Issue 2, March 2009
Untruth | previous next story |
The Artist & the Alchemist
Kevin C. Smith
They were saying that I’d lost my edge. The angst and dread that had infused my early paintings and established my rather tenuous notoriety in the art world had largely dissipated. Not wanting to repeat myself after my early success I sought more mature modes of expression and arrived at . . . well, I was still trying to work that out. I kept a low profile for a number of years. Gradually, overcome with second thoughts about my supposed change of direction, I felt desperate to salvage what was left of my career, but I had no idea how I would do it.
Fortunately, my life wasn’t all dread and despair. A big reason for my stalled output was how much time I spent with my family. I found the company of my wife, Julia, and my six-month old son, Lincoln, much more engaging than that of a blank canvas. It was also his presence that drove me out of my makeshift workspace in our loft and into something a bit more professional. Julia was worried that little Link would eventually find his way into my paints-- even making the switch from my trusty brand to something labeled “non-toxic” wasn’t enough to convince her I could work from home. Plus, her mother, on one of her rare visits, had characterized my working conditions as “stinky” and loudly suggested Julia had lost her objectivity after acclimating to the smell.
I was prepared to rent a studio when my friend Paul offered to share his lab space with me for a fraction of the cost. Paul worked as a chemist for a pharmaceutical company and dedicated a large room in his house to his own after hours experimenting. Back in college this dabbling was reserved for recreational pursuits, which he would then sell to friends and acquaintances. His more novel concoctions commanded premium prices. Nowadays, though, he was focused on drugs with more marketable (and legal) applications. As a provision of his employment, he had signed a form giving his employer ownership of anything he created at his job. He entertained the idea that something he invented in his own lab would make that job obsolete.
The day I moved my easel and canvases in, I was struck by the sheer quantity of paraphernalia that he had accumulated in his spare room. Test tubes and beakers jostled for space with measuring spoons and scales. Vials and droppers—some empty, some full—were lined up and meticulously labeled.
Boxes of latex gloves, surgeons’ masks, and plastic bags were stacked systematically on the shelves. Unidentified tools and substances were still encased in their protective wrappers. What made this sight all the more jarring, though, was that this workspace was not housed in a sterile, white laboratory. It was incongruously situated in a spare bedroom in an ageing Victorian house. His workspace was not the cold, black countertop of our high school lab but a gouged and sagging wooden kitchen table. Tupperware containers mixed with the vessels designed for more scientific purposes. An improvised hood was fashioned with an old box fan aimed at the window. A mini-fridge held those concoctions that might not survive the trip downstairs to the kitchen in time. I could only guess what the hotplate and hair dryer were used for. The apparent effort on display stood in stark contrast to the rest of his house which was as disorganized and shambled as the apartment we shared after graduation.
My distinct impression after surveying his set up was that he was indeed quite serious. This had progressed very much beyond the phase in college where Paul liked to tote around what became known as the “go bag” stocked with tiny vials of what he claimed were various pure substances. Speculation surrounded exactly what he did with them, which was most likely nothing, beyond trying to impress his fellow, rather naïve, college students. For what it’s worth he had never tried to impress me with all the fancy contraptions he had stowed away in his makeshift lab. “Safrole.”
I spun around and saw Paul standing in the doorway. I had absent mindedly picked up a small glass jar filled with a yellowish liquid.
“That’s safrole in your hand in case you were wondering.”
I couldn’t be sure how long he had been standing there but it was long enough to comfortably lean his weight against the doorjamb and casually cross his arms.
“Oh,” I said. I hadn’t, in fact, been wondering and wasn’t really sure how to respond. “Well . . . what do you do with it?”
He strode to the countertop and unhesitatingly pulled a plastic bottle out from amongst many nearly indistinguishable to the untrained eye. The bottle was half full with the sort of capsules familiar to anyone who’s ever had a headache. Eyeing them up, I enquired, “What do they do?”
“You know what Ecstasy does right?” he asked? “Of course you do,” he answered before I could even open my mouth. “Sort of the opposite of that.”
“What? Makes you feel really bad?” The idea was so ludicrous I had to suppress a little chuckle.
“Don’t laugh. It makes you feel like shit for a few hours. When I tried it I had to remind myself that it would eventually wear off.” He was visibly shaken just recalling the experience.
“Jeez man. Maybe you should be more careful with this stuff.” I offered.
“Thanks for your concern.”
Despite the self-administered pharmacological explorations, Paul, for all outward appearances, was quite fit and overall well-adjusted. He was of average height and build save for perhaps a bit of a paunch where he was once effortlessly slim. His hair was beginning to recede at the temples but he kept it long enough that he had to constantly pushed it back behind his ears. His skin was starting to show the permanent effects of having spent his youth in the sun—a rarity in his profession.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I prodded, suddenly aware of the time of day.
“Ralphie needs his midday walk, you know? You expect me to keep him cooped up in here all day?” Then, perhaps suspecting me of ulterior motives he insisted, “I’m not going to bother you while you’re painting. I just thought, you know, first day and all, I’d help you get acclimated. Make sure you’ve got everything you need. That’s all.”
“Yeah. No, that’s cool.”
After a pause, Paul finally said, “Alright. Well, nature calls.” With that he turned and descended the stairs to retrieve his year old dog—a corgi/German Shepard mix.
I’m not sure how long I had been standing at my easel aimlessly dabbing paint in random locations when it happened. First came the sweating. Within minutes I was wiping sheets of sweat from my brow and my t-shirt was soaked through. Then came the most intense nausea I had ever experienced. I was certain I would vomit immediately so I stood in a spot that would at least not contaminate any of Paul’s equipment. Just as suddenly, though, the feeling lifted. I can’t say the same was true of my mind.
I found myself attacking the canvas as if it had been responsible for all of my failures in life: my failure to follow up on a promising career, my failure to have much of anything to show for myself for over three decades on this planet, my failure to make anyone’s life more pleasant through my actions while simultaneously chastising people for not reaching out to me. I was undoubtedly a failure as a human being and I didn’t see the canvas as a way to change that but simply as a focal point for my self-loathing rage. It took an amazing amount of effort to stay focused on my painting. I struggled to funnel my barely suppressed violent feelings of failure and inadequacy through my brush and onto the canvas. I feared what I would have done if I hadn’t had this conduit available. I slashed and tore at the canvas with my brush.
My body felt like it was convulsing and, though I had been prone to bouts of melancholy at times in my life, I had never felt anything remotely like this. I wondered if Paul’s experience under the drug was at all similar to mine. He told me he had to remind himself that the feeling would eventually stop—he was obviously aware that the depression was not his normal state—but without a place to focus the energy, however negative, I imagined it must have been unbearable. After I filled the canvas I hastily tossed it to the floor and began on a second. Despite my trouble filling a single canvas a day earlier, now one canvas simply couldn’t contain my ideas.
I remember grabbing a third canvas after running out of space on the second but eventually time seemed to lose all meaning. I felt like I had been painting all day. I couldn’t remember ever not painting, yet at the same time I had so much energy that it seemed as if I had just started minutes earlier. It was as if nothing existed outside of my body and the paintings. I had never heard of Julia, little Link, or Paul.
And then, in an instant: reality. Glancing at my watch, I realized that Julia would be home soon. I had been painting for hours, was shirtless and dripping with sweat, and a small pile of paintings were gathered at my feet.And then, in an instant: reality. Glancing at my watch, I realized that Julia would be home soon. I had been painting for hours, was shirtless and dripping with sweat, and a small pile of paintings were gathered at my feet.
I was in a decidedly good mood the next morning. I woke early, changed Link’s diaper, fed him a runny mixture of cereal and thawed breast milk, and rolled around on the floor with him for a bit before Julia woke. When she did get out of bed she found a lavish breakfast and fresh pot of coffee waiting for her. She was still basking in my newfound energy and sunny disposition when Paul strode in unannounced with Ralphie in tow.
“Holy shit,” He said.
“I have children, Paul. Children,” I chided him through a mouthful of bacon.
“Sorry man. But I checked out those paintings you did last night—I know, I know, I said I wasn’t going to look, your performance anxiety and all that—but man that’s some good shit.”
“Did I mention I have children?”
“Sorry man. I meant that’s some good doodee. I just wanted to tell you. You know, if you want to pay me in art I’d definitely consider that. I really like the one of the guy with the sausage coming out of his head, or whatever that is.” Ralphie was now sniffing Link’s face, which usually makes Julia nervous.
“I’ll give that some serious consideration.”
