Never Meet the Artist
by Jonathan Quince
Saturday, January 21, 2006 20:04:28
Darkness surrounds me, ’though I thought to walk into a realm of light. Where sweetness I had tasted ’pon my lips, bile now churns from the depths of grief in my gut: For I had lifted a worldly glass for to drink of life, only too late to realize I was swallowing a draught of raw sewage.
Reeling like a drunk, he stumbled out into the alleyway. Fetid miasmas swirled before his eyes, and the screams of horror and suffering pierced his nostrils. Falling to his knees in the mud and city refuse, he retched uncontrollably.
I broke one of my cardinal rules of praxis and survival: Never let myself to know the artist. I have yet to understand why or how or whither-for such beauty may be so oft portrayed—thus, betrayed—by persons so unworthy of it; yet even without clear understanding of the principles behind, I know it by rote as if a matter of irrefragable fact. The face of an angel may so well mask ugliness to make me claw my eyes out in shame and disgust, and those eyes of hers which promise a soul of purity are underlain by mouths and hands wreaking works of blasphemy.
The reasoning had seemed of such simple truths at the time: She understands some small part, he thought, at the very least; oh, she must! Thus did he take her to his embrace and make love to her under Luna’s watch and witness; thus did he so nearly bring her to bathe in his pool of dreams.
There is one author I have seen underscore this point in her writings: Ayn Rand, and none other to date. For daring to make this observation not once, but strongly and repeatedly in her early opera, I give her a vast amount of credit; it is not a politic face to put on for a young immigrant determined to break into Hollywood (of all places!). Of course, she may herself have ended up providing us an unfortunate demonstration of this principle in action; I may never know since, perhaps fortunately in an ironic way, I never met her in life.
Her eyes—oh, those eyes had haunted him, lingering about him like a ghostly presence throughout the day and following him to his very dreams with their soulful calling. One look had done him in; and so, one strong and poignant look had very nearly proven his undoing. He failed to grasp how the windows of the soul could shine with such truth if this truth were not reflected deep within; and blindingly suffering, now, bound to pain without understanding, he still could not bring himself to believe that such beautiful eyes could break their promises. As he vomited into the mud, he saw them watching him from the dank puddles of the alleyway; and they lingered on the edge of his vision as he collapsed to a wretched heap and surrendered his consciousness unto the night.
With such credit given as due, I must say I am surprised I have never heard any other famous person enunciate this rule. Perhaps it is widely known, and I am but narrowly read; or mayhap those of wide social recognition in the realms of art or literature or philosophy are afraid to betray themselves, hapless proof as they are of the rule’s stark veracity.
He awoke in a bower of filth and refuse. He looked, felt, and smelled as a castaway piece of human garbage. A hoodlum had stolen his wallet during the night as he lay; had his luck turned hot or cold, one might very well have murdered him. The stench and grime went to his eyes, making them burn and tear. He squinted hard at the sky, searching for some signs of hope; but the heavens, grey, bleak, and listless, gave him no reply save an apathetic breeze, stale and stultifying air to chill him in his sadness and its despair.
Is there hope? Yea, there is always hope; there must be, yes, there must! I may be redeemed, and so might some others. Furthermore, I bend myself by force of red-hot iron to believe in hope for the world—and in hope for the actress of this eve’s harsh trials, object of shattered hopes I might hope one day to see wrought anew.
Whilst lying in the alleyway, he had dreamt of a bath; yet as the clean water lapped over his skin, he could feel only her flesh as he had when he knelt at the tub, cleansing her body in its every detail. He squeezed his eyes shut and washed himself mechanically. Over the hollow feeling of his heart, he locked out his emotions and forced himself to act on command; and thusly determined, he performed his ablutions and took himself to bed. To bed, respite so sweet, for there to lie forelorn, tears leaking from beneath his eyelids as he prayed for hope and hoped for redemption.
Away I am, now, to dream indeed: To dream of prayers as I pray for my dreams. And mayhap as Luna watches over me this night, she will kiss me and forgive me and make love to my love for right.