And Broke His Crown
Changing out of his painting clothes after a somewhat disappointing day in his studio, he noticed the worn spot on the heel of his sock. It reminded him of the bald spot on the back of his head.
He went over to the kitchen sink to look at himself in the mirror. The sink had a mirror above it because it was the only one in the apartment, situated right next to the bathtub, which was, as is often was the case in old tenements like this one, also in the kitchen.
His looks had begun to follow the same trajectory as Marlon Brando's, he decided. He had been quite attractive into his forties and even in his fifties he was not without a certain appeal. But his various vices and bad behaviors, not to mention the inevitable onset of age, were hurdles that even his natural resilience and good bone structure couldn't get past any more.
He moved to the window to once again take in the truly commanding view he had of the river and the city beyond. His building, and indeed his whole neighborhood, were perched high up on a cliff that rose up to a height of about 200 feet from the river’s banks, making for a completely uninterrupted vista. On this particular night, the still darkness of the water, and the wide band of dull light that spread over it from a full moon as round as a diner plate, gave it the appearance of an enormous piece of black leather. As many times as he had seen it before, it had never looked quite like this. Add that magnificent, sparkling skyline as a backdrop, and it was cryingly beautiful. Life was full of gifts like that, gifts of visual beauty that most people not only wouldn't notice, but wouldn't get even if they were pointed out to them. The way that, on a rainy day, the reflections of the cars' taillights made amazing glowing red ribbons on the white walls of the tunnel into the city, which along with the green and red signal lights on the tunnel's ceiling (lane open/lane closed) and the raindrops that clung to the bus windshield despite the best efforts of the wind and windshield wipers, turning from diamonds to rubies to emeralds without trying, looked like Christmas on Fifth Avenue. The black lace pattern of a dying tree against a full autumn moon. The colors in shadows that most people thought were gray. This led him into thinking about a question he already knew the answer to, namely, how often is it really that most people think about what a miracle art is? To spread some greasy toothpaste onto a piece of cloth or a chunk of hardened dirt onto a piece of paper and open a window, make a light bulb switch on. To render a likeness of a someone you feel to compelled to look at, whose mind you could only know as much as you know the mind of a fascinating stranger on the train, far away enough that there are only visual clues to go on for answers, since you know you will never get to speak to them. To stir up peoples' emotions using colors, lines and shapes; dead, mathematical things that are more alive than life.
Christ, if only it were the nineteen-fifties instead of the new silver cyberspace years of the early twenty-first century he wouldn't feel like such a parody, such an anachronism, such a Johnny-come-lately Charles Bukowski rehash, still trying to be a bohemian in a time when bohemianism had been abducted by the alien beings known as multinational corporations. The pain and intensity of life he felt were certainly real, but whereas in the fifties he could have been regarded at least with a sense of shock and maybe a suspicion that he was an artist or a poet, in this later time he was looked at more with annoyance and a suspicion that he was just a loser.
The sink was so full of dirty dishes he had to use the bathtub to fill his spaghetti pot.
But he couldn't have gone in any other direction, even if sometimes he felt like the title character in Kafka's "Hunger Artist", destined to wither away forgotten in a comer of his cage at the circus sideshow. As an adult he followed the pattern of his childhood, using his lump of Christmas coal to make a drawing.His motives had always been utterly pure—Self Expression!At Any Cost!Never Sell Out! Everybody thought Philip Guston was out of his mind for doing that crazy cartoon art he did back in the sixties, but who had the last laugh? He wound up being revered as a pioneer, years ahead of his time. Then again, how long did you have to wait to have the last laugh before that's what it would literally turn out to be?
Thank God for his good rent karma. It afforded him the ability to survive on his meager and unsteady income. The somewhat seedy semi-slum he had lived in for over thirty years was gentrifying fast, and he paid next to nothing to live there. There was even a blossoming art scene that he was of course too old to be a part of, which the press was beginning to notice. The realtors had coined a name for the area as a marketing tool. It was now known as the Giant Backwater to the Left of Town, or GiBLeT.
