Читать книгу Sage - Wendy Anne - Страница 14

VI

Art Junky

I feel so scruffy and uncombed today. Sometimes the way you look can truly wear on your mood as well—my current mood being exhausted and irritable.

“Rough night?” Rose squeaks at me in the elevator. Of all potentially unruffled and soft-spoken people in the world, I had to run into her high-pitch, well-intended, early-bird screech first this morning.

“I did not sleep very well last night, must have been this ongoing kink in my back, and I’m a bit off today,” I say in a voice indicating that it is not to be discussed any further.

Rose is dressed stunningly today, in a beautiful tightly fastened burgundy suede skirt suit, complimenting her light hair and complexion. Her skirt ends just below her upper thighs, exposing her petite, toned legs. Black stilettos, creating a deceitful couple of extra inches, carve her round calves. The perfect image you would expect a male to have working in his office, the cliché secretary who would be expected to “work late nights.” She makes an intriguing display for my clients and coworkers, and with her ability to follow directions, she has plenty of job security. Rose, like most of my employees, is a longtimer. She dumbfounds me with her ability to find the tiniest things fascinating. Also, when treated kindly, she is content with her subservient position, and in this predictability, I trust her. Although I find Rose attractive, I’m not sexually aroused by her in any way. Naturally, I do not entertain the idea of cheating on Bruce, but I sometimes fantasize about being with certain women. Bruce is well aware of this and has questioned me about Rose before spending enough quality time with her to know better. I have more of an attraction to the wiser, sophisticated, independent, and exotic types. Women such as Angelina Jolie and Lana Del Rey are more my style if I am to name a couple of prototypes I’d consider “my type.” In the case of Angelina Jolie, she is well-refined eloquence on a perfect skeletal structure, and her face has large exquisite features on perfectly proportioned contours. Her eyes are both bright and deep, and her individuality leaks into her life performance in the shape of exotic eccentricity. Whereas Lana Del Rey is closer to my age, and though there is youthful eloquence found in the softer parts of her demeanor, her soul seems ancient and lovely. More than this, her voice is soothing poetic sex. I have even sexualized Rihanna in my mind on many occasions.

Nevertheless, I have a thing for untouchable goddesses; I am married, Rose wouldn’t satisfy my sexual palate, and mostly because of the fact she is too childlike to arouse me. Just the same, I love Rose, and I’m very protective of her. Even while her energy, like now, can sometimes equate the sound of nails scratching hard against a chalkboard.

What a gloomy day. Even my office, surrounded by windows, seems to be dark and dreary and I don’t want to be here. My to-do list, I have decided, consists of preparation for other days when I will be making closings. My leads can wait until I am a bit sharper. I grab all of my contact guide sheets and hand them over to my phone solicitors. It is that simple. Sometimes being the boss means passing my responsibilities onto the people I pay and hope that they achieve as much as they would in my presence. Thus, I am going to organize and retreat; besides, I work more hours than most of them.

Grabbing my purse, I step out of my office. Eyes follow me from around the room, astonished by my early appearance and even more taken back by the fact I appear to be leaving.

“I am out!” I exclaim. “You know what you have to get done, and I expect everything on my desk tomorrow morning.” I hand a pile of papers to Rose and motion her to distribute them to the appropriate employees with a cunning wink.

Before I head home, I decide to devote some time to exploring my interests to break myself out of this mental coma. Boston is full of museums, but my favorites are the art museums. I have always admired artists’ interpretations of the world, but mostly their talent to exploit it. The Boston Museum of Fine Arts, ranging in date from the seventh century to the late twentieth, has an assembly of over twenty-one thousand masterpieces by some of the greatest artists in history.

This is a promise of tranquility, an escape from my mind and into theirs. This is why we read, write, paint, or, in the crudest sense, even watch television as a means of artistic interpretation. I find that the people who have been through the most in their lives and have managed to succeed despite it all have a wealth of knowledge in this area. Many endowed artists have tortured souls because the depth of a painful lesson can sometimes inspire the most beautiful art. A wonderfully insane artist can speak scores of layers in their work and create deeper ways to understand the commonplace of our mind’s elucidation while bringing attention to details that tell a story, and those are my favorite kinds of artists. Art can sometimes have esoteric layers woven into the deeper messages that few can read, and those tend to be my favorite pieces of art. I cannot pick a single artist who I favor above the rest, save for the earth goddess, as she is beautiful, ever-changing, and mysteriously magical with an enchanting story hidden beneath her beautiful layers. Therefore, nature in raw form is far more enchanting than any piece of art found in a museum, but humans are pretty good at capturing her beauty and all stories abode.

