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booshslashhavenPart three of what is turning out to be a Rosey/Bauer epic.
Two days since the café and Bauer imagined the off-white walls of his room were slowly being gilded by the sun. His dream of mountains of billowing fabric, folds and wrinkled heaps hiding secrets, he searched all night to find what they were hiding – all that now fixed on the canvas. Delicate orange-rose hue like some exotic flower cultivated for a rich land-owner, he felt unworthy, and a sense of something growing, he’d painted the fabric folds extending out like roots at the bottom of the canvas. Further up, they made different shapes, suggestion of an eye, a hand, he looked at the finished picture now and felt again that he was searching, looking, hands reaching out into – not a void, there were colours there, but colours he had no word for, colours which meant nothing to the eye.
How strange it had felt at first to paint with no tangible frame of reference, to make one still image from the roiling, shifting pictures in his head. But then how liberating to see in the physical world what had existed until that moment only behind his own eyes. For once he cared not whether the painting would sell – his prime concern was for it to be seen, to be able, at last, to actually speak in colours.
Rosey’s phrasing, and Rosey would be the first to see it, he still felt the guilt of talking about his dreams with Breton first and Rosey’s surprised eyes, had Bauer actually felt pain then?
The landscape hurriedly finished, ready to be delivered but he dared not leave the room, two days since Rosey had brought him home from the café, since Bauer had pressed paints into his hand with instructions to create something – yellow and orange and Rosey’s painting imagined so he almost didn’t dare want to see it for real.
But restless now, Bauer couldn’t sit still and no more canvas to work on until he collected his fee for the landscape, so he dressed – best shirt and jacket, then taking the jacket off to add a waistcoat too, chill breeze outside and impressing his buyer could lead to another commission.
Long walk to the outskirts of the city and his shirt sweat-damp, the wrapped painting cumbersome under his arm and he hesitated on the doorstep of the house to catch his breath. A minute or two before the bell was answered; he was ushered in quickly, escorted through to a dark-wood panelled drawing room. The buyer entertaining guests already, Bauer had arrived at an opportune time, he said. His landscape quickly unwrapped, breathless moment of silence and he ought to be more professional but opinions still mattered. Then congratulations, and his shoulders sagged with relief, broad smile that he couldn’t hide and the buyer’s guests eager to talk with him, where could they see his work?
He left smiling, the fee in an envelope in his pocket and promises to attend his gallery showing, he’d have to be there if he wanted to pick up any more commissions.
He enjoyed the walk back; took his time, let the conversations of passersby drift past without trying to translate them, wandered a longer route, enjoyed the weak September sun on his face. Almost two hours before he reached his lodgings – Rosey waiting outside, leaning against the wall, trying to look casual but anxious, Bauer could tell, like the blend where red met green, something big about to happen.
Inside and still nothing to offer Rosey. With the money in his pocket he could do something about that, and strange that he was anticipating more visits from Rosey already. The writer clutching a roll of paper, trying several times to speak and managing only half-sentences, aborted words and Bauer knew this wasn’t normal for Rosey. An urge to push him down into the one chair, to make him still because Rosey uncomfortable made Bauer agitated too. In the end Rosey thrust the roll of paper at him and Bauer imagined again how Rosey would have mixed the colours. He looked at Rosey as he unrolled the paper, Rosey who could not meet his eyes, who drew deep careful breaths, and Bauer remembered his first sketchbook, harsh lines until he discovered how to draw shadows instead of edges – he’d had instruction, a mentor and the recklessness of youth. But for Rosey, the cautiousness of adulthood and the company of lés Surrèalistes, how big of a risk was this for him to take? A sudden urge to take Rosey’s hand, assurance and solidarity, but he restrained himself, held on to the paper and looked at last.
It should have felt like déjà vu, like something strange, to see the image of wrinkled bed sheets on Rosey’s sketchbook page, the precise choice of colