Sunflowers (Tournesols) II 15 страница

Each time this happened, it was always unreal to me. In one day, the garden state no longer had its garden, but blankets and sheets of snow and ice. It had morphed and changed its shape to the point where I couldn't recognize it through the dense layering of white. The fragility and discontent was almost beautiful, though. The trees seemed to swoop down into the sidewalks and parks under the weight of the snow, as if asking for permission to hug or touch whoever walked by. Everything looked aged and antique, as if the snow was dust and these things had stood against the test of time and been victorious. The buildings had their gray and weak spots hidden under the guise of winter, most blemishes covered. Right at that morning, the city was beautiful, but it was not a timeless moment. I knew it wouldn't last long; the plow had already been by the main street that Gerard and I lived on and trudged up a gray layer underneath the white. The lot of the apartment building had gaps where cars used to be (no, I told myself, don't try to guess which one had been Jasmine's), and I knew that in a day or so, another plow would come by and pile all of the snow into one corner, making it dirty and black. It was only a matter of time as well before freezing rain would set in and it was no longer a dusting of a fine white powder, but a dangerous scene to walk upon. In time, everything that was once nice in this morning would be gone.

I had never seen a winter in Paris, and I was sure it was much more beautiful than this and that it somehow managed to retain that beauty a little longer. The place conjured up much more permanence, or at least, it was more receptive to the beauty that was handed out like rations in winter. The buildings there didn't need snow to make them bearable like the ones here did, so even as snow got gray and dreary, something wonderful would be maintained. Part of me wished we were still there now, and that I had gotten to experience all the seasons in Paris and not just one. I made a mental note to ask Gerard as soon as he got back, so I could live vicariously through him. I had a feeling that he would tell me anyway even if I hadn't asked.

Now that everything was ready and the apartment had returned to a state of semi-normalcy, I wondered just where Gerard was and how long he planned to stay cooped up with Vivian. I knew that Vivian wouldn't be as eager as Jasmine to get out in the snow and barrel along, but it was mid-afternoon at this point. We were far enough into December that she probably didn't have to teach as much and was just busy with marking and was able to adjust her workday as she needed. Cassandra as well was probably out of school and pounding away on that piano, getting ready for her recital. It seemed like everyone else was released from the confines that they were usually placed in, while I was still stuck in this apartment, piling up laundry to do so I would keep myself amused. I wanted people around me, especially Gerard and his friend from art school. I knew that Vivian hated winter and owning a car, but she surely wouldn't stay inside all day just because she didn't absolutely have to be anywhere, would she? I realized as the thought went through my head that I had pretty much described my winter activities. I went over to the phone and checked to see if Vivian had called, because she was at least mature enough to do that if she planned on keeping Gerard for another night, but there were no messages. I sighed heavily and began to do laundry, waiting for news.

It was right around dinner time when they finally bounded into the apartment. I had just finished setting up the bed again with freshly cleaned sheets. I had even done my best to make the bed with hospital corners and all, even though it was hard without a frame supporting it. After I had folded my laundry and put most of it away, I came back to the living room, and in a dramatic and defeated way, collapsed into the made bed and longed to go to sleep again. I had lain on top of the sheets for what felt like hours, waiting and bored, replaying the night before in my mind. I wanted to dream of synaesthesia, but I ended up just thinking of Jasmine. Frustrated to no end, and not wanting to jerk off in the bed that I had just cleaned, I gave up and picked up Rimbaud again to read. I had just turned onto the poem "Romance" when I heard the familiar footsteps in the hall and Vivian's laughter echoing in the dark hallways. I put down my book as soon as they came into the place, not caring about page markers, and went over to hold the door. Both of them were exhausted from carrying their many bags up the stairs and red faced with rosy cheeks from the cold. As I got closer to Gerard, I noticed him shivering under his coat in spite of the labour he had just done. I rubbed my hand against his back and he smiled weakly at me and laid down the purchases with Vivian.

"Be a doll, Frank, and make some coffee? Or Cocoa? Warm drinks of some kind. It's disgusting out there," Vivian requested. I obliged mutely and began to set up the kitchen while the two of them unpacked their bags in the corner of the room where Gerard's art supplies were. I walked over when I was done, and watched in awe as they pulled out canvases, oil paints, brushes, charcoal, pallets - an artist's treasure trove, basically, in every single colour and size available. Even though my preferred medium wasn't paint, I found myself getting jealous as I saw the art supplies spread out and multiply before me. I looked at Vivian with awe and wondered how she could afford this, or if she was treating it more like a loan or investment. If Gerard could produce something that sold, then it would have been money well spent. Gerard rubbed his hands together eagerly to get them warm again, and to marvel at his new purchases.

"Christmas came early," Vivian declared as she emptied the last piece. She folded up her reusable bag, and then noticing me watching, gave me a small nod. Leaving Gerard with his toys, we went into the kitchen, where she pulled out some more pastries she had purchased and I began to get the drinks ready. As I poured, she leaned close to me and I waited eagerly to hear her tell me that she was going to be the most giving person in the history of people and buy me a new camera. Instead, she grabbed for the sugar in the cupboard above me, and plainly stated: "I paid the rent for December. That is your Christmas present."

"You did?" I said, caught off guard. I didn't know why this was a shock to me; I knew someone had to have paid it, but since Gerard knew we were coming back before I did, I figured he had taken care of it. Vivian added sugar to her coffee and raised her eyebrows, waiting for my response. Like a four-year-old prompted by the magic words, I returned, "Well, thank you."

Vivian nodded. "You're welcome. But like I said before, you getting a job will be a present enough for me."

I swallowed hard, and was about to tell her more about the Jasmine gig and show her the hard copy that she had dropped off the night before, but we turned out attention back towards Gerard and his treasure trove. It was his time for glory and respect, not mine.

As we all headed back there and talked art for the rest of the night, I wondered when my day of glory would come. When would someone shower me with art supplies in order to feed my creative acts? I had sold photos before, so it wasn't like I was a completely wasted investment. Yet, Vivian merely offered me verbal encouragement, and even then, her praise had been morphing over the years into thinly veiled criticism. Would she go back to helping me with shows again? Paying for my frames and the art space? Would my time for respect come when I sold another photo, lived abroad for seven years, or when I reached the thirty years of seniority that Gerard had over me? Then, an even more alarming thought: would Vivian have equally showered praise on me if I had gotten that job at Savers, the way she was praising Gerard? I almost didn't want to know, because I didn't want the answer to discourage me even more. I also wondered, in spite of this large gift, if she was giving Gerard secret covert lessons in economics when I wasn't listening. Vivian was good at the compliment sandwich, and maybe I was only seeing the pieces of bread that held the crucial critique together. They had been spending a lot of time together over the past week and maybe that was where Gerard got chastised privately like I was getting. Either way, as we made our way over to the balcony and the cove of art supplies, the mood was lightened. It was now time for fun, for a break after the largest snowfall yet, and for the chance to construct our own version of holiday cheer.

"Did the power go out where you guys were, too?" I asked, and they both shook their heads.

"Typical Jersey, not knowing how to handle a little snow," Gerard scoffed, and then, on key with my estimate, he began to tell us about Paris in the winter time. "It is beautiful, Frank, as you've probably already guessed. Exactly like a black and white photograph. Exactly like a snow globe that you can buy in a store, only not as tacky. It simply seems so unreal half the time, and then you step outside, and you feel as if you yourself have become a chiaroscuro; that you've walked onto a black and white movie set, and this is all you have become - two dimensional, in a place with such depth."

"You should write their travel brochures," Vivian teased.

"Never needed to. Paris brings people for many reasons, and none of the ones I could give for a brochure would really convey anything more. People decide what they want to do by themselves, and if they want to go to Paris, they go. Sometime people need validation, and they seek brochures and books to make sure their feeling are sound, but the fact of the matter is, as soon as the idea entered their head, they were committed to it." Gerard paused for a moment, and we were all quiet. Gerard had been committed to this idea for years before it happened, probably years before he met Vivian. It was strange to me, knowing that something that large would happen all along but to still continue on with everyday life. He had only ever been committed to one idea before, and now that it was gone and finally done with, I wondered what was next for him. All of our eyes fell towards the art supplies, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The fantasy and commitment of Paris may have been gone, but he had the art that kept him going through the years of waiting for it. Gerard continued to discuss the tourism industry, however, perhaps feeling more like an invader in this new art world of New Jersey than he wanted to.