Elliot once asked me why I felt the urge to continuously go to museums when all art can be experienced on the Internet. I simply told him that going to a museum versus Google image is the difference between listening to music on a set of speakers rather than experiencing the immense energy a concert provides. An empath truly understands that, but he professes to jack off to online porn, is content locked in a VR game, and has joked about buying a robotic lover, so the point is probably moot.

The Boston Museum of Fine Arts is well maintained, extremely attractive, wonderfully organized, and offers more art than one could relish properly in a single day.

While I enjoy the constant flow of visitors that satisfy a temporary need to people-watch, it is far more interesting to discover something new in a piece of art I have already seen many times. Many paintings awaken previous interpretations, and sometimes a fresh one is born. I wonder if the Rorschach test was developed by an art enthusiast, though based on my personal experience, and taking certain paintings into account, a different day is a different depiction of my perception. It is fortunate nobody has given me identical inkblot tests on separate occasions because I’d probably be committed to a psych ward.

At the museum, I can overlook being locked behind the lost generation of the twenty-first century. I can also forget about last night’s dream and my worries of the office falling apart at my departure. Staring into 1765 Boucher oil on canvas, I lose myself. Boucher was a true revolutionary. He painted major decorative ensembles, representations of mythological prospects, and scenery. He also did tasteful erotic paintings. Halt at the Spring is one of my favorite paintings by this brilliant French artist. It was originally a smaller religious painting portraying The Rest on the Flight into Egypt with Mary, Joseph, and Christ as a child. Between 1761 and 1765, the painting was enlarged (the strips of added canvas are visible to the trained eye) and reworked into a perfect depiction of how he viewed peasant life. The images are as clean as a twenty-first-century photograph, but an eighteenth-century painting of its kind harbors more energy than a photograph, especially this one, because there is so much chaos in the story and the color textures bring the story to life. In my opinion, though the history of the camera traced back to the seventeenth century, and photography has taken off since the nineteenth century, a high-quality painting will always be superior to a photograph. More time goes into a painting than a photo, and each detail manifesting in the artist’s creative flow is carefully depicted from the artist’s perspective, whereas a photograph, captured by a camera’s ability to mirror, is virtually effortless in comparison.

The art transfixes my thoughts, and while completely spellbound by my inner monologue deciphering Boucher’s potential thoughts, it takes a minute to notice my body was preventing other spectators from viewing the painting. They fire hot stares into my back while attempting to get me to move, but I refuse. Maybe this is their favorite masterpiece, and at this very moment, no other painting will suffice. However, most paintings at present are empty of visitors, there are plenty of stunning pieces to choose from, I’m not finished, and first come first serve. Also, there is always potential that they do not love this piece, and that their eyes will merely glaze over the work without appreciation, so they can move from one to the next. Yes, the people who take pride in the mere idea that they have visited the museum, and skim over the art as if it were nothing more than a short-lived experience to mention during boring dinner parties. I don’t understand people who search outside their interests to impress others because time is too valuable to forfeit actual interests for pretend ones, but plenty of people do it. Exhaling heavily, I make a token effort to stare them down; a simple glare to instill fear. My response is unexpected, and they are caught off guard. They seem to notice that I am fearless and in a contemptuous mood as my eyes solidify the conviction behind a stare that instates a warning of potential craziness. All of this accomplished with a single look. An intent look backed by genuine irritation burning hot in my stomach and expressed by my eyes. Body language is the oldest of all languages, and I sometimes have the body language of a rabid animal.

Luckily, the tense moment passes swiftly as the herd of socialites moves on to their next fifty-second painting conquest. All of them except an old lady remain in my vicinity. Her eyes are focused on me rather than the painting, and I try to ignore her to no avail. What a curious creature she is, as her stare tries to pierce straight through me. I sigh. Must every part of this day follow a downward spiral? It seems to me that the Boucher painting must have grown tired of my company because the universe sent plenty of disturbances to break our connection, so I move on and away from the creepy lady and Boucher, to a wonderful European painting, heavily influenced by the Egyptians. I feel a deep connection with historical artifacts found in the Middle East, and I love how certain European artists interpret Egypt with such beautiful confusion, even while saddened by the prospect of endless forgeries ruining divine teachings. Many religions and great empires have gathered something wonderful from Egypt, especially during Egypt’s golden age, which seemed to be a time of peace and great wealth. I believe their time of greatness was heavily induced by their belief systems, which were often more progressive than twenty-first-century ones. Many twenty-first-century systems, in numerous factions of religious government, degrade or oppress feminine nature, rather than admire and worship her as Egyptians once did. Some of my favorite ascended masters come from Mesopotamian carvings, Hindu teachings, and ancient Egyptian knowledge.

I particularly love the stories of Isis, Osiris, Horus, and Thoth, because I find so much continuity with Greek, Roman, and many other religious tales. Some of that influence is demonstrated in the European painting in front of me. Even though my mind feels compelled to elucidate the difference between commonly acknowledged Egyptian and European art, I defer and appreciate diversity instead.

Suddenly Boucher images and eighteenth-century Europe dissipate into the backdrop of my new intention, which is to shift my physical body to the ancient Egypt section of the museum. As anticipated, I am mesmerized. The dead have so much to show us. Time travel is a state of mind, but you only have limited resources and your imagination to get there, though I’m able to forge opinions as if I was there and worshipping the same gods and goddesses as they might have. My psyche integrates personal fantasy with ancient art, as my mind swims between realms of arbitrary space and museum knowledge. There are unique finds from the Valley of the Kings that portray the New Kingdom and Late era collections (around 1550–760 BC), slightly flawed, but masterfully preserved. The overall collection is quite amazing and radiates so much historical energy. The only difficult decision is choosing which piece of art to set aside quality time to explore. While deciding which way to head first, my thoughts are interrupted by a new addition in the center of the main exhibit hall, which happens to be a painting of an ankh, my favorite Egyptian symbol. The picture is glorious, and the colors are vibrant and fresh as if it were recently brought here anew. All crosses have a specific meaning, and because the Egyptian cross is one of the oldest, to me, it’s a powerful symbol. It’s right up there with the sacred flower of life and the pagan circle of protection. Belief is such an influential way humans manifest strong energy vibrations.

For this reason, I am taken by symbols, prayers, and routines that manage to last for millennia. I believe an honest poem, spell, or prayer said aloud, with wholehearted emotional faith, can create powerful vibration fields that connect with the universe. Therefore, thousands of years’ worth of particular spells or prayers said with profound faith using the ankh, or performed around the ankh, has created its intriguing essence, at least in my eyes. It is said that the ankh is the symbol of eternal life. If the gods are depicted holding the ankh to someone’s lips, it is considered an offering or the “the breath of life”—the breath, they say, you will eventually need to achieve a high place in the afterlife. I feel a chill in the back of my neck. The kind of chill one feels when they are being stalked or experiencing a scary story during the black of night. As a result of my quivering chill, I seek this being. Pretending to glance over at a piece of art to my far right, I catch the offender in the periphery of my vision. It is the old woman, still looking in my direction and standing unreasonably close. She must have followed me here because I am moving in a random sequence.

I have a great deal of respect for my elders and, in a better state of mind, would avoid any conflict with them. However, I am not one to be intimidated, nor someone who enjoys being followed, so I do what most people try to avoid and look back at her just as obviously as she is staring at me. She does not budge from my third-degree stare. She merely smirks, as if enjoying the recognition. Irritated, I beckon her with a slight motion of my finger. I realize this is rude, but so is staring, so we are speaking the same lingo. With straggly white hair and dark-brown, deep-set eyes, she inches her way over to me, unblinking. Like something from Tales from the Crypt, she is. At no more than five feet tall, she barely stands at my breasts.

She speaks without introduction or basic formality.

To listen to your voice is pomegranate wine to me:

I draw life from hearing it.

Could I see you with every glance?

It would be better for me

Then to eat or to drink.

I recognized it immediately—a poem from an Egyptian Pharaoh to his beloved wife. Though it isn’t a prolific piece, it would take someone adept in scribe several days to carve a single hieroglyph during the time made. The first instance I heard the poem, the words penetrated my heart as if carved for me, and I were as desired as she, whose king would rather starve than to live without her. Even while Bruce loves me wholeheartedly, he does not know the kind of desperate love that I crave as well as that this poem depicts.

It was like a bandage on my emotional wound that constantly bleeds from disappointment. A few lyrically inclined musicians worked as an antibiotic to prevent my wounds from becoming infected, but it all started with this Pharaoh’s ancient expression of true love.

How fascinating she has knowledge of one of my favorite pieces of poetry from that time; just as I am about to allow my intrigue to deter me from brushing her away, she speaks again.

“I know you, from another time and dimension. Your true splendor is hidden, and your temporary life cycle is a mousetrap intended to mask the essence of your truth. You picked an attractive and sophisticated shell, but that’s all the more reason you are distracted from who you truly are. You need to divorce all that prevents your full potential from becoming a reality.” How random and obscure this woman is, what could she possibly mean? I don’t know whether she is a hopeless romantic drawn to my frequency, and feels like sharing her craziness, or if she’s an intellectual toying with my mind and hoping that my reaction will fulfill a void in the shape of elderly boredom.