The phone rang. As he turned around, he tripped over his cat Guzzle, a depressed and sour-tempered animal who resembled a fur coat that had been stored for years in a shoebox.
It was Jill, his girlfriend. They had been together seven years, ten if you included all time when they were part of a larger group of friends, all artists. He sometimes thought that the only reason she stayed with him was so she would have a lifetime guarantee of something to complain about. But even if merely out of habit, they were a couple, and their frequent arguments were explained away as 'temperament'.
"Hello?"
"Well?"
"Judging from your tone, Jill, I take it things are not well."
"They're marvelous if you tell me you went on that interview yesterday for the job I told you about and proceeded to get hired. If not, they are the polar opposite of marvelous. Well?"
"I missed the appointment."
"You what?"
"I missed the appointment."
"Say it again so I believe you. How the hell did you manage that?"
"There was a lot of tunnel traffic. An accident or something."
"How much time did you give yourself? You had a four-thirty interview. What time did you leave?"
"Three twenty-one. On the dot."
"Don't lie to me! I was across the street watching. You left at 4:09. It was fucking FOUR OH NINE!" What the fuck is wrong with you? Not only do you fuck up a chance to get a job that would pay you a whole fucking lot more than you're fucking worth, but then you have the fucking gall to fucking lie to me!I KNEW you wouldn't make it."
"Look, Jill, my clock said three twenty-one.Maybe you're in your own time zone, I dunno.It doesn't matter--I didn't really want the job anyway."
"'Didn't want it anyway?' Fuck you! You know, this is the last straw! What, was it too much like work? When was the last time we went out to eat on your dime, huh? Listen, you want to wind up roasting wienies down by the railroad track with a mangy dog at your side go right ahead. But don't expect me to tag along. Don't you dare call me back unless you're gainfully employed. Understand?"
She hung up on him.
He sighed. This wasn't Jill's first last straw. If he'd had a collection of all her last straws, he could've built a house for the First Little Pig. He knew that they would be together again in a week or so, especially since before she hung up on him she had let it be known that he could still call her. Contingent, of course, on his finding a steady job. Nevertheless, that particular conversation was something he didn't really need right now.
He went downstairs, all six creaky, poorly lit flights, and checked the mail. He felt a small wave of disappointment when he saw one of his self-addressed stamped envelopes that meant his slides had been sent back from one of the dozens of galleries he submitted his work to. Small, because it's true pessimists are never disappointed. Or maybe it was some form of optimism, a built-in self-help book reminding him that there are no defeats, only setbacks. While these two possible scenarios battled it out like the devil on the left shoulder and the angel on the right one in some cartoon, he looked at the return address on the envelope. Oh. This was that gallery that had had his package for nine months and that he had inquired after at least three times ("if you have an interest in my work, please keep them for as long as you feel necessary; if not, I would appreciate their return at your soonest convenience").The one he thought he'd fit in with so well. Either his letter or the slides themselves must have made it to the top of somebody's pile, because here they were, dumped into the envelope as if into a body bag. No 'thank you for your submission however' letter, and on top of that everything had been taken out of the binder and not put back. He headed upstairs to cook his spaghetti, thinking Kafkaesque thoughts.
A motorcycle revved and sped off, with a rapid-fire rattattat that was halfway between a laugh and a smoker's hack.
The fact that one in six thousand art school graduates makes any money at all at art was no consolation at these moments. Neither was the realization that Success Doesn't Necessarily Bring Happiness, or the knowledge (excuse?) that fame had nothing to do with talent, especially in the year 2007. He was still playing stickball in an empty lot while others were playing the Majors. And like in baseball, there was now an international roster to recruit from. Like that hot new artist a friend of his had read about in Artforum. That one from
Pondering his argument with, or rather rant from, Jill, and the return of his slides, he poured a glass of whiskey to go with his pasta. It wasn't too different from the vodka sauce that was so popular these days, he figured. And, it was eight o'clock already. Hardly too early.
The phone rang again. This time he filtered it through the answering machine. It was Guillermo the Magnificent, as he called himself, although everyone else referred to him as Guillermo the Drunken. Guillermo always talked louder after a few 'nightcaps' or one 'for the road'.Judging by the general volume of his conversations, Guillermo was a borderline catatonic who was on the road more than Willie Nelson. Right now he was talking at a volume level you'd use for someone who was down the block a ways.
"Yerm. Just the man I need to speak to. I was about to raise a glass to failure. Come over and commiserate with me. And keep your voice down."
"Failure?Listen, springtime, get your head out of the oven. What, did you have another fight with that deranged girlfriend of yours?"
"You could tell?"
"Do cats eat cat food? Except for that ragged beast of yours. What do you feed him, sweepings? But I digress. I have something up my sleeve that will make your troubles seem as a wisp of smoke, destined to be blown away by a fragrant breeze. My dear friend, how does a week in a cabin in the woods sound? In Maine, far, far away. No wives slash girlfriends slash female appendages of any kind, but a good deal of alcohol.You, me, Tanko, Raffie, all the usual sewing circle. And not to mention, all for the price of free, thanks to some legerdemain from our man Barney. We'll have ourselves a little stag party. He-man Woman Hater's Club, Alfalfa Switzer, President.Appealing, no?"
"Aw, gee, Yerm, I dunno. Jill tells me I gotta get a job."
"Man, would you please tell me why you continue to commingle with that shriek freak? Is it worth all the aggravation for the occasional sexual favor? Listen, you want my advice? Throw a little scare into her. Disappear for a week and don't tell her where you're going. As in, accompany your friends, who do not place such loathsome demands on you, to an idyllic week in the picturesque countryside of Maine. It's not like you're going to get laid this week anyhow, sounds like."
"Thanks for the generous offer, and for the dire prediction regarding my sex life. But I can't.The offer to pay a visit tonight still stands, if you'd like."
"I'm afraid I shall be occupied this evening telling all your friends what a wet blanket you are. Perhaps I may be able to squeeze you in sometime before Friday, when I depart with all of said friends, none of whom are wet blankets, to the illustrious state of Maine, for a week of frivolity.If not, have a pleasant time alone in the big city. I have an epithet to hurl at you, but I fear it might offend poor Guzzle. A bientôt. And happy job-hunting! "
He shambled into the WC, which was not the bathroom because it did not contain a bathtub, and no sooner had he unzipped his fly and begun to urinate when the phone rang again. He heard Jill's voice on the answering machine. Thank God he didn't have a cell phone.
"Are you there? Pick up! I know you're there! Listen, I'm not finished with you. Pick up, goddammit!"
She gave him a full fifteen seconds in which to respond before speaking again. "I gave you enough time to get to the phone from any corner of the apartment you might be hiding in. And you didn't pick up. That means you either went out with Guillermo to get polluted or you’re ignoring me. Neither of these is acceptable." A pause.
"PICK UP!"
Another pause.
"I SAID PICK UP!"
A third pause.
"All right, if you aren't going to pick up, FUCK YOU! And if you're out with Guillermo, also FUCK YOU!Did you hear me? I said FUCK YOU! FUCKYOUFUCKOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU!!!!"
She hung up, loudly.
He stared at the phone. He picked up the receiver, and dialed.
"Hello, Yerm?"
*
Jill was on the phone with her girlfriend Gloria, reenacting the battle, complete with period uniforms and antique cannon.
"So then I said 'fuck you' and hung up. You know he's gonna forget it's our anniversary. Ten years I wasted on that slug."
Of course it wasn't their anniversary, since they weren't married. But the night they first met was probably as close to one as they were ever going to get, and Jill clung to it.
"I don't know why you've hung around him so long. He's just a pelican."
"What?"
"You know, around your neck. Not a pelican, what is it?"
"An albatross?
"Whatever. I don't know why you stick with that old goat. He's got twenty years on you. You're still an attractive girl. It isn't like you couldn't find somebody else a whole lot better."
"Yeah, and you know, if he'd of gotten that job I told him about, maybe we coulda celebrated our anniversary someplace that has candles instead of fluorescents. But I guess it was beneath Mr. da Vinci."
"Loser. It’s not like anybody ever buys any of his stuff ever anyways."