"The market still stayed open, even during the snowfall, in Paris. It made the snow-globe affect even more pronounced then, and the people flocked there because that idealistic image was somehow reproduced. Christmas was when we'd make the most money, other than summer, maybe. There is a special type of consumerism that happens in the December month, though, and people bought all sorts of tacky things to take home to their families and claim some sort of artistic experience," Gerard joked.

"Do you miss it?" I added. "Not the market, but... everything else in Paris? Do you wish you had seen more winters that were so unreal, especially since Jersey winters are so blah?"

"Blah," he mocked, "how articulate! Winters are only blah if you make them so, Frank. And no, I don't miss it at all. I had my fill of Parisian winters. New Jersey doesn't exactly compare, but, it's the people I'm with that matter the most now. It's the people that make me want to stay inside and focus on their beauty, instead of what I perceive outdoors."

Vivian and I both blushed. She looked into her coffee cup and reached a hand over to rub his knee for support. He was sitting on the small ledge by the window, Vivian had pulled up the stool he usually used for sketching with, and I was on the arm of the orange couch. Gerard was in the middle, and the art supplies in front of all of us. Gerard reached his hand over to touch me as well, since I had not moved since he started talking. He shifted a bit on the ledge and signalled for me to join him. It would be a tight fit, but I was relieved. I had sort of been staying behind everyone and everything, feeling more like a fly on the wall than a loved guest. The day I had spent by myself waiting for them had made me feel small, especially with all the repetitive tasks I had done. I also felt this competition from Vivian, with jobs and relationships, and I felt shaken after my experience with Jasmine. There was a space inside of me that even Gerard's hands didn't reach; it was as if my body itself missed Jasmine's hands as well. As I sat right next to Gerard, practically in his lap because the seat was so small, I latched onto him, but I could see the mattress in front of us and my body jolted again. Anytime I closed my eyes, I saw colours and my stomach spasmed. It was such a strong feeling, it walked a fine line between nausea and pleasure. I turned my attention back towards Gerard and the feeling subsided. His gaze, his touch, and his words hit me in a different way. They washed over my body and calmed me. They were surface and skin deep, and almost like a tingling. Never dreadful, which is what sometimes overtook me when I thought back to the night before. I tried to remain in the present moment, and when I did, I realized Gerard and Vivian were going on about art.

"I don't think it's possible to create a piece of art around your relationship now," Vivian was saying. "Before, you definitely could have. There was all that melodrama that art feeds off of. There was tension and terror and perceived monsters and love and age differences - oh it was so good. Alexa doesn't even really know you guys that well, but she loves you already based on your story. It has that affect on people, because they seek the same type of drama in their own life." She had been motioning with her hands, as if to demonstrate how crazy things had been seven years earlier, but she stopped. She could tell that we didn't need any demonstrations about this. Vivian put down her coffee, and became a bit more serious. "But now, things are different. There is not as much strife. I'm happy there isn't as much strife, because now you two can be happy together and simply enjoy that. But I don't think art can be created from complacency."

It took me awhile to really understand what Vivian was implying. In spite of the artistic attention and coded praise, her words made me feel uneasy. Our love was not a soap opera or some melodramatic plot; it was reality. It had happened to us and we had heard all this before. We had to live through it, and though some ripples of it affected her, I didn't think she fully understood how hard those times really were. It wasn't a cool thing to make art about: we had made art about it because it had been so hard on us. Art was the relief, not the entertainment ploy. I didn't think Vivian quite understood that. It took me until then to realize this was how she viewed most art, though. It was entertainment, fun, and a way to make money. There was nothing wrong with that, I knew, but she was meeting me at a completely different wave length. I waited for Gerard to speak, hoping that he was on my side.

