Unknown, p.32
Unknown, page 32
My shutters are open wide. I am drenched by the rain, buffeted by the chill wind. I am buoyed up by them both. I tremble at the thought.
I love. I love. Those words a river of silver turning my bones hollow.
And now I lift my head to the place where last night the full moon rode calm and clear, a ghostly ideogram written upon the air, telling me that it is time for me to let go of all I know, to plunge inward toward the center of my heart. Six months have passed and it is time. I know. For now the enormous thrumming emanates from that spot.
Beat-beat. Beat-beat. Beat-beat.
The heart-sound.
At last. There in the night, I see her face as she comes for me.
17 - Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - The Arrows
Slowly he took aim, concentrating on the target. His hand was steady, his mind preternaturally clear. This time, this time he would be right: he held his breath.
The brush moved, leaving a smear of raw umber beneath the vermilion.
Witlin stood back, frowning at the canvas." Shit," he muttered as he glared at the results of his work. God, would it never be right? He wiped the brush on an ancient rag already stiff with encrustations of color, then poked it into an old coffee can half filled with turpentine that had absorbed so much paint that it was the color and consistency of wet silt.
Afternoon sun slanted across the untidy room he called his studio, turning it glaringly bright. He rubbed his face with both hands, wishing he could afford another place, one with north light instead of this western exposure. But such places were expensive and he was almost out of money. Better this than doing charcoal sketches for the tourists down at the waterfront, he told himself, as he had every day for the last six weeks. Better this than doing lettering for the advertising agency where he had slaved for three years before getting the courage to work on his own. And far better this than those wasted semesters at the community college, where all they taught were better ways to make messes in oils.
He wandered over to the window and looked down on the playground, three floors below. Children were playing there now that school was over for the day. They ran and shouted, making a racket that gave him a headache as he listened. He leaned his forehead against the glass and sighed.
Another day shot, and the painting worse than ever. When he had asked for a six-month leave, it had seemed to be a luxurious, a voluptuous amount of time, but now he knew it was completely inadequate.
A baseball thunked against the side of the building and Witlin jumped at the sound of it. The world was full of aimed missiles, he thought.
Baseballs, ICBMS, arrows; it made no difference. He turned away from the window, cursing the noise that erupted beneath him.
They did not understand what he was doing, how important it was.
When Witlin had finished cleaning his brushes it was almost sunset and the children were gone from the playground. He studied his canvas as he prepared to go out for the cheapest meal he could find. It wasn't right, not yet. Some ineffable quality of reality and suffering continued to elude him. The canvas itself was big enough-almost eight feet high-and the figure slightly larger than life. That wasn't the problem. He brought out the sheaf of sketches that had guided him through his work for more than five months.
Brakes squealed in the street; horns clamored.
Cursing, he got to his knees to gather up the paper he had dropped. One of the sketches had torn: it was a study of heads and necks and the jagged division neatly decapitated the best of the heads he had done.
Conscientiously he pressed the sketch back together though he knew it was a futile gesture. He would not be able to look at the sketch again without seeing the damage and feeling it had been compromised in his vision as well as ruined on paper.
Why was it so difficult? That question had plagued him for weeks, haunting him as he strove to bring his work to fruition. Why should the bound figure of a man transfixed with arrows torment him in this way? He had already done half a dozen iconographic drawings, but that had been early in his leave of absence, when his confidence had been high and nothing seemed beyond him. That had changed; oh, yes, it had changed.
The smell of frying foods drifted up from the floor below and Witlin felt his stomach tighten. Hamburgers had become as rich and exotic as Chateaubriand in forcemeat had once been. Now he had to content himself with soup and hard rolls at the local cafeteria. On such a regimen he might eke out his funds for another two weeks. As it was, he barely had enough for the extra tube of thalo green that he needed; food would have to wait until he had the supplies he required.
A television blared, driving music and an announcer's voice proclaiming the superiority of a particular tire over all others.
"Scum." He was disgusted with it all, mostly with himself. He had been so sure that he would be able to paint the Saint Sebastian that he had done only the most cursory sketches of the subject. Doubt had come to him three months ago, when he had made his first attempt at the work.
The canvas lay against the wall, the face turned away from him so that he would not have to look at it. That first effort had been small, as most of his work had been up to that point. When he was less than half finished with the underpainting, he knew that he had not allowed adequate scope to his ambition, and that a larger canvas would be needed. That had led to the second attempt which he had burned more than three weeks before. Now he was working on the fifth version, and knew it, too, had failed.
"It's not possible," he said to the canvas, defying it." I'll do it. I swear I'll do it." He could not stand the thought that all his efforts had come to nothing. He scowled at his palette, as if seeking blame in the colors or the scent of the oils. He was using the highest grade of paint available, he had stretched, sized, sanded and sized the canvas again, taking care that the surface was right and the paint would not crack.
"But the painting must have worth," he muttered as he scraped his palette clean, putting the used bits of paint into an old milk carton with the top cut off.
When at last he had cleaned the dismal attic room, he went out, taking great care to lock the door and pocket the key.