“I mean, honestly, I didn’t think you were going to paint much of anything—”
Despite Paul’s tugging on his leash, Ralphie was now lapping at Link’s face and Link’s expression indicated that he was veering between uncontained excitement and life threatening horror. In a last ditch effort to save her son from the dog, Julia tossed a piece of bacon towards the door to which Ralphie scurried after before it even left her hand. In his haste he knocked over the pile of toys, which I had neatly stacked during my cleaning jag that morning.
“Alright, I can take a hint,” Paul said, and led Ralphie out.
When I returned to the laboratory cum studio I immediately took one of the pills from the vial and swallowed it. I took a deep breath and, while I waited for my inspiration to kick in, dabbed aimlessly at the canvas. I finally felt a sensation but the effect was not as strong nor as immediate as last time. Worried, I quickly downed another capsule and waited for the feeling to heighten, which, after a short wait, it did. While deeply immersed in my painting, the sound of my phone shattered my concentration. I normally turn off my cell phone when working but that day, in my haste, this simple act had slipped my mind altogether.
I tried to ignore it. I decided I would check the log later to see if I recognized the number. After a brief period of inactivity following the first volley of rings, however, I noticed the ringer again. Through my haze of pharmacology and flurry of uncontrolled creativity I realized it must be Julia—something bad must have happened. After a deep breath and a mental admonishment to focus on the phone conversation and nothing else, I pushed the “TALK” button.
“Hello,” I muttered, trying to sound composed.
“Colin, I think I’ve blown a fuse,” Julia spluttered.
“A fuse?”
“A fuse. That thing that makes the lights work.”
Extracting myself from the world of semi-abstract art and forcing myself back into domestic mode (and realizing that she was speaking literally and not figuratively), after a brief pause, I managed to utter, “The vacuum cleaner. . . did you have the vacuum cleaner going with the TV and the CD player. . .”
“Yeah, I know, I know. . .”
“. . . and the coffee maker. . . ”
“. . . yeah Colin, I know. But Link was fussy and the music wasn’t helping and the floor was filthy and he likes the vacuum cleaner. You know, it soothes him.”
“You need to replace the plug,” I admonished.
“Colin, I don’t know what the plug looks like. Can you do it? I hate to ask you but even if I could do it I don’t want to take Link down there. . .”
“Yeah, I’ll do it.”
“. . . it’s cold and damp. . .”
“I said I’d do it.”
“Thanks, Colin. Link, get that out of your mouth! I’ll see you in a bit."
he walk home was uneventful but I couldn’t shake a nagging suspicion that everyone I saw knew I was under the influence of a mind-altering drug. Old ladies seemed to be giving me disapproving looks; teenagers seemed to find my behavior embarrassing for someone of my age; little children appeared frightened. I tried to think happy thoughts and put a spring in my step but it felt wholly disingenuous. My failure at upholding this charade only darkened my mood further. At least when I got home I could hide from the disparaging eyes of total strangers. As I closed the door behind me I expected an assault from Julia’s probing gaze, which never came. She was too preoccupied with keeping Link from eating dust bunnies. This was probably just as well since I was wearing one sweatshirt too many to be appropriate for the mild spring day.
After announcing my intention, largely to the floor directly in front of my feet, to enter the basement and replace a fuse, I made my way downstairs. Julia barely acknowledged my presence. This fact gave me a great sense of relief while simultaneously heightening my feeling of worthlessness. Downstairs the air seemed even colder than in the chilly foyer. The antiquated fuse box was as difficult as ever and it took a concerted effort to pry the spent fuse from its socket. Examining its lifeless body in my hand I felt a pang of sympathy for its plight. The poor sapped fuse was dulled, discolored, and, despite having been hidden behind a flimsy metal door for the extent of its life, dirty. I tried to toss the old fuse into the garbage can but couldn’t bring myself to do it. My eyes welled up with tears as I closed my hand around the useless plug. I made my way upstairs where Julia sat, changing diapers.
“Are you crying?” she asked.
All that I could manage was to open my hand and display to her, cradled in my palm like dead bird, the burned out fuse.
I stayed away from the studio the following day in an effort to convince Julia that I wasn’t completely losing it. The next day in the studio, I was so happy to pop a pill and start painting that I hardly noticed the supply was dwindling. Nevertheless, I took a few more and got to work. Once again, I quickly lost track of time altogether. Judging by the amount of paintings I completed and the amount of sweat soaking my shirt I surmised it was getting late in the day. It was then that I heard his voice behind me.
“Still here?”
“Why do you keep doing that?” I shouted as I spun around.
“Hey man,” Paul proffered, palms forward in a sign of submission., “It’s six o’clock. I didn’t expect you to be here, that’s all.”
“Oh shit. I gotta get home.”
As I hastily gathered up my brushes, Paul interjected, “Take your time. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Yeah? What?”
“Don’t be angry at me,” Paul pleaded. I must have been glaring at him. “Well, no angrier than you are already.”
I stopped swishing the brushes in the water. Paul hesitantly began, “I ran into Rachel the other day . . . and we started talking about you . . . I told her you had some new stuff . . .”
“What!” I nearly tipped the jar of dirty water as I violently pulled the handful of brushes out. “Paul, what the fuck do think you’re doing?!”
“Listen, listen. She wants to come by and take a look at it. I told her it was really good. It is really good. Return to form and all that.”
I sat on the stool with my head between my hands gathering the strength to make a sensible statement. “Paul,” I said, “I thought that was part of our deal. If I was going to paint here that you would stay out of my work and I would stay out of yours.”
“I know, I know,” he broke in pleadingly. “But I’m just trying to help. And I think I did. I mean she wants to see your stuff! She’s actually going to leave her precious little gallery and come here. That’s how bad she wants to see it.”
As my head began to clear and my anger dissipated, Paul’s words began to make sense. My favorite scenario, after all, was to have Rachel Sommers come crawling back to me and beg me to let her show my work once again (and not vice versa). It was possible that Paul simply ran into her and my name casually came up in conversation. Of course, it was also possible that Paul specifically called her with the intention of having her take me back, knowing that I would never do it myself. However it transpired, I found myself receptive to the idea of returning to the gallery that made me in the first place. The following day, my spirits were very high. Setting the brushes and palette down, I walked over to the counter where the vial was kept inconspicuously nestled amongst a collection of other similarly nondescript vials. When I rescued it from the teeming mass of transparent plastic cylinders it I was shocked to find it empty. How could I not have realized this the previous day? I stood there, weighing my options, expecting a wave of dread. Instead, a rush of euphoria came over me. Was this a tangible sense of relief? Perhaps, but in the interest of my revived art career I frantically searched Paul’s workspace in the hopes that he had produced another batch of pills. Even a comparable drug would be better than nothing. I remember working myself into a frenzy as I trashed Paul’s laboratory. I remember feeling ridiculously good despite the direness of the situation. I remember removing my t-shirt, which was soaked with sweat, and my desperate ransacking gradually becoming more of a celebratory dance. I remember abandoning my chaotic searching and eventually giving in to a joyous dervish. I remember feeling better than I’d felt in a long time. I do not, however, remember the paintings.
When Paul and Rachel finally arrived to survey my work—the work that Paul had touted as a return to form—they found me lying on the hardwood floor, half naked and curled into a fetal position. I was wet with perspiration yet huddled in front of the radiator. My teeth were chattering and I couldn’t speak. Paintings were everywhere. They were propped on the floor lining the walls, strewn haphazardly over Paul’s laboratory equipment, and sitting atop mounds of pill bottles. Some were painted on unstretched canvas, some were painted over other paintings from earlier, and at least one was rendered directly on the wall. The scenes depicted quickly revealed their overarching theme: rainbows and bunny rabbits, ice cream cones and balloons, sunbeams and flowers. I had painted not only a unicorn but a Pegasus as well, and, in a perhaps a final act of career suicide, more than one cartoon character that was protected under international copyright. All of these were rendered in colors not previously represented on my palette, blinding in their brightness.
From what I heard, Rachel was intrigued.
Kevin C. Smith
They were saying that I’d lost my edge. The angst and dread that had infused my early paintings and established my rather tenuous notoriety in the art world had largely dissipated. Not wanting to repeat myself after my early success I sought more mature modes of expression and arrived at . . . well, I was still trying to work that out. I kept a low profile for a number of years. Gradually, overcome with second thoughts about my supposed change of direction, I felt desperate to salvage what was left of my career, but I had no idea how I would do it.
Fortunately, my life wasn’t all dread and despair. A big reason for my stalled output was how much time I spent with my family. I found the company of my wife, Julia, and my six-month old son, Lincoln, much more engaging than that of a blank canvas. It was also his presence that drove me out of my makeshift workspace in our loft and into something a bit more professional. Julia was worried that little Link would eventually find his way into my paints-- even making the switch from my trusty brand to something labeled “non-toxic” wasn’t enough to convince her I could work from home. Plus, her mother, on one of her rare visits, had characterized my working conditions as “stinky” and loudly suggested Julia had lost her objectivity after acclimating to the smell.
I was prepared to rent a studio when my friend Paul offered to share his lab space with me for a fraction of the cost. Paul worked as a chemist for a pharmaceutical company and dedicated a large room in his house to his own after hours experimenting. Back in college this dabbling was reserved for recreational pursuits, which he would then sell to friends and acquaintances. His more novel concoctions commanded premium prices. Nowadays, though, he was focused on drugs with more marketable (and legal) applications. As a provision of his employment, he had signed a form giving his employer ownership of anything he created at his job. He entertained the idea that something he invented in his own lab would make that job obsolete.
The day I moved my easel and canvases in, I was struck by the sheer quantity of paraphernalia that he had accumulated in his spare room. Test tubes and beakers jostled for space with measuring spoons and scales. Vials and droppers—some empty, some full—were lined up and meticulously labeled.
Boxes of latex gloves, surgeons’ masks, and plastic bags were stacked systematically on the shelves. Unidentified tools and substances were still encased in their protective wrappers. What made this sight all the more jarring, though, was that this workspace was not housed in a sterile, white laboratory. It was incongruously situated in a spare bedroom in an ageing Victorian house. His workspace was not the cold, black countertop of our high school lab but a gouged and sagging wooden kitchen table. Tupperware containers mixed with the vessels designed for more scientific purposes. An improvised hood was fashioned with an old box fan aimed at the window. A mini-fridge held those concoctions that might not survive the trip downstairs to the kitchen in time. I could only guess what the hotplate and hair dryer were used for. The apparent effort on display stood in stark contrast to the rest of his house which was as disorganized and shambled as the apartment we shared after graduation.
My distinct impression after surveying his set up was that he was indeed quite serious. This had progressed very much beyond the phase in college where Paul liked to tote around what became known as the “go bag” stocked with tiny vials of what he claimed were various pure substances. Speculation surrounded exactly what he did with them, which was most likely nothing, beyond trying to impress his fellow, rather naïve, college students. For what it’s worth he had never tried to impress me with all the fancy contraptions he had stowed away in his makeshift lab. “Safrole.”
I spun around and saw Paul standing in the doorway. I had absent mindedly picked up a small glass jar filled with a yellowish liquid.
“That’s safrole in your hand in case you were wondering.”
I couldn’t be sure how long he had been standing there but it was long enough to comfortably lean his weight against the doorjamb and casually cross his arms.
“Oh,” I said. I hadn’t, in fact, been wondering and wasn’t really sure how to respond. “Well . . . what do you do with it?”
He strode to the countertop and unhesitatingly pulled a plastic bottle out from amongst many nearly indistinguishable to the untrained eye. The bottle was half full with the sort of capsules familiar to anyone who’s ever had a headache. Eyeing them up, I enquired, “What do they do?”
“You know what Ecstasy does right?” he asked? “Of course you do,” he answered before I could even open my mouth. “Sort of the opposite of that.”
“What? Makes you feel really bad?” The idea was so ludicrous I had to suppress a little chuckle.
“Don’t laugh. It makes you feel like shit for a few hours. When I tried it I had to remind myself that it would eventually wear off.” He was visibly shaken just recalling the experience.
“Jeez man. Maybe you should be more careful with this stuff.” I offered.
“Thanks for your concern.”
Despite the self-administered pharmacological explorations, Paul, for all outward appearances, was quite fit and overall well-adjusted. He was of average height and build save for perhaps a bit of a paunch where he was once effortlessly slim. His hair was beginning to recede at the temples but he kept it long enough that he had to constantly pushed it back behind his ears. His skin was starting to show the permanent effects of having spent his youth in the sun—a rarity in his profession.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I prodded, suddenly aware of the time of day.
“Ralphie needs his midday walk, you know? You expect me to keep him cooped up in here all day?” Then, perhaps suspecting me of ulterior motives he insisted, “I’m not going to bother you while you’re painting. I just thought, you know, first day and all, I’d help you get acclimated. Make sure you’ve got everything you need. That’s all.”