"Though I do agree that art cannot necessarily be sprung from ordinary circumstances - who wants to paint a picture about laundry? - I do believe that our love, even now without as much strife, transcends the ordinary. Or at least, I certainly hope it does," Gerard quipped, and then kissed my forehead and nudged me, so we could hear my opinion as well.

"Mmhmm," was all I could manage. I was still too relieved that he was on my side, seeing art the way it needed to be seen.

"I suppose the age difference itself is sensationalist enough. But I always fear complacency. Always," Vivian said, "and I suppose my own worries are making value judgements right now."

"I fear complacency as well, Vivian, but I wish I was able to capture that it doesn't have to be all death and dying in order to make good art. Too many really astounding artists killed themselves. But I don't want that - I want to live."

"Even the metaphor of death and dying though? Just because you create melodrama doesn't mean you're living it yourself?" she offered, although feebly. It seems even she was realizing the sliminess of her own words, especially next to Gerard's quest to fully live his life now. The commitment of Paris was gone, and I thought this meant that he was not committed to art again. The way he squeezed my shoulder, though just barely, made my heart flutter with anticipation. Maybe he was committed to me, now.

"It's appropriation," he went on, engaged with Vivian's discussion. "Death is a real thing. It's not something to be make art about lightly. I don't want to kill a character or create this masterpiece about suicide unless I myself thought there was no way to get around it. That death had to happen or at least the idea of death had to happen. It's so difficult to articulate because there is only one idea of death in this culture, but no, there are so many..." he trailed off for a second and rubbed his temples with his free hand, trying to articulate his point. Vivian and I were quiet and waited. "Suicide isn't something to make art about just to sensationalize it, but that is not because suicide itself is a bad thing. We tend to see it as such. But sometimes suicide just happens, the way freak car accidents happen. It is awful and I don't want to condone it, but I would never be mad at the person. I would never make them feel guilt for wanting this option out of all others. It was always so bizarre to me how people would always be so upset after a suicide; I understand grief and loss, probably too well. But some people claim to be upset for that person who killed themselves, when that is ludicrous. That person finally got what they wanted and what they believed they needed. Most people who are sad at that death are actually grieving for themselves. If anything, I feel bad more so about the weeks leading up to it. That is when the person needed others the most and is the real time that is lost to feel sad about...."

He grew quiet for a second, and we all followed his lead. It was almost as if we were mourning for those who were no longer around to make it to this conversation, or who would not make it around for future ones. I kept thinking, profusely, about the quotation he had showed me. All that is not given is lost was written on a suicide note. It plagued me. It haunted me, probably in the same way it had Gerard. What did those people not give before they left? Were they able to put it all into a note? Were they able to share what they wanted to say? I was starting to slowly get where Gerard was coming from. Death and melodrama was an okay topic for art, but there were some things that you just simply needed to experience for yourself before you could deal with them. You only talked about death in the midst of it. You truly understood it after going through it yourself.

A large pain suddenly ripped through me, because this meant that Gerard had felt it. Gerard had been this depressed, he had considered suicide. He knew when it felt wrong to appropriate it for the sake of art. His mentality was not 'never make art about suicide'; it was 'suicide is a possible reality and you make art to combat it.' I looked around at the apartment and I wondered what pieces had been those pieces, what art project had been started out of sheer desperation to stay alive a little bit longer. Maybe all of those pieces were in Paris, lost and forgotten now that he was committed to something else. I wasn't sure if Gerard had spoken this profoundly about death seven years earlier. Maybe it was something else that he had learned in his time spent apart.

I drew my gaze to Vivian, to try and compose myself. She was breathing deeply, and still staring into her mug. She was upset, but I could not decipher if it was because she was familiar with this sensation herself, or if she had lost someone to it. I knew her mother had died years ago, when Gerard was in Paris and I knew that this had affected her deeply. But I was unsure about suicide. Did Vivian get it? I couldn't tell, and I knew that if it did affect her as profoundly as it did us, she would probably keep it well hidden.

"Well," Vivian was the first person to break the silence. "That was a nice little anecdote to lift our holiday spirits."

