly and awkward conversations that way over the last seven years and I pushed them away so I didn't have past shame filtering into my present situation.

Gerard went on before I could offer my own commentary: "The other stuff I have done, however, I never know how to feel about making money from something like that."

"Like what? The market?"

He nodded. "It was beautiful and wonderful there, and I enjoyed it so much, but then I would look back at my work and realize it was the same thing, over and over again. I was no longer selling my original work, my thoughts and feelings, my time and energy. I was selling reproductions. It was the whole point of making money, but it felt odd."

"How do artists do it, then? How do people actually get rich and famous for their work? I'm sure not everyone has a piece like Da Vinci that sells for millions, but they still get by. How?" It was a riddle that had plagued me for years, and I wanted to know so badly. I wasn't sure if Gerard really knew for himself (because if he did, would he have surely done so in Paris?), but I was eager to listen.

"Most artists get famous when they die. Then you don't have to worry about who you're paying," he laughed, albeit darkly. "But the market is where people make money. It's in the reproductions that support the system, and it is purely capitalistic. It makes me no different from the megastores on sheer principle alone."
"Except we don't have millions," I added, and laughed darkly myself.

"Except we don't have millions, indeed," he agreed. "That's why, in spite of my distaste for what Andy Warhol produced, he was smart. His art was based on the idea of reproduction, especially of already popular images, and reproducing for the masses. He did it all himself in his factory - actually, that's a lie. He got other people to do his work for him and then he signed his name at the bottom and took all the credit. He cultivated himself as a work of art as well, making himself into that character, and then marketing that. He was brilliant, that is a simple fact based on his capital in culture as well as in economics. But it feels hollow to me."

I nodded, offering one thing I had learned from getting too close to art buyers who didn't care. "It's so hard to know what sells, and even when it does sell, it doesn't for the reasons you think it does. Someone buys it because it goes with a colour of a bedroom or something so foolish."

Gerard smiled, nodded, and touched my leg to pull me closer. I wasn't sure he realized just how much I was dying to say on this issue, and how much, though I didn't understand the complex working of the capitalistic system and had no idea who Karl Marx was, I knew this same frustration. "I agree. Completely vacuous. Do you know how often my paintings were bought for dentists' offices? That's not art, that's commodity, and so many people like drivel anyway. Look at the shit that is selling the most, and you begin to realize that people like shit. They don't want to think."

I laughed. This was a conversation that Jasmine and I had had years ago, about best sellers. She had an entire course on the Romance Novel and Harlequin Pulp and I had argued over and over again that it was shit, but she really brought me down to my level. While Gerard was ranting about high culture and low culture, and how the low culture actually likes to be manipulated, I jumped in with my own, somewhat paraphrased edition of what Jasmine had told me:

"It's not that these people are stupider for liking this, or that they don't know what they are reading isn't the best thing out there, or that the author is a terrible writer. They probably know and don't care. There are idiots in this world, but not that many, and not all of them flock to the same thing, and become that organized with their adoration. The author, artist, or whatever, must be doing something good or people would just ignore it. It would eventually die out."

A small smirk began to form on Gerard's face. "Since when did you start giving me a run for my money in conversations? Both yesterday and today, with books and with theory, you've represented the alternate position with a substantial remark. Very good, Frank."

I felt my face go red. I enjoyed his praise, but part of me felt as if I should correct him in some way. I may have been remembering and arguing substantially, but these weren't my arguments, exactly. Gerard rubbed my knees, and I remained quiet as he went on, not noticing my subdued atmosphere. "But I still have to say that I prefer art over duplications and simplifications, and I will forever lament against the capitalist system. But..."

"...But?" I thought for a moment he was leaving the question in the air for me to take a stance to it, and wow him with my arguments again, but I had lost my footing. I let him go with where he needed to.

"We still need to eat," he concluded, a bit dejected.

