I come into Richard’s apartment alone on the night of the launch. I come into the space that I can’t bring myself to call home. I guess that point is moot now, considering Richard doesn’t seem to care where I sleep. The rooms are completely transformed now. The place looks like any other gallery, what with the lights and white cubes and smell of vanilla covering over the scent of paint and plywood. At least he hasn’t changed the locks on me or anything.
My sibs have decided to boycott the exhibit and Richard, since they think they’re the only ones who should have any influence over me. I stand by the door in my new black dress, my red high heels, and my buzz-cut. I let the doorway frame me for a minute, the way people do when they’re trying to make an entrance. Richard did not let me see the exhibit after he hung it. I would have liked to have mounted it myself or at least given him some input, but he acted all secretive about it. He tried to pass off all the cloak and dagger stuff as a surprise. Now I kind of wish I had a blindfold to hide my eyes from the glaring white walls gouged with my dark paintings. There’s a row of them along each wall, all but the one of me abusing Mom altered by Richard. I barely recognize my original concept for any of them. I clamp my hands to my shorn head and stifle the urge to cry. The museum director’s sister greets me, telling me she finds my new work interesting. That’s my least favorite descriptor in the world. “Have you spoken to our Richard yet?” I shake my head. Richard comes into view. She points him out and says, “There he is! Just follow his red shoes with your red shoes!” I mince over to him in my idiotic shoes. Why did I wear these things? Richard likes my pretty feet but it’s not a fetish or anything. He probably wouldn’t have minded my usual sneakers, although I’m not so sure about his interest in my comfort anymore. I stop to pull off the shoes and continue to walk toward him, dangling them from my wrist like a purse. I wonder if he remembers the fairy tale about red shoes. Richard, encircled by museum staff, lifts a hand in greeting. Maryann is huddled close to him, almost under his arm. He throws off her off with the rest of his people and gallops over to me. “You cut your hair!” he accuses me, with a frown. “Well, yeah. You told me to.” “What? I’d never suggest that. I loved your hair. Are you feeling ok?” He taps his finger against my temple. I’m confused. Was it Clara, then, who told me to cut my hair off like some prisoner? “Prisoner of love,” I mumble. Richard doesn’t hear me correctly. “Yes, everyone loves the show!” “Oh, really?” I point to a viewer who stands transfixed in front of one picture, only to turn away, shaking his head. Richard says, “He’s obviously culturally blind.” He calls over Maryann. “She did a lot of work for the show. You should thank her. She’s a great protégé.” “What happened to your other protégé?” I’m referring to myself, but he doesn’t understand that. It occurs to me once again that I don’t know a lot about Richard. “The press is here, so you’ll have to talk to them. OK?” He looks at me as if he thinks that might be too much to ask. “Better put your shoes on.” I lean on his arm to slip each foot into its leather case. If he moved his arm away for a second, he could send me sprawling across the polished parquet floor. He doesn’t, of course, and I turn on my red high heel to introduce myself to the reporter. After the pleasantries, I steel myself for questions, as if this tampered-with show is on the level, which it is not as far as I’m concerned. “So, who are your inspirational models?” “My model is figurative-abstract fusion like Miles Davis’ jazz fusion–a blend of jazz and rock.” “Do tell. I’ve never heard of this fusion.” The reporter is so young, it’s no wonder. There are lots of things he hasn’t heard of yet. “There has always been figurative-abstract fusion, going back to Turner with his mature work of storms, fire and vague buildings in the background.” “So he was the first?” “Yes. Turner was the daddy of figurative-abstract fusion painting. Probably, we next see it in Picasso’s cubism. The Dames d’ Avignon was certainly both abstract and figurative, as was all ensuing cubist painting.” “Oh, I see. After cubism, I guess lots of artists–fauvists, German expressionists, Klee, Kandinsky – had figuration and abstraction. Am I right?” “Yes. All figurative painting, even the old masters, had an abstract base– concern with color, line, value, composition, etc. Some painters took those concerns and turned them into the subject matter and came up with entire abstract paintings – first Kandinsky, with his improvisations-and later the abstract expressionists.” “What about Gorky?” “Gorky painted a little before the abstract expressionists, and combined subliminal imagery with lyrical color. So he was a figurative abstract fusionist. So was de Kooning, with his women’s series.” I’ve collected a good group of people around me by now. This must be what it feels like to be a docent at a museum. Richard hovers around the edges of those gathered, trying to reconcile their interest with the confusion and disillusion on the faces of the people slowly passing by the pictures. “That’s very interesting, and I get it,” the reporter says, “but what’s with the black marks cutting through your compositions? They seem like they don’t belong there.” “Oh, that’s the contribution of my personal muse.” He’s within reach now, so I tug him close to me. He can’t pull away in front of all these people, so he puts his arm around me and digs his fingers into my flesh. With a scowl, Richard negates my characterization. He struggles to save face, coming up with an arty sounding theory that might apply if the listener has a shallow enough understanding of art. Why didn’t he prepare a better explanation? I could have helped him with one. People nod politely and some of them take a second look, trying to reconcile eyes to ears. They want to be polite. They don’t want to be part of the group who doesn’t get it, so they play the emperor’s new clothes game. One or two give up, shrug their shoulders and shake their heads. More guests see that, and draw courage from it. These are the ones who don’t wait for refreshments, although the director sends out waiters to circulate around the small room with their trays of pretty food. These guests are the ones who mumble graffiti, their voices louder and louder, and begin to leave the show in a long slow stream of disillusionment . “What does she mean about the personal muse?” “We don’t care who’s financing her show!” “It’s a vanity show.” “Such a fall for the artist.” Richard disappears, too, which is funny since he lives there. Maryann goes with him, grabbing for Richard’s hand. After he’s gone, the director comes up to me, her face wrinkled as a brain. “Why did you disown your black marks? After all we’ve done for you. You have no idea! We’ve gone to huge expense to put you on the map. And now you accuse ‘a personal muse’ of basically destroying your paintings?” Her hands fly to her head in exasperation. I really don’t know why she’s upset. I mean, I do know why, but it’s not her fault that Richard overstepped, and it backfired. It wasn’t her hand in my studio swirling nonsensical black paint over my pieces. “It is what it is,” I say. This time, I know Richard and I won’t be reading reviews in bed together. A few reviews come out immediately, and they are scathing, even gleefully vicious. The writers heckle Richard, “the muse,” about tagging my paintings and destroying my intellectual property. I come out looking pretty good because of my lecture, knowledgeable, and generous enough to pretend that Richard did not ruin my work. I’m the angel and he’s the devil. For the next few days, he doesn’t answer his phone. I have no choice but to go to the apartment if I ever want to see my paintings again. I’m pretty sure we’re over as a couple, but what about my art on the websites? Will he take it all down and plunge me back into poverty? Or did my brother fix all that? What happens to the new gallery? Is Oranges & Sardines still in business without my work? We’ve got a lot of loose ends to tie up here. People should be more definite about breaking up with a person, not just ghost them. I always was. Definite, I mean. I sent my high school boyfriend a dozen dead roses, completely blackened, when I was done with him. The End. I knock, but Richard doesn’t answer. I use my key, the one he gave me even though I would not give him Mom’s. He is not glad to see me. At first he pretends he doesn’t know the show flopped. I see he has marked many of my pieces with red ‘sold’ circles. Did he really manage to sell them, or is he just trying to make it look like he did, to interest other patrons? Richard clearly hasn’t slept or bathed or shaved in a while. He’s kind of repulsive like this, if you want to know. I don’t get near him, but I don’t intend to kick him while he’s down by holding my nose or anything. I play along with his routine, but don’t look at the labels by the pictures or ask any details. That doesn’t leave much to talk about, and the silence seethes between us. It also doesn’t last very long. He starts to blame me for the failure of his apparently sold-out show. “Why did you tell people I made marks on your work?” “Because you did!” “No. You did. I watched you do it, all the while spouting your theories about your need to be punished, or some such