Gerard scoffed, and tried to gather up the conversation to conclude and keep away the despairing thought, for now. "Going back to complacency, Vivian, though I am quite happy now, I don't think I need to exploit despair to make good art. I bet you I can do something good and it will sell. It won't be the black paintings, but every single other colour. I'll create a rainbow for you, Vivian, and it won't be a cop out."

"Oh, I will take that challenge," she said, sticking out her hand. She and Gerard shook on it, and it seemed to be enough of a contract for them.

I was relieved when that seemed to be the end of their conversation. Vivian didn't ask about my art, nor my own resistance towards complacency and I was glad. I was still too stuck in a vortex of thought. She finished her coffee in a couple of gulps, and then grabbed a pastry before she began to pack up her bag. She wished us both a good break, and then quietly let herself out. We had followed her into the kitchen and poked at the food, but not eaten any of it. Now alone, I collapsed on the bed, perhaps a tad overdramatically, and then Gerard laid down next to me.

"You cleaned the sheets," he commented. I felt my whole body tense. Were we really talking about laundry after having a conversation like the one we just had? I wanted him to tell me about the rainbow he was going to create, not the hospital corners that I now kicked out of the bed. Gerard seemed to sense my tension, and restored the passion in the room by touching my face and pulling me towards him in a kiss.

"Fuck complacency," I joked, and Gerard apparently found it hysterical. He laughed and laughed, and then went to kiss me again. "Fuck complacency," he agreed, and then began to take off my clothes.

The snow began to make it feel like the holidays, and over the next little while, I completely lost track of time. There was no point in heeding Vivian's words or lesson right away. Every single place that could have been hiring was closed until the New Year. Anyone who had wanted Christmas photos done already had someone booked, and usually had them booked in September. There would have been no way for me to get a job, even if I had been super-organized since the day I had been back. I felt a little better, as if I was off the hook for my responsibility since there was no way I could have done better, even if I had tried harder. Instead of worrying about how things would shape up in January, I decided to enjoy myself. This was the last time in a long time that I would have absolutely nothing to worry about. And after I shrugged away the guilt that had been slapped onto me from various people, I began to feel like my old self again - utterly fantastic and free.

At first, I thought a lot of my time would be spent with Gerard. We had spent that night together, being very busy with one another's skin and body, as if to make up for all the lost time we had had during the past week or so. It was the most distance we had had from one another since he left, and I admit, I was a little frantic to get him back. I wanted him, so much, all of him. As the day passed, I began to mark the mornings by kissing him awake if I was the one up first. I made him breakfast so we could eat together and not rush out the door with other obligations. I tried to make the meals last longer and longer so our conversations could stretch into infinity and I would be able to keep a collection of all the things he had said. I almost felt like keeping notes, because even when he was quiet, there seemed to be so much I could learn. I also insisted that we go outside a lot for walks, so I could enjoy being in public with him as well as having our private moments together.

Gerard let me be clingy for the first little while, and he even encouraged it. We had our repeat of French toast and a walk in the local park. We had sex in the afternoons, mornings, and evenings. We spent time reading together, our feet touching and bodies laying against one another on opposite sides of the orange couch. But by the second or third day of this, Gerard began to express some exasperation.

We had gone on a walk again, arm in arm, to the memorial park. I was in love with the park during the winter; it seemed to be the only place in Jersey that had managed to keep the pristine whiteness of forgetting under the snow. Though it was a war memorial, that history was erased, and nothing was tarnished by sludge or salt. The statues in the center, twisting bodies in victory or acquiesce, were gorgeous and ahistorical under a layer of snow. I kept gushing about them and Gerard kept telling me to bring my camera. I always either forgot or shrugged it off, telling him that the camera could not render this moment as perfect as it was then. The statues were beautiful, yes, but it was in my peripheral vision that I beheld the real art form. I wanted to be with Gerard, looking right at him, and experience this world with him, and not through some lenses. Though I didn't fully articulate this, Gerard was perceptive, and he got it. He nodded his head and clucked his teeth, and we began to walk back towards the apartment.

"There's no one around," I stated, marvelled. "It's as if we have the entire world to ourselves."

Gerard chuckled, not as amused by all of this as I was. He added some reality to my pallet. "It's because it's Christmas, Frank. Everyone is inside with their families, probably being forced into some itchy and ugly Christmas sweater and exchanging commodities bought while in debt and lathering on the guilt with a bow. Perfect holiday, wouldn't you say?"

Of course, I realized. It was Christmas. I hadn't thought about that, aside from Vivian's remarks about it. There was no one on the street, and most shops were closed. I turned my gaze upwards towards the apartment buildings and saw some life there. Christmas lights were hung around some of the frames and the inside of the apartments was a darkened mystery, though I imagined people in the little tableaux that Gerard had set up. Of course, I told myself again. I couldn't believe I had let the date slip my mind. Gerard himself had been mute about the traditional festivity until this moment, and now that the flood gates had been opened, he had voiced his opinion quite clearly. This wasn't one of his favourite times of the year.

"Yeah," I said, agreeing with his previous remark. "Christmas was always a tense time in my house, too, but I'm sure things are probably a lot different now for you. Or were different," I corrected myself, realizing my seven year absence, "What did you used to do for Christmas before Paris?"

"Honestly, nothing at all. It was just a day to me, even with Vivian and my brother around. If there was anything special about Christmas, it was the fact that it was the one day where it did feel like I owned the world. No one bothered me. I could decline all invitations, tell them to get me no gifts, and then stay cooped up in my apartment and create. It was wonderful."

He smiled, and I could see the life in his eyes. I suddenly felt bad for monopolizing his time so much the past few days. We were still outside, walking slowly, and the day was already half gone. I began to see in his strained facial features just how eager he was to get back. This was the one day of the year he had to himself, usually. He had been spending so much time with Vivian and Mikey and his children, getting caught up. I was sure it was exhausting, and instead of tiring himself out even more by attending all of these Christmas events and trying to make up for the seven years he missed, he was going to return to his own tradition from before and pass on all of them in favour of just creating. But I had been dragging him out in the snow, distracting him mercifully.

"Okay," I said, taking up his arm again and walking a little faster. "Let's get home so we can both make the best use of the day."

He seemed relieved at the suggestion, and it was no time before we were at the apartment, and he vanished in a flurry of colour and charcoal. I left him alone and tried to create something of my own. It began to feel futile, meaningless, however. Now that I was aware of the fact that it was Christmas, it seemed to have the opposite effect on me than it did Gerard. While this day was inspirational to him, I was left with my own memories and obligations. I felt like I wanted to celebrate it, even though I knew all of what Gerard was saying was correct. I couldn't recall a time in my memory where Christmas had actually gone the way it was supposed to go. There was usually yelling or the breaking of something valuable, and, like Gerard said, guilt abounded. Even knowing the past transgressions, I still found myself reverting back to the stereotypical Christmas traditions. I wanted to try it again. Maybe this time, with Gerard, I thought it could have been different. It was different; we had declared it an art day. By rejecting the old and flawed framework, we knew we would be successful in our endeavour, and Gerard was quite happy as he worked through his sketch pad, and began to start one of the larger canvases. But it still felt like I was missing something. After failing at being able to draw something or find anything worthwhile to shoot with my camera, I gave up and began to linger around the bookshelf, taking up books here and there, and watching outside the window. I spent the rest of the afternoon like this, perpetually waiting for something better to do, and never really finding it. Gerard wasn't going to stop his art, and for all he knew, he thought I was doing what I wanted to do. I knew that Vivian would not come by, because she and Cassandra were busy constructing their own holiday and had probably been warned by Gerard to not show up. Mikey and Alexa, the same deal. They had five kids to contend with, and their day was probably full of life and meaning. And fights, I told myself, I knew fights would always happen. But I began to miss even the anger that the holiday season evoked. I was sure, that there was something good and meaningful buried beneath all of that, right? There was passion in fighting, Gerard had told me years ago. If I didn't believe that, then I would not have dealt with nearly all the family drama I had over the past seven years. I believed, in some way, that if we were fighting, it must mean there was something worth fighting for. But Gerard had how sectioned himself across the room from me, and was lost inside his own world. This felt worse, I thought, and then put the notion out of my head.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14