"Yeah, we do. But at least," I offered, thinking of the night before, "even that can be beautiful now."

I left Gerard alone to paint after that. He said he had some great ideas after our "critically engaging discussion" and wanted to be by himself so he could pursue them with no end. He said he felt fuelled from last night and even more from our conversation, and if he did work through dinner, to leave him something aside so he would eventually get to it. "Or maybe," he suggested coyly, "we could go to dinner with Vivian and I could talk her into getting me a show, and we can all sell out!" I laughed and told him that was a great idea. There was also another part of his desire that he didn't articulate: he wanted to see Viv at her place so he could also see Cassandra. The eight-year-old that he remembered was now a teenager, and it scared him, I knew it did. He spent his afternoon and mid-evening painting away his fears and worked on creating the fine line between working for pleasure and working for an income. It was a balancing act that I had not managed, and knowing that Gerard was twice my age and still struggled made me slightly discouraged. But only slightly. The conversation had been invigorating for me as well, and I found myself considering something that I had not before: selling a photo to Jasmine's magazine. Even just submitting for publicity (another word Gerard hated, and me, as well, by proxy) seemed like a good idea. Either way, as soon as I got Jasmine in my mind, it seemed definite that I call her. I spent a little time in the dark room looking at my old portfolios for something good, and then got up the nerve to call her.

"Hello, Mouth Magazine, taking talk to the tips of your teeth," the person on the other line answered and confirmed that this was indeed the right place to call. The person sounded a bit nasally though, so I didn't think it was Jasmine directly who I was speaking to. Besides, why would an editor answer the phones?

"Hi, is Jasmine Bergen there?" I asked, my voice taking on an official quality that I did not like.

"Yes, speaking, how can I help you?"

"Wait, Jasmine, this is you?"

"Yes... is this Frank?"

"Yeah!" I was really excited, and it startled me how good it felt to be talking to her again. "I didn't expect you to answer the phone."

"Well, they have me training for a bit before I actually start the job. This week and half of next, I'm here. I'm shadowing the editor now before she leaves to have her baby."

"Cool."

"Yeah... I guess. Wait, so why are you calling, Frank? Did you just need to speak with me and were unable to wait?"

I bit my lip involuntarily. She sounded upset, but I had no idea why. Was calling her at work a really big deal? She was only shadowing anyway, and besides, I did have something important to ask. "Were you serious about me submitting something before? Like a photograph?"

"Oh, yes!" her tone changed again, although her voice still sounded off. "I was definitely serious. What were you thinking? Do you want to pitch a story as well, or were you thinking of conforming to our current theme?"

"What is your current theme?" Aside from what Jasmine had said the night of the dinner, I had absolutely no idea what the magazine was about.

"Renegades. Do you know anyone you could interview for this? Your time in Paris, did you go to any protests?"

"No. I didn't really take that many pictures in Paris." I thought I heard her gasp, but I wasn't sure. I went on, hoping to mask the inferiority I felt. "I could always interview Gerard about Paris, and submit pictures of him. He was like a renegade in a way."

She sighed on the other end of the phone. "That's not quite what we were looking for. More politics than what Gerard has."

"He has plenty of politics," I told her, now finding myself getting indignant. She didn't seem to be responding well, so I tried to make it resonate more with her. "What was that phrase you used to always tell me? The people are politics?"

"The personal is political."

"Exactly. This is personal. Gerard is political, I'm political. Why can't I write about him?"

She sighed again. Then I heard some frantic typing on the other end. "I understand Frank, I do, but I can't do a piece on a lonely old artist for my first issue. I can't approve that. I will send you a list of people doing stories who don't have any photos though, and maybe you can go through their topics and work out something with them." There was more clicking and typing on her end of the phone. I felt angry, but there was no point in arguing. This was her magazine and it wasn't at the same time. She needed to follow protocols just like everyone else now. I also knew the residue of shame from missing my interview was making this fact particularly worse.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14