A week later he was in despair. He took his pocket knife and jabbed it at the painting, seeking those places where he had shown arrows entering the flesh of the saint." There! There! Be wounded, damn you!" In his frenzy he kicked over the table where he kept his supplies; brushes, paint tubes, turpentine, linseed oil, gesso, all went flying and skittering and spreading over the bare wood floor. Witlin knelt down, weeping, hardly noticing the new stains on his faded clothing." Damn you, damn you, damn you," he crooned in a rapture of defeat.
There was a sharp knock at the door." Mister Witlin? Mister Witlin!" came his landlady's voice, querulous and timid at once.
It was a moment before Witlin came to himself enough to answer.
Awkwardly he got to his feet and stumbled toward the sound." MisSus Argent?" he called after a moment of hesitation.
"What's going on in there, Mister Witlin?" the woman asked, trying to sound demanding and achieving only petulance.
He blinked at the shambles he had created." I… tripped, Missus Argent."
"Are you all right, Mister Witlin?" It was more of an accusation than an expression of concern.
"I think so," he answered, wishing she would go away and leave him to deal with the wreckage around him.
" What's that smell?"
Witlin sighed." I guess it's turpentine," he said, sounding like a chastised child." It… spilled." He knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as he had spoken.
"I think you'd better let me in, Mister Witlin," his landlady said in whining determination.
Reluctantly he opened the door and stood aside.
Missus Argent had a pointy, rodent's face, not endearing like a rabbit but pinched and mean, more like a rat. She held herself like a rat, too, he realized as he watched her survey the damage: her hands held up close to her chest, drooping, her head with its receding chin thrust forward. He could almost imagine her nose twitching. Belatedly he found something to say." I was going to clean it up at once. I didn't know it would disturb you."
"Good gracious," was all she would say, but there was condemnation in every line of her." What have you been doing up here, Mister Witlin?"
"Painting, as I told you when I rented the He almost said attic but stopped himself, since he knew she disliked having this room called that, though it was.
"Clean it up? But look at the floor. Does any of that horrible stuff come out? What if you've ruined it? Well, at least there isn't a carpet up here, but this… Mister Witlin, I don't know what to say. Yes, you will clean it up, and if there is any sign of staining or other… problems, we'll have to review your responsibility and make some financial adjustment." She folded her arms across her skinny chest.
Witlin was filled with anxiety. He did not have money enough to move, let alone pay for a new room. Recognition of this spurred him to a defense that he might not otherwise have used." Look, Missus Argent, if there's any problem, any problem at all, I'll take care of it .
If you don't think that the stains are out of the boards, well, I am a painter, and I can paint a floor as well as a picture. I'll do a good job, Missus Argent. You won't be disappointed. And it would be easier to take care of a painted surface than bare boards." He could not tell what she thought of this offer; her face suddenly puckered closed and she watched him closely.
" Mister Witlin, I won't have shoddy work in my house."
"No," he agreed at once." Of course not." He thought of the bedraggled plants in the front garden, the frayed carpets on the stairs, the loose bannister supports, the cracked and peeling paint on the windowsills."
It would be a good job, Missus Argent. And," he added, inspired by his own fear, "I'd… pay for the paint myseIL"
Her face relaxed a bit." I'd have to approve the quality and color of the paint," she said at once.
"Oh, yes. Well, yes." He could hear himself blither in relief, but it no longer mattered to him that she thought him an irresponsible fool.
He was far more concerned about the cost of the enamel for the floor.
He could manage it if he gave up lunch at the cafeteria and confined himself to one egg and toast in the morning.
"You come downstairs to get me when you've cleaned up here," Missus Argent said with decision." I want to see what you've accomplished."
She looked around the room disdainfully." Those drawings of naked men.
.. and you call yourself an artist!" She glared at him in triumph, and then slammed herself out of the room.
Witlin set to work restoring order to the attic; he could not get the memory of Missus Argent's expression of fascinated revulsion out of his mind.
Painting the floor took more than two days, and another day to dry.
During that time Witlin spent as much time as he could in the nearby park, escaping the fumes which made him lightheaded. His eyes stung, and when he tried to draw, his vision wavered so that all he put down on paper were vague and awkward lines, not the sweeping gestures in his mind. Twice policemen told him to move on; when he protested that he lived in the neighborhood, they threatened to run him in for vagrancy or something worse. He had not dared to object, though it galled him to be mistaken for one of those derelicts who dozed on the park benches and pestered the more affluent strollers for quarters. Not, he had to admit, that he could not use a few quarters. He had not been able to afford new razor blades for more than a week and his face showed scrapes and stubble in proof of this. Perhaps, he thought, he ought simply to grow a beard. So many other artists did. There was nothing wrong with it-in fact, it was almost expected.
At such moments, he would think of Saint Sebastian, who was almost never shown bearded. Saint Sebastian, the youth, the archer killed by his own men, his body quilled with arrows. How it haunted him, that vision! So he continued to shave, and each day the results were a bit more crude.