“Yeah. No, that’s cool.”
After a pause, Paul finally said, “Alright. Well, nature calls.” With that he turned and descended the stairs to retrieve his year old dog—a corgi/German Shepard mix.
I had been settled into Paul’s extra room for a week and the change in scenery had had no discernable effect on my productivity. The fact that I spent nearly all of my time staring at a canvas largely rendered a “change of scenery” pointless anyway. My only achievements so far were endless variations of dull abstractions, which made me feel absolutely nothing. Furthermore, standing in Paul’s makeshift laboratory gave my heartfelt artistic endeavor a clinical feel that seemed at odds with the process of creation.
Desperate for direction and pathetically bored, I searched my newfound environs for some trace of inspiration. I scanned the crowded countertops and gradually felt numb to the seemingly endless parade of beakers, test tubes, and Bunsen burners. After aimlessly staring into space for an indeterminate amount of time, my eyes finally settled on the slim vial of pills that Paul had warned me about—the anti-Ecstasy—which suddenly seemed to be the solution to all of my problems. If I could take a pill that would make me violently unhappy with my life I was certain that I could harness that energy and channel it into the production of powerful art. When the effects wore off, I could return to my happy, well-adjusted family life with no lingering effects. It would be my own Van Gogh in a bottle: controlled self-loathing, dread, and misery at my fingertips but with the added bonus of an off switch. Perhaps this was what Pollock had sought in alcohol, Modigliani in opium, Basquiat in heroin, but due to limitations of pharmacology their indulgences consumed them, ruined their personal lives, and led to their early deaths. Not so with my little friend. I would be free to invoke my near insanity at any time I chose, fully aware of when the effect would cease.
I’m not sure how long I had been standing at my easel aimlessly dabbing paint in random locations when it happened. First came the sweating. Within minutes I was wiping sheets of sweat from my brow and my t-shirt was soaked through. Then came the most intense nausea I had ever experienced. I was certain I would vomit immediately so I stood in a spot that would at least not contaminate any of Paul’s equipment. Just as suddenly, though, the feeling lifted. I can’t say the same was true of my mind.
I found myself attacking the canvas as if it had been responsible for all of my failures in life: my failure to follow up on a promising career, my failure to have much of anything to show for myself for over three decades on this planet, my failure to make anyone’s life more pleasant through my actions while simultaneously chastising people for not reaching out to me. I was undoubtedly a failure as a human being and I didn’t see the canvas as a way to change that but simply as a focal point for my self-loathing rage. It took an amazing amount of effort to stay focused on my painting. I struggled to funnel my barely suppressed violent feelings of failure and inadequacy through my brush and onto the canvas. I feared what I would have done if I hadn’t had this conduit available. I slashed and tore at the canvas with my brush.
My body felt like it was convulsing and, though I had been prone to bouts of melancholy at times in my life, I had never felt anything remotely like this. I wondered if Paul’s experience under the drug was at all similar to mine. He told me he had to remind himself that the feeling would eventually stop—he was obviously aware that the depression was not his normal state—but without a place to focus the energy, however negative, I imagined it must have been unbearable. After I filled the canvas I hastily tossed it to the floor and began on a second. Despite my trouble filling a single canvas a day earlier, now one canvas simply couldn’t contain my ideas.
I remember grabbing a third canvas after running out of space on the second but eventually time seemed to lose all meaning. I felt like I had been painting all day. I couldn’t remember ever not painting, yet at the same time I had so much energy that it seemed as if I had just started minutes earlier. It was as if nothing existed outside of my body and the paintings. I had never heard of Julia, little Link, or Paul.
And then, in an instant: reality. Glancing at my watch, I realized that Julia would be home soon. I had been painting for hours, was shirtless and dripping with sweat, and a small pile of paintings were gathered at my feet.And then, in an instant: reality. Glancing at my watch, I realized that Julia would be home soon. I had been painting for hours, was shirtless and dripping with sweat, and a small pile of paintings were gathered at my feet.
I was in a decidedly good mood the next morning. I woke early, changed Link’s diaper, fed him a runny mixture of cereal and thawed breast milk, and rolled around on the floor with him for a bit before Julia woke. When she did get out of bed she found a lavish breakfast and fresh pot of coffee waiting for her. She was still basking in my newfound energy and sunny disposition when Paul strode in unannounced with Ralphie in tow.
“Holy shit,” He said.
“I have children, Paul. Children,” I chided him through a mouthful of bacon.
“Sorry man. But I checked out those paintings you did last night—I know, I know, I said I wasn’t going to look, your performance anxiety and all that—but man that’s some good shit.”
“Did I mention I have children?”
“Sorry man. I meant that’s some good doodee. I just wanted to tell you. You know, if you want to pay me in art I’d definitely consider that. I really like the one of the guy with the sausage coming out of his head, or whatever that is.” Ralphie was now sniffing Link’s face, which usually makes Julia nervous.
“I’ll give that some serious consideration.”
“I mean, honestly, I didn’t think you were going to paint much of anything—”
Despite Paul’s tugging on his leash, Ralphie was now lapping at Link’s face and Link’s expression indicated that he was veering between uncontained excitement and life threatening horror. In a last ditch effort to save her son from the dog, Julia tossed a piece of bacon towards the door to which Ralphie scurried after before it even left her hand. In his haste he knocked over the pile of toys, which I had neatly stacked during my cleaning jag that morning.
“Alright, I can take a hint,” Paul said, and led Ralphie out.
When I returned to the laboratory cum studio I immediately took one of the pills from the vial and swallowed it. I took a deep breath and, while I waited for my inspiration to kick in, dabbed aimlessly at the canvas. I finally felt a sensation but the effect was not as strong nor as immediate as last time. Worried, I quickly downed another capsule and waited for the feeling to heighten, which, after a short wait, it did. While deeply immersed in my painting, the sound of my phone shattered my concentration. I normally turn off my cell phone when working but that day, in my haste, this simple act had slipped my mind altogether.
I tried to ignore it. I decided I would check the log later to see if I recognized the number. After a brief period of inactivity following the first volley of rings, however, I noticed the ringer again. Through my haze of pharmacology and flurry of uncontrolled creativity I realized it must be Julia—something bad must have happened. After a deep breath and a mental admonishment to focus on the phone conversation and nothing else, I pushed the “TALK” button.
“Hello,” I muttered, trying to sound composed.
“Colin, I think I’ve blown a fuse,” Julia spluttered.
“A fuse?”
“A fuse. That thing that makes the lights work.”
Extracting myself from the world of semi-abstract art and forcing myself back into domestic mode (and realizing that she was speaking literally and not figuratively), after a brief pause, I managed to utter, “The vacuum cleaner. . . did you have the vacuum cleaner going with the TV and the CD player. . .”
“Yeah, I know, I know. . .”
“. . . and the coffee maker. . . ”
“. . . yeah Colin, I know. But Link was fussy and the music wasn’t helping and the floor was filthy and he likes the vacuum cleaner. You know, it soothes him.”
“You need to replace the plug,” I admonished.
“Colin, I don’t know what the plug looks like. Can you do it? I hate to ask you but even if I could do it I don’t want to take Link down there. . .”
“Yeah, I’ll do it.”
“. . . it’s cold and damp. . .”
“I said I’d do it.”
“Thanks, Colin. Link, get that out of your mouth! I’ll see you in a bit."
he walk home was uneventful but I couldn’t shake a nagging suspicion that everyone I saw knew I was under the influence of a mind-altering drug. Old ladies seemed to be giving me disapproving looks; teenagers seemed to find my behavior embarrassing for someone of my age; little children appeared frightened. I tried to think happy thoughts and put a spring in my step but it felt wholly disingenuous. My failure at upholding this charade only darkened my mood further. At least when I got home I could hide from the disparaging eyes of total strangers. As I closed the door behind me I expected an assault from Julia’s probing gaze, which never came. She was too preoccupied with keeping Link from eating dust bunnies. This was probably just as well since I was wearing one sweatshirt too many to be appropriate for the mild spring day.
After announcing my intention, largely to the floor directly in front of my feet, to enter the basement and replace a fuse, I made my way downstairs. Julia barely acknowledged my presence. This fact gave me a great sense of relief while simultaneously heightening my feeling of worthlessness. Downstairs the air seemed even colder than in the chilly foyer. The antiquated fuse box was as difficult as ever and it took a concerted effort to pry the spent fuse from its socket. Examining its lifeless body in my hand I felt a pang of sympathy for its plight. The poor sapped fuse was dulled, discolored, and, despite having been hidden behind a flimsy metal door for the extent of its life, dirty. I tried to toss the old fuse into the garbage can but couldn’t bring myself to do it. My eyes welled up with tears as I closed my hand around the useless plug. I made my way upstairs where Julia sat, changing diapers.
“Are you crying?” she asked.
All that I could manage was to open my hand and display to her, cradled in my palm like dead bird, the burned out fuse.
I stayed away from the studio the following day in an effort to convince Julia that I wasn’t completely losing it. The next day in the studio, I was so happy to pop a pill and start painting that I hardly noticed the supply was dwindling. Nevertheless, I took a few more and got to work. Once again, I quickly lost track of time altogether. Judging by the amount of paintings I completed and the amount of sweat soaking my shirt I surmised it was getting late in the day. It was then that I heard his voice behind me.
“Still here?”
“Why do you keep doing that?” I shouted as I spun around.
“Hey man,” Paul proffered, palms forward in a sign of submission., “It’s six o’clock. I didn’t expect you to be here, that’s all.”
“Oh shit. I gotta get home.”
As I hastily gathered up my brushes, Paul interjected, “Take your time. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Yeah? What?”
“Don’t be angry at me,” Paul pleaded. I must have been glaring at him. “Well, no angrier than you are already.”
I stopped swishing the brushes in the water. Paul hesitantly began, “I ran into Rachel the other day . . . and we started talking about you . . . I told her you had some new stuff . . .”
“What!” I nearly tipped the jar of dirty water as I violently pulled the handful of brushes out. “Paul, what the fuck do think you’re doing?!”
“Listen, listen. She wants to come by and take a look at it. I told her it was really good. It is really good. Return to form and all that.”
I sat on the stool with my head between my hands gathering the strength to make a sensible statement. “Paul,” I said, “I thought that was part of our deal. If I was going to paint here that you would stay out of my work and I would stay out of yours.”
“I know, I know,” he broke in pleadingly. “But I’m just trying to help. And I think I did. I mean she wants to see your stuff! She’s actually going to leave her precious little gallery and come here. That’s how bad she wants to see it.”
As my head began to clear and my anger dissipated, Paul’s words began to make sense. My favorite scenario, after all, was to have Rachel Sommers come crawling back to me and beg me to let her show my work once again (and not vice versa). It was possible that Paul simply ran into her and my name casually came up in conversation. Of course, it was also possible that Paul specifically called her with the intention of having her take me back, knowing that I would never do it myself. However it transpired, I found myself receptive to the idea of returning to the gallery that made me in the first place. The following day, my spirits were very high. Setting the brushes and palette down, I walked over to the counter where the vial was kept inconspicuously nestled amongst a collection of other similarly nondescript vials. When I rescued it from the teeming mass of transparent plastic cylinders it I was shocked to find it empty. How could I not have realized this the previous day? I stood there, weighing my options, expecting a wave of dread. Instead, a rush of euphoria came over me. Was this a tangible sense of relief? Perhaps, but in the interest of my revived art career I frantically searched Paul’s workspace in the hopes that he had produced another batch of pills. Even a comparable drug would be better than nothing. I remember working myself into a frenzy as I trashed Paul’s laboratory. I remember feeling ridiculously good despite the direness of the situation. I remember removing my t-shirt, which was soaked with sweat, and my desperate ransacking gradually becoming more of a celebratory dance. I remember abandoning my chaotic searching and eventually giving in to a joyous dervish. I remember feeling better than I’d felt in a long time. I do not, however, remember the paintings.
When Paul and Rachel finally arrived to survey my work—the work that Paul had touted as a return to form—they found me lying on the hardwood floor, half naked and curled into a fetal position. I was wet with perspiration yet huddled in front of the radiator. My teeth were chattering and I couldn’t speak. Paintings were everywhere. They were propped on the floor lining the walls, strewn haphazardly over Paul’s laboratory equipment, and sitting atop mounds of pill bottles. Some were painted on unstretched canvas, some were painted over other paintings from earlier, and at least one was rendered directly on the wall. The scenes depicted quickly revealed their overarching theme: rainbows and bunny rabbits, ice cream cones and balloons, sunbeams and flowers. I had painted not only a unicorn but a Pegasus as well, and, in a perhaps a final act of career suicide, more than one cartoon character that was protected under international copyright. All of these were rendered in colors not previously represented on my palette, blinding in their brightness.
From what I heard, Rachel was intrigued.
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