Unknown, p.33
Unknown, page 33
" If that's necessary," Witlin agreed.
"It is," she insisted with a sniff." You've been up here for months with those paints of yours. You may be used to it, but there are others who… " Her eyes traveled over the room, pausing accusingly at paintings and brushes as if identifying incriminating bits of evidence.
"It's bad enough you wanting to paint things like that, but the smell is more than I can bear."
He drew breath to protest, then let it out in a sigh. He could not explain to anyone how he felt about the smell of paint, that was as rich as the scent of food to him, and in many ways more necessary. He only nodded." I'll do my best, Missus Argent. And I'll try to get the money .
I will."
"Well She stared at him dubiously." You're not quite the sort of tenant I usually have, Mister Witlin. If there is another place you can go, it might be better if you She let the words dangle, as if asking him to spare her the necessity of saying anything more.
"Missus Argent, I don't want to move. I haven't the money. I haven't the time. Don't you see? I'm getting close to the work I want to turn out. I know it doesn't look like much yet, with only the underpainting and just a few of the colors, but this canvas is the best I've ever done. It is." He extended his hands toward the surface as if warming them at a fire.
The landlady sniffed." It isn't the sort of picture I'm… used to." She gave it a grudging look." And your face on it, too," was the only comment she was able to muster, saying it so condemningly that he dared not question her, though he did not agree at all with her observation.
"I'll talk to you tomorrow, Missus Argent. I… I want to work some more." He pointed toward the windows." This isn't the best light for an artist, but I need to make the most of it. Especially if I have to find another place. It won't be as good." It was not an accusation because he was inwardly certain that would not happen; he would be here to finish his work.
"All right, Mister Witlin," she said, making no attempt to hide her disapproval." I don't want any excuses if you can't find the money for this project of yours. Pay or leave." She stepped back, preparing to lose the door." And I don't want to have you working all night. It disturbs the rest of the household to have you do that."
"I don't work on this phase of the painting at night, Missus Argent," he told her with an austere glare." You have to have clear light at this stage."
She sniffed once to show her doubt, then left the room.
Witlin hardly noticed her going; his mind was on the painting again, and there was nothing in his mind but the glorious suffering of Saint Sebastian.
Fhs head ached, a combination of hunger and fumes gnawing at him from the inside. He had risen just after dawn and set to work, and now sunset was distorting the colors on his canvas. And what colors!
Finally the glowing, pain-wracked figure was emerging from the flat surface, taking on the kind of reality he had only dreamed of having until now. Witlin was dizzy with it, and his pulse raced. He paused to squeeze out a little more paint onto his palette, thinking vaguely how appetizing it was, that thick, rich worm of color. It was enough to make him hunger for the taste of it, as if the hue carried a special savor all its own. He touched his brush to it, and felt a thrill go up his arm, as electric as a caress. The first pressure of the brush on the canvas made him tremble; he held the wooden shaft in eager, quivering fingers, almost afraid to move for fear of bringing thewonderful sensations to an end.
When he had worked for another hour, he drew back, seeing that the sky was already fading. It astonished him to discover how much he had accomplished, and how swiftly the day had gone. His thoughts were dizzied by what he saw, for at last he perceived some shadow of the vision he carried. Nothing could ever be as vivid, as overwhelming as the impressions that drove him to paint, but he saw that an approximation of that powerful gleam was within his grasp. He contemplated the twisted, lean features of the saint, wondering if Missus Argent had been right, and that he had somehow put his own likeness on that countenance. It had happened before, he reminded himself: Michelangelo had painted himself in his "Last Judgement,"
Gauguin had included himself in his tropical groves, the likenesses of Rembrandt, Tintoretto, Cdzanne, van Gogh, Botticelli, Gericault, and the rest of the illustrious roster blazed, frowned, smiled, peeked and stared out of their work. Witlin dared not number himself with the others, but he wished to be their equal in integrity if not immortality.
He would have to study his face more closely the next time he attempted to shave.
Because he knew he had to see his face more clearly, Witlin began to search through trashcans in the night, hoping to find bits of discarded food and once-used razor blades that would tide him through his last few days. He knew that he was becoming gaunt from his hunger, but that was no longer important to him-as the bones showed more distinctly in his long features he detected a definition of line he had not found there before, and it pleased him. If he was indeed using his own face as his model, it was now more worthy of that honor than it had been before, when indulgence had blurred and softened the angles and planes to a formlessness that could never serve Saint Sebastian in his travail.
Satisfied for the first time in more than a week at his appearance, he decided to bring a small mirror into the studio. Earlier he had disdained such methods, but with his time so short and the painting so near to completion, he took a chance that this intrusion would not interfere with what he had accomplished already. It took him the better part of an hour-and he begrudged every second-to place the mirror so that he could see himself without throwing unwanted light onto the canvas by reflection. He set to work feverishly when he had accomplished this, for he did not want to waste another instant on such considerations. The odors of paint and turpentine were like drugs to him now, the times filling his senses more intensely than wine ever had.
He was so caught up in his work that he was not aware of the knocking on his door until it became a pounding. He stepped back, one hand to his forehead to clear his mind enough to respond.
"Mister Witlin!" Missus Argent shouted, using both fists now.
He reeled back from the canvas, reaching out for a sloping beam to steady himself." Yes, Missus Argent!" he called back." I was… napping."
"Open this door at once!" There was nothing tentative about her, none of the whining hesitancy he had come to expect, and it jarred him a bit to realize that she was truly angry with him.
"I'll be there in a moment," he told her, fumbling toward the door."
Just a moment."
"Now, Mister Witlin," she ordered him, and poked her flushed, pinched face at him the instant he had the door wide enough to permit her to do so." I have to speak with you, Mister Witlin."
"Come in," he mumbled, setting his brush aside." I've been working and …"
"I know you've been up here," she said, refusing to use the word work for what he did." We can hear you all over the house, with your muttering and climbing and moving."
"It's necessary," he said, trying to find a way to get rid of her. She distracted him, with her greedy eyes and rapacious little hands." I don't mean to disturb you when I…"
"That's all very well," she interrupted, her hands going to her hips."
But there are complaints. Do you understand that? I can't run this house if everyone is complaining to me about my tenant in the attic."
"Missus Argent he began, but could think of nothing to say to her that she would understand or accept.
" Well?"
"I have work to do. I'm almost finished." He could hardly hear his own voice, and knew from the way she looked at him that she was not paying any attention to what he said.
"This place stinks!" she announced with more irritation than she had shown so far." What have you been doing up here, Mister Witlin?" She cast an eye around the room." You haven't cleaned the floor, have you?
You told me that you'd attend to cleaning up this place before you move "Missus Argent," he cut in, goaded to protest by her behavior, "I will clean the room, such as it is, the moment I'm finished with this painting. To do so before then would be a fruitless waste of time.
Don't you see? I have only a little bit of work to do, and it will be He indicated the canvas." Look at it, Missus Argent. I want you ifi to see what I'm doing. You've got to understand what it means to me."
Once again the landlady glared around the attic." I see the painting.
But daubs and smears of paint… Well, I don't know anything about art. I'm too busy taking care of the people in this house, Mister Witlin. I haven't time for art. Or whatever that thing is."
He did not hear most of this; his mind had caught on one particular phrase." Daubs of paint!" he demanded of her." You think this is nothing but daubs of paint? Don't you see… no, of course you don't. People like you throw eggs at the 'Mona Lisa." You tear down a Rivera mural to make way for a glass box full of offices. You think you have a right to ignore me because I don't go off to a regular job. You think that makes me nothing but a bum and a sponger! But that's not true." He turned away from her, convinced that she would never comprehend him, no matter what he said or how he strove to explain himself and his work to her.
"You're crazy," Missus Argent whispered, drawing back from Witlin, one arm up as if to brace herself against him." You're just crazy."
Witlin sighed." I suppose I am, to you."
" You're dangerous," she went on, not hearing him.
" Missus Argent, don't talk "I want you out of here. Never mind the rent. I want you out of my house tomorrow night." Her eyes had turned glassy, her face was fixed in a ghastly smile." You've got to leave."
He scowled." I have a few days more, and I've already promised I'll pay my rent." He could feel a headache forming in his skull, driving out the sense and the comfort he had felt only a few minutes before." I have to finish the painting, Missus Argent."
"Sure. You finish it then. But not in my house." It was her final word, every detail of her posture, expression and tone of voice emphasized it. She stalked to the door, angular and cautious as an insect.
Witlin was reminded of a mantis or other delicate and predatory creature waiting to devour hapless victims.
"You'll get your rent," he said in what he wanted to be a reasonable tone.
"I don't want it. I want you out of here." If anything, she was more determined as she slammed the door.
Witlin stared at the knob, wishing he could think of the whole encounter as a dream. He resisted the urge to follow her down onto the lower floors where she undoubtedly was regaling the others with lurid tales of what he was doing in the attic. His work was more important than her petty lies, more important than money or time or anything else.
He waited in silence for hours, watching the light disappear and the eerie shadows of night claim the attic, bleaching first and then covering Saint Sebastian with an indigo gauze. The air was very still, so that he thought that the motes were endlessly suspended like little planets in the heavy air. Night engulfed him, leaving him feeling empty and without form. He could not say what he was anymore, with the color gone from him and his world sunk into darkness. Idly he felt for his pulse, and was mildly surprised to feel it beat. Under his hand his chest rose for breath; he was still alive, but he no longer believed it, not when there was so much night around him.
Around midnight he left the attic, stealing softly down the stairs, freezing at the faintest noise. He let himself out of the house and trudged off through the streets toward the liquor store where he could get day-old sandwiches at half price. Testing the bristles on his face, he wondered if he had nerve enough to steal a packet of razor blades. He wanted to be neat when he finished the painting.
In the end he barricaded himself in the attic, all his old, unsatisfactory work serving now as a jamb against the doorknob. He had no intention of leaving now, when Saint Sebastian hovered so tantalizingly near fruition. Twice he had heard a voice, loud and blustering, on the other side of the door, but now he had been left in peace to do the work he had to do.
He was almost out of paints, and that should have troubled him, yet it did not. There would be enough. Saint Sebastian would not let him down. Only the reds were precariously low, the tubes giving u mere dollops of color. He touched his finger to the rosy nipple of pigment he had put on the palette. The act consumed him with a pure sensuality that left him breathless. If he had dared to waste the paint, he would have pressed the paint flat and felt it squidge out around his finger, more yielding than flesh ever was..
Witlin hesitated. That was the trouble with paint, he realized, and the recognition shot throu hid him hideously. It was soft and pliant, malleable, a substance without strength beyond the power of chroma and hue. With a cry he dropped his brush and brought his hands to his face to shut out the enormity of his failure. Saint Sebastian was not real, would never be real. He could not finish it. Anything he put on that canvas, though each work was bigger and of brighter colors and more emphatic shades, would always be nothing more than a pale, timid reflection of the might of his vision.
His hand slammed down into the paint, smearing all the colors into a blur as he deliberately twisted his hand. The paint had failed him, would always fail him and would betray his talent in every conceivable way. He had sold himself to a fraud!
He made an effort to stop sobbing, but there was no way to keep from that anguish and after a little time he no longer tried. His body shook and trembled, his hands turned to talons, weapons to eradicate the travesty he had seduced himself into creating. He went from palette to the painting itself, clawing at the paint, smudging the surface with other pigments now the color and texture of mud. It was a Pyrrhic satisfaction, but the only one left to him. There was no way he could avenge himself adequately. He had brought himself and Saint Sebastian to ruin because of the bright promise of chemicals suspended in oils.
How many others had been similarly undone! The idea staggered him and he howled with the pain of it. And how many of those realized before they died how they had been compromised?
Suddenly he stood upright, the grief stilled in him. There was a way, there was still a way. He would show what art was, not this insignificant imitation that had masqueraded as art for so long. Yes, there was one way, and what was needed was a little resolution. Surely that was easier to face than this ultimate despair. He wiped his face with the edge of his paint-fouled sleeve, paying no heed to the reds and yellows that were left behind on his skin. That was nothing, less than nothing.
He had to search for the better part of an hour, but at last he found his pocket knife under some discarded rags. He seized upon it with urgency, then went to find his brushes, his eyes filled with anticipation. Those who never tested themselves never learned the terrible JOY of dedication, and over the lonely months he had felt his devotion grow from ill-defined hope to profound certainty. Only his focus had been misguided, and he would now remedy that and vindicate himsell He began to carve the ends of the handles of his brushes, taking great care to make them symmetrical and sharp before going for the packet of razor blades he had taken from the liquor store, remembering to reserve one or two for cutting the lying, deceitful canvas into strips.
When the door was finally broken in, Witlin could barely lift his head.
It was not possible for him to see who was there, for the room had already faded into dusk. He heard a shocked exclamation and appalled swearing, which disturbed him. He had not done this to disgust them, but for art.
"Oh, my God," Missus Argent burst out before stumbling out of the room to keep from retching at what she saw.
"No," Witlin protested, but he had not enough voice left to be heard.
Besides, when he breathed, the arrows sunk deep in his flesh hurt him.
They had been excruciating at first, when he had thrust them, like the arrows of Saint Sebastian, into his thigh, his shoulder, his arm, his side, his abdomen while he hung in the hastily constructed canvas bonds.
Then he spasmed once, twice, pulling his canvas restraints from the beam. But no matter; he had used only his longest and best brushes for his arrows and it pleased him to think that he had achieved something of merit at last.
18 - Theodore Sturgeon - Talent
Mrs. Brent and Precious were sitting on the farmhouse porch when little Jokey sidled out from behind the barn and came catfooting up to them.
Precious, who had ringlets and was seven years old and very clean, stopped swinging on the glider and watched him. Mrs. Brent was reading a magazine. Jokey stopped at the foot of the steps.
"MOM!" he rasped.
Mrs. Brent started violently, rocked too far back, bumped her knobby hairdo against the clapboards, and said, "Good heavens, you little brarling, you frightened me!"
Jokey smiled.
Precious said, "Snaggletooth."
"If you want your mother," said Mrs. Brent reasonably, why don't you go inside and speak to her?"
Disgustedly, Jokey vetoed the suggestion with "Ah-hid-hid He faced the house." MOM!" he shrieked, in a tone that spoke of death and disaster.
There was a crash from the kitchen, and light footsteps. Jokey's mother, whose name was Mrs. Purney, came out, pushing back a wisp of hair from frightened eyes.
" Oh, the sweet," she cooed. She flew out and fell on her knees beside Jokey." Did it hurt its little, then? Aw, did it was Jokey said,
"Gimme a nickel!"
" Please," suggested Precious.
"Of course, darling," fluttered Mrs. Purney." My word, yes. Just as soon as ever we go into town, you shall have a nickel. Two, if you're good."
"Gimme a nickel," said Jokey ominously.
"But, darling, what for? What will you do with a nickel out here?"
Jokey thrust out his hand." I'll hold my breath."
Mrs. Purney rose, panicked." Oh, dear, don't. Oh, please don't.
Where's my reticule?"
"On top of the bookcase, out of my reach," said Precious, without rancor.
"Oh, yes, so it is. Now, Jokey, you wait right here and I'll just..