"Well that's only because nobody wants real painting anymore. He has to start marketing himself better is all...maybe if he started calling it Neo-Neo-Geo Abstract Expressionism..."
"You're still planning his career for him? Aren't you supposed to be leaving? Nobody else in the world agrees with you, by the way."
“I told you--that’s because…never mind.But leaving that slob—that—yes, we agree on that. It’s over. I’ve had it already. I’ve given him—how many chances? I can’t deal with this anymore. I’m tired of his garbage. If he doesn’t remember our anniversary, that’s the last straw.”
“I thought this was the last straw.”
“What?”
“I thought this was the last straw.”
“It is!”
“No, not remembering your anniversary is, like, an extra straw. You know, like, a bonus. You're on the last straw now. There are no more straws after this. This is it.”
“No Gloria. It's the same straw.”
“Is not!”
"Is too. And besides, what if he actually doesn’t forget? Then what? I’d lose out on one of the few decent meals he ever offered to take me out for.”
“Fat chance. If he does remember to take you out it'll someplace where they have fries in tiny paper bags. You'll see.”
“Yeah, we’ll see. But I promise you, if he forgets---last straw. Trust me. Listen—I gotta go. I was supposed to be downtown fifteen minutes ago to get my hair cut. Are we still gonna have dinner on Thursday?”
“Uh–huh, if you’re not too busy steaming your ball gown for Friday. Look, why doncha tell him it’s your anniversary and he better not forget?”
“Because I’m not speaking to him. Besides, he didn’t pick up the phone, and I wasn’t about to leave a message on the machine. Awright, see ya.”
“So long. See ya Thursday. I put next week’s grocery money on it he forgets.”
Jill hung up the phone.
Of course, on Thursday, while Jill and Gloria were having dinner, the car was being packed for the trip to Maine. And of course, early Friday morning, earlier than any of them would have normally awakened were it not for the trip, they left.
*
When Jill got home from dinner, she was annoyed that there were no messages on her machine. She knew there wouldn't be; if he'd wanted to reach her he would have called her cell. And he hadn't. But she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt; or, as was more likely, she was really just hoping where she knew there was no hope.
By the time she'd finished her cereal with bananas and blueberries on Friday morning, she was lecturing and berating him, even though she was completely alone. She channeled her fury into her studio, where she accomplished some truly satisfying work. But when two o'clock came, and she knew he might be venturing out, she couldn't help but drive over to his apartment.
She came up with a story about needing a particular dress for tonight because she might be going out--pretty lame, she knew, but you had to hit him over the head. If she were too subtle, it would never dawn on him what she was getting at. She would give him a really easy chance to bite, and if he didn't, that would be it. Over. Kaput. Last Straw.
She got to the apartment and rang the bell, each time a little, then a lot, louder and longer. Where was he? Maybe he'd gone out for what he would call breakfast and others would call a late lunch. Could he be out drinking already? Not impossible. She'd just wait--who knew where he was? She wasn't about to try and hunt him down even if she could...
After about forty-five minutes, she saw Sammy, the neighborhood kid he'd befriended about two years ago after catching him spay-painting graffiti on his building. Sammy's talent in art earned him respect, when he might have otherwise been pummeled daily. He was six-foot-something and no more than one hundred thirty pounds in winter clothes, with feet so big that when he tried to do the one chin-up he could do, he looked like a forklift, and dorky glasses that slid down a nose that was almost as long. Sweet-natured and eager to please, irony and double-entendre were entirely lost on him.
"Sammy! Sammy! Hi, Sammy, over here!" Jill called out.
Sammy recognized the voice, and looked around to see where it was coming from. When he spotted Jill, he ambled over to the car."Oh, hi, Jill."
Wanting to appear nonchalant, Jill asked, "Sammy, nice to see you. How are you? Out for a walk?"
"No, well, yeah, I guess. But I'm here 'cause I have to feed Guzzle."
"Feed Guzzle? Does Guzzle need to be fed?"
"Well, yeah. Guzzle has to eat, too. He's only human. "For some reason, Sammy found this enormously funny, and began to guffaw loudly and at length.