Once the floor was dry and Missus Argent had grudgingly approved it, Witlin set to work again, this time choosing the highest grade of canvas and taking more time than usual to stretch it on the enormous frame he had made for it. His arms ached with the work.
Twice he skipped breakfast and bought a chocolate bar instead, hoping that the rich candy would give him more energy for his task. When he was satisfied that the preparation was of archival quality, he took charcoal and began, once again, to sketch.
This time it went better, or so he told himself. The enormous scope of the painting, its sheer physical size promised an impact his previous efforts had lacked. No matter that the canvas itself had to be canted and braced in order to fit under the low ceiling, no matter that he had to stand on a drafting stool to reach the top of it, this time the work would be perfect: he would achieve his masterpiece.
Witlin stood back to look at the painting, which was almost complete now. It was better, definitely better, he thought, than any of his previous efforts. Yet it was not up to the quality of the image he had held in his mind for all these months. Working large had helped, no doubt of that. He had been able to show the torment of the saint, the arrows lodged deep in his body, his features at once resigned and agonized. That much he believed he could be proud of. But the rest..
. the rest was another matter. He wanted to show how heavy the body was, hanging from its bonds and the arrows, the languor of approaching death, the finality of it. That was still not on the canvas, for all his work and thought. He had been able to find it only in his mind.
The attic was stifling this afternoon in May. The sun pressed at the windows and made the air hard with heat. He felt lightly ill, but he was determined to ignore it, to persevere. He had to finish. At the end of the month he would have run out of money and would no longer be able to pay his rent; he knew better than to suppose Missus Argent would permit him to remain here if he could not give her the seventy-five dollars she demanded of him. So he had to be prepared to move, though where he would go now he could not imagine. He would think of it later, when he was through with Saint Sebastian.
He glared at the painting, trying to think of ways to correct the lifelessness of it that so dissatisfied him.
The wounds, that was it, he decided. They were not real. Anyone looking at them would know that what they saw was paint, not blood, and the holes made by the painted arrows appeared equally false. This was not holy flesh rent by metal and wood, it was pigment." It's hopeless," he muttered, sitting down on the drafting stool and wiping at his eyes with the last comparatively clean corner of the rag he held. He could not think of what to do. He could not concentrate anymore, no matter how he forced himself to clear his thoughts of everything but the painting.
Was it the color? Was that the problem? With the light so glaring and hot, had it changed his perceptions so that he could not see as clearly as he needed to? Was the glare from the windows so strong that he was no longer able to weigh the hue and value of his paints?
Would a stronger shade of red have more impact? Did he have to make the flesh a pastier shade, suggesting Sebastian was in deep shock? Was that what was lacking? Had he been misled by the angle at which he had to paint so that he had unintentionally distorted the work? Or was it something deeper, something more profound? Was it a failure not of the canvas and paint, of the medium, but of himself as an artist? Did he shy away from the reality of the saint's suffering, and had that aversion found its way onto the canvas? He could not bring himself to examine his feelings too closely, for fear he would discover how much he was lacking.
He decided he would attempt to fix the colors first. That he could do with comparative ease. The rest he would have to consider later, when he was more prepared to examine the state of his soul.
Green for shadows in the skin, then, a mustard shade for where the direct rays of the setting sun struck it. Acidic orange to make the blood shine more-was it true that blood was more the color of rust than rubies?-and five kinds of brown for the shafts of the arrows.
And white, great amounts of white, for the feathers, for highlights, to mix with other paint, to lend radiance to the canvas. If only oil-paints could be truly transparent, like stained glass, and still have the force of their opacity. Other painters had achieved it, that luminosity; why couldn't he? What prevented him from doing with his hand what his mind conceived so totally?
Sunset came, and with it the scattering colors that usually irritated him, but now he paid it no heed. He could not be distracted by the sunset, by alterations in the colors around him, by shifts in the light .
Those were excuses, not valid reasons for his failure. Surely if he had the right to call himself an artist, he also had the obligation to put himself above those intrusions that had no part in his work.
When the night came, he continued to work, illuminating the cramped studio with two bare bulbs. He felt like an acolyte proving his calling at last.
"I'm sure I'm sorry, Mister Witlin," said Missus Argent in a tone that revealed she was nothing of the kind." If I could, I'd keep you on a week or two. But there, it isn't as if you have a job. If you were looking for work, Mister Witlin, it might be another matter. But you're a… painter."
"And my work is important, Missus Argent," he said in a remote way. He no longer worried about how or where or if he would find a place to live ." Saint Sebastian is immortal. That's more than either you or I can say."
She gave him a puzzled glare." Well, I'll have to ask you to be out by the end of the week unless you can pay the rent. And I won't have excuses."
"Of course not, he told her, thinking that it would take care of itselL "I'll tell you what I've decided to do by Wednesday."
Her expression grew sharper and a whine came into her voice.
"And you'll have to clean this place proper. No more nonsense about painting the floor. The way it smells, I don't know who'd want to rent it. You'll have to set aside one day at least to scrubbing it."