“Um, I am not Egyptian that I know of,” I begin, humoring her, “I’m Roman and Syrian to the best of my knowledge, but people in the Mediterranean area have mixed for thousands of years, so it’s possible. Otherwise, all of this Egyptian paraphernalia could be infecting me literally, and I’m about to have tea with Isis while considering whether or not I should let her know that she has five goddess doppelgangers and a terrorist group that stole her name. I feel like she should know about this. I’d use my great potential for such a purpose right now if I could.” My response is sarcastic with heavy doses of condescending undertones, but she’s unimpressed and draws a crumpled business card from her pocket.

“You will see things in a different light soon, and do tell Marcus I said hello when your twenty-first-century snobbery ceases to infect your true grace.” What in god’s name is she talking about? Who the hell is Marcus? It certainly doesn’t sound Egyptian.

How interesting and delightfully mad she seems. Her eyes hold validity as they lock on mine for a silent moment just before we break off and she walks away. Normally, I would dismiss such nonsense, but her voice seemed so sincere, and I am intrigued enough to keep the card.

When I was a waitress during my teenage years, I learned that older folks truly are a wealth of wisdom, in spite of first appearances. I always attempt to visualize myself as an old woman some thirty to forty years from now. Growing through generations, watching people change, and trends shift in and out of style, friends and family passing, but still having something to share. Their words can be quirky carelessness or condensed knowledge, sometimes both, and conversations with elders usually leave me more satisfied than ones I’ve shared with their young successors.

Without looking at the card, I shove it in my exceedingly crowded purse. Having had enough of the company in the museum, I head to the arts and crafts shop for some overpriced paint and supplies to do some of my own artwork. I pick up some multipurpose paintbrush assortments, water-based acrylic paints, and several prestretched edge-stapled canvases, and make my way to my next destination, home. It has been a while since my family and I decided to explore our creative sides together, and they will appreciate the gesture.

In my car, I blare ear-piercing music to drown anything that should try to invade my musical peace during my drive home. Dinnertime is so unusually quiet that the ice rattling in my glass and the creaking of Bruce’s chair is easily heard. I guess we made up for the small talk this morning over our unexpected family breakfast. I set fire to the wicks of long stem candles in the sterling candelabras placed on the circumference of dark walnut curio display cases surrounding the majority of the living room and lure my family to follow. Candlelight adds an interesting vibe, as each animated flame casts flickers of light in constant motion. Classical music permeates the room. Music with no words, only sound, gives way to more self-interpretation and less creative influence. Once the ambiance is created, I instruct Cheyanne to grab the fresh canvases and place three of them on separate wooden easels.

In the center of the room, we face our backs to each other to produce our masterpieces. The room smells of candle wax and acrylic paints as we stroke our brushes along the bare canvases.

I have no idea what to paint. There are no pictures in the form of lucid thoughts that I can use to create anything specific. Therefore, I paint a random mesh of vivid flowing pastel colors portraying my bright and positive inner aspirations. For a moment, I shut my eyes and pretend my hands have eyes of their own, hoping my subconscious flow will lead me to a form that I could eventually decipher from the mess. At first, I open my eyes to a bunch of puzzling, muddled images. In the center of the disarrayed bright colors, a shape resembling the hourglass figure of a voluptuous woman catches my eyes. Tracing along the shape, using contrasting darker colors to define the hazy figure of a woman’s body, I bring her to life. Her breast-to-waist ratio is as unrealistic as a Barbie doll, though I award her with the kind of attractive childbearing hips Barbie lacks. All of the existing colors around her morph to become a rather bizarre sunset. There is such freedom playing with the pleasing colors until I have to discipline my eyes and hands to the finer details that add a tinge of realism. After what feels like hours of being tuned into our worlds, we start becoming curious about each other’s work. It is amazing and fun to turn around and see someone releasing their feelings into their designs. Our distinctive personalities and uniqueness are exemplified in our final product, though none of us seemed fully finished or completely satisfied. Rather than finishing our paintings, we spend half an hour explaining the drive our subliminal minds played while creating our works. Bruce’s dark and strange picture seemed to have no plan, only confusion.

“That’s where my mind is right now, a dark and cloudy place.” He laughs without humor. It looked more to me like he had mixed too many colors, as the entire painting looked to be a thick mess of brownish sludge. Cheyanne, as expected, painted a series of all her favorite comic and amine characters. It’s rather juvenile in regards to concept, but she is extremely fond of intimate details, and her painting is far better quality than mine or Bruce’s. She knows how to create a 3-D effect by adding shadows and highlights in all the right places. I have often thought about providing her art classes, to teach her how to use the brushes appropriately, but she seems to do pretty well freelancing. Maybe when she has developed a style that is completely her own, I’ll send her to an art school to fine-tune her skill.

“Let us clean ourselves and awake to our masterpieces in the morning,” I say jokingly as I inspect our chaos one last time for the evening.

“Maybe they will look better tomorrow,” Cheyanne adds with a smile.