When eventually he stopped, mostly because he noticed that Jill seemed not to see the humor in his remark, she said, "I know Guzzle needs to be fed, Sammy, but why are you doing it? Where's his master?" She silently gave herself several points for maintaining her patience.
It never occurred to Sammy that there might be any reason not to tell. "Oh, didn't you know? All those guys went away on a trip."
"A trip?"
"Yeah, but I forget where...wait--oh yeah, I think they went to
"
"I think it was Maine.Or maybe it was Massachusetts. No, I think it was Maine.Which one's closer?"
"
"
"I see. Maine. Hmmm. How long are they gone for? I guess for a while since it's so far away."
"A week, I think. I mean, I guess that's how long, since that's how long he asked me to feed Guzzle for. I can't believe he forgot to tell you."
"How about that? I guess sometimes he forgets. Oh, hey, ya know what, Sammy? I gotta go. I just remembered I have a haircut in twenty minutes. Ha, talk about forgetting. Can't be late for my haircut, right? So, listen Sammy, I'll see ya around. Take care, OK?"
"OK, sure, yeah, see ya Jill."
But before Sammy had even finished talking, Jill had already peeled off, simultaneously speed-dialing her cell.
"Hello, Gloria? You're not gonna believe..."
*
Jill had a week during which to contemplate her revenge, and she savored every minute. Gloria's 'I told you so' had been working on her the whole time like a cheese grater on an open wound. The night before he was due back, she drove over to his apartment. Oh, he'd be so sorry he'd ever given her his key...
It would be a lot of hard physical labor, what she had in mind, but she was a woman possessed. She also knew the severity of what she was about to do, but the past ten years (now she knew firsthand what 'I gave you the best years of my life' meant) could not be reclaimed. Gloria (and he, and even she herself) always assumed there would never really be a last straw. Well, here it was.
She went over to the rack where his paintings were stored. She gazed at them as she flipped through them one by one. There were a lot of memories...ALL OF THEM FUCKED. Fuck, Gloria had told her so, told her so so many times, and Gloria had been right. FUCK!
She took out the first painting in the rack. Being an artist herself, it was hard for her not to handle it with the utmost care. But she remembered what she was there for. It was big, four feet by five, like all the others. Eh, easier to drag it, she decided, which, after some hesitancy, she did, over to the front door of the apartment, then through the door to the top of the stairs.She made it down three flights, bouncing the painting on each and every step all the way, yet still huffing and puffing from the effort. Why did he have to use such heavy stretchers?
Suddenly she had a change of heart.Jesus, what was she doing? She turned around and took the painting back up.
Just drop the fucking things out the window! Hell, why should she work like a buggy lugger (her mother's word, pronounced with no “r”) when flinging them out the window would be so much easier, not to mention more fun, not to mention the results would be so much more dramatic?
She did cringe a bit as she gingerly dropped the first one, picturing it getting scratched on the garbage that no one ever seemed to bother clearing out of the yard below. But subsequently she heaved them with more and more gusto as she began to enjoy her self-appointed task. God, it was so cathartic! What a release! With each painting she was also throwing out the memories it contained. God, he was gonna freak!
After she’d tossed about fifteen of the canvases, ten representing most of what he’d done in the past three years, the others certain ones that she knew to be of special significance, she went into his flat file, where he kept his drawings. She started to rip them into little pieces, but somehow couldn’t bring herself to do it. Art, after all, was art, and somehow tearing them would be like violating the taboo against eating human flesh.She simply could not. Nevertheless, out the window they went too, reminding her of someone releasing doves into flight, although she knew that the analogy was ridiculous since it did not apply in the least.
*
They lay there in a heap. It was now four days after Jill's eruption, the trip having been extended due to a minor run-in with the local authorities in Maine that had landed the entire assembly in the drunk tank for a few nights (which made them consider the trip a great success).
He stood in horror and disbelief staring at them.Face up, face down, twisted like airplane wreckage; they looked like they’d been thrown from the window. Thank God he built his own stretchers out of lumber, otherwise the damage would have been far worse.But some did have broken corners and would have to be restretched, and one had an enormous rip in it that did not seem to be a result of the fall.It had to have been Jill; he recognized her writing on the hand-lettered sign in the middle of the pile that said, "LOSER ART—FREE!” He figured she’d be pissed at him for taking off without telling her, but he never thought she would resort to this.She must have had that nervous breakdown she’d been working on for so long. What was additionally disturbing was that nothing seemed to have been taken.
Well, there would be time to deal with her later. First things first; he’d have to carry everything back upstairs. It was a miracle that it hadn't rained. He couldn’t do it alone, but he figured he could start with the drawings. When he got back to his apartment he’d phone Guillermo and the rest of them to turn back around and they’d have it done in no time. Then, Jill.
As he bent over and picked up the first drawing, he heard a voice.
“STOP!!Visigoth!!!”
An impossibly beautiful and thin young man, a human whippet who could only be described as streamlined, was headed over toward him, running as best he could in his painted-on low-slung skinny jeans and pointy shoes.
“You mustn’t touch that—it’s art!!!Do you hear me?Stop!!Stop!!!”
Once he saw that he had been heard and that the person he was addressing had indeed ceased to do what he was doing, the young man’s pace slowed to a lope that was a very close approximation of a 1920’s movie vamp.
“Nobody’s touched it in five days, and the minute I step away to get a cup of coffee, which is, I’ve discovered, what they call a latté around here, along comes some person with no eye whatsoever for art to disrupt everything. This is not a Felix Gonzales-Torres piece—you aren’t really supposed to take anything!Do you understand?Let me explain. This is what is referred to as an installation—oh, never mind, no point in even ATTEMPTING… be a kitten and give me that drawing, would you? Thanks, you’re a dear.”
He eyed the pile for a minute or two, tentatively placed the drawing on it, and then stepped back to take in what he had done. Seemingly satisfied, he continued.
“Dekko Sedgwick-Shrimpton. And you are…?”
“The artist.”
“Oh! Why didn't you say so? Well, thank GOD you’ve finally appeared. I have been waiting for you for DAYS. Although I must say you aren’t exactly what I was expecting, but we can discuss that later. Were you toying with your masterpiece, naughty boy? Hear me, DO NOT TOUCH. No need, my little praline, it’s celestial exactly as it is. Impeccably composed, and yet entirely free and expressive, as if it had been flung from the roof. How DID you do it? Listen to mother--I do not often use the word ‘celestial’, so make note…it was obviously done by a highly skilled hand. You are a great talent. There is true passion here.”
“Sixth floor.”
“Hmm?”
“Never mind.”
You know, I will never understand the need of every artist I’ve ever met to rework that which is already PERFECT. I mean REALLY.It is just… SO…”The word ‘so’, in Dekko’s usage, became itself an adjective, an unassailable decree that there was simply no actual word in the English tongue capable of conveying the necessary praise.
“I should explain perhaps. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dekko Sedgwick-Shrimpton, as I believe I've said. I have been here as an emissary this past week representing Morgan-Stern Gallery at the GiBLeT Art Fair. Out for a stroll for a breath of well-deserved fresh air and to absorb some of the local color, I came upon your installation, which is, I am convinced, a Sistine Chapel for the new century. When I saw it, I IMMEDIATELY called the gallery director and told him of my discovery. And I am never wrong in my estimations of new art. Consequently Mr. Stern himself will be here to look at it in person as soon as he gets back from Buenos Aires, where he is attending a major retrospective of buttock artists--I know, can you believe? In any case, your absence until after the fair ended has served only to make said installation more mysterious and hence more desirable. There were some major people looking at it, I'll have you know! Though, meeting you, the statement your work makes is changed somewhat, since it was assumed the piece had been done by one of the young up-and-coming artists from around here, and not someone quite so advanced in years. But I suppose I’ve seen them do more with worse on “Extreme Makeover”--have you heard if they’re renewing it this season, by the way?Oh, please God, let it be so…if they do not it is merely one less reason to go on living…”
"GiBLeT Art Fair?&q