psycho-babble! You really had me going, convincing me that you were being so daring and wild and high-concept.” “You must have egged me on.” Suddenly I’m not sure about what’s true and what’s not. I point out that there was one painting that received praise in the reviews, the one about hitting Mom, and it was the only one he did not touch with his black mark. The significance of that was not lost on me even a minute ago, but now it’s fading. My voice, too, fades as his gets stronger. He can’t hear me over his own stream of abuse. He’s saying horrible things to me, throwing every lie I’ve ever told, every cruelty, all my betrayals, back in my face. It’s as if he’s turned me inside-out and knows intimately all the darkness of which I’m capable. The more he insults me the more his features distort into those of any vicious man, manipulator, or poseur. I used to be able to spot those kinds of creatures so easily. How could I let a guy so similar to me swallow me whole? “Oh, and Maryann said there was a rumor you went nuts a couple of years ago. Maybe what people see as genius in your work is actually madness.” “Maryann?” I suddenly can’t place the name. “Yeah, Maryann, my protégé, the woman who did the article on you, the one who helped me hang this show. You just saw her, for chrissakes.” “My breakdown is common knowledge among the small town gossips. I’m surprised you claim you didn’t know, especially when there’s another rumor going around that you’ve been stalking me for years.” “Stalking you? Who says? Did the museum director tell you that? She’s always been jealous whenever I take an interest in another woman. She can’t stand being relegated to my business partner.” “What business is that?” Ah, I’ve hit a nerve. He looks confused for an instant, and can’t come up with a reasonable answer. Finally he blusters, “Can’t you tell when people are gas-lighting you? What’s wrong with you?” “You mean besides my taste in men?” He slaps me. The sound snaps our connection and frees me from him utterly. The blow unbalances me and has me reeling backward; but I recover and drive toward his torso. I grab his crotch and twist his testicles. He stumbles and falls moaning to the floor. “I suppose you’re going to cry about this, too,” I say over my shoulder as I head for the door. “Just like you cried the first time we had sex.” I drive toward home, shivering with fury. Revenge is all I can think about. My brothers are too old to beat up the bad guys anymore. Lawyers would be involved, and I never do well with them. But I need to vent, I have to damage someone. I stop outside the coffee shop, the image of Maryann rising in my mind like a poison planet. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man about my age, driven out of his mind by something. Screaming obscenities that make no sense, he drops his white cane and feels for the gasoline can at his feet. He pours the gas over his head. As the crowd he’s gathered surges forward, he strikes a match. A roar goes up and the crowd flows backward. People are screaming or calling for help, everyone’s little phones glinting. The burning man turns to take a last look around, as if there is still a way out. Two men knock him to the ground and smother the flames. There are sirens and stretchers and now I’ve forgotten what I came for. I inch homeward leading a line of honking cars. I’m in the middle of a panic attack, I can’t go any faster. I leave the car running on the driveway while I stagger into Eddie’s room. I left my heavy black pea-coat in his closet and I need it now. Rain has turned to sleet and I’m shivering with cold. I see the shape of my coat in the closet and I pull the string on the lightbulb to make sure that’s what it really is. My old madness clings to it like remnants of fabric, hiding in the collar, in the lining, in the pockets. Why is a wood handle sticking out from the closet shelf? Why would Eddie keep a hammer in his room? No, that’s not it, the handle is too long. I grab it carefully and see that it’s a gun. My old gun. I shrug on my coat, shove the gun in my pocket, and crawl toward Richard’s apartment. As I drive through barely visible streets, each streetlight with its golden halo burns out as I pass, leaving a trail of darkness behind me. I burst back into Richard’s apartment. He rushes at me and I point the gun at him. He freezes. “Pack up my stuff and put it in the car,” I order, waving the gun in the direction of my drawing board. I see him glance at his phone on the counter, calibrating his chances. I lunge at the silver rectangle and grab it before he can. He makes an excuse for his slowness. “You injured me,” he says, cupping his crotch. “You slapped me!” “Asymmetrical warfare.” “Shut up. I don’t want to talk to you ever again.” “Your loss. I could have made you a star.” I indicate the box of art supplies with my gun. “You mean I could have made lots of money for you with your stupid little cons. Not gonna happen. They know everything now.” “Who? What do you mean?” He can’t tell if I’m bluffing or not. Neither can I as a matter of fact. I don’t actually know what I think I know, but everything I’ve absorbed from half-truths and naked lies, whispers and air-ducts, contraband in the backs of closets and confessions in ledgers, has suddenly clicked, and spills out of me. “I mean, you line up good artists who are vulnerable, and then you use them. You find their weakness and convince them you’re to be trusted. What a laugh. You get us thinking we can’t manage without you, and then you work your little scams. But you’re not even good at it. Your cons have never taken you where you want to go, no matter whose coat-tails you’re riding on. Taking advantage of your more gifted but desperate betters, that’s your bread and butter. But all that stuff is small-time. The little stuff distracts everyone away from your main venture. You get your artists to copy pictures and you sell the forgeries. The museum director helps you find buyers, right? That’s what you meant when you said business partner, right?” “Wrong. What nonsense. You know nothing. You have no proof. Your hallucinations are manipulating you.” I wobble and waver, feeling for the boundaries of my parallel existence. Sensing my mind sliding out of its grip, I smile, and Richard looks confused. He may embody my disease, but he does not contain all of me. “Of course we have proof. Have you checked your closet lately? There used to be more tubes of paintings than there are now. More black ledgers, too. But don’t worry. The police are taking good care of them.” Richard lunges at me. “Are you sure you should attack someone who is both armed and dangerous?” In the air, I describe a question mark with my gun. His lips tighten over his mouth, shut at last. “Better be a good boy and take the paint box and the drawing board and put them in the car. Keep whatever you paid for. I can’t be bought so cheaply.” He has no choice but to do what I say. He carries the paint box under one arm, my drawing board under his other one. His stringy biceps quiver with the effort, and the cold. I haven’t let him put on a coat. On the way back to the house, I realize the car I’m driving still belongs to Richard and I must give it back. I will have to unpack my things, retrace my route and return the car, and it suddenly seems like too much effort, it feels like I’ve been wandering in circles for years. I start to cry, but I press on through my windshield of tears, and unload my belongings from the car. My brothers see what I’m doing and help me do it. They don’t make me talk. They just help me for once. One final time, I aim the emptied car toward Richard’s apartment, my gun in one pocket, his phone in the other. It buzzes relentlessly. Who can be calling him? I realize I no longer have to care. I park the car and open the door to the apartment quietly. I don’t want Richard leaping out at me. It occurs to me that I could have slid his keys under the door. What made me think I had to come up? I could have spared myself one more fight. Do I still want the chance for a different ending? But Maryann has already taken my place, lying naked on our bed with him. I don’t make a sound, although everything in me screams. In a moment, they will see me standing over them with the gun. Before I start shooting, I will toss the car keys at Richard and laugh as he tries to catch them and misses. Richard and Maryann will roll off either side of the bed while I shoot six holes in a vertical line down the mattress, dividing it in two. I’ll see blood ooze from the down as the cops kick through the walls of the building, guns drawn. One of the cops looks just like Clara. On the wall, the alter-egos in my paintings break free of their frames, and reproach me with my crimes, carrying Richard’s big black marks before them like crosses. Mother is the last to climb down from the cruel collar I painted to imprison her. She shuffles toward me dragging a cloud of alizarin crimson behind her. I reach out to her with one hand, the other fumbling with my gun. She comes as close to me as she can. She raises herself on her toes, and slaps me with a deafening crack.
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AuthorCheryl Snell is an award-winning poet and novelist, author of the new family saga Bombay Trilogy, a retelling of her previous novels Shiva's Arms, Rescuing Ranu, and Kalpavriksha. Archives
October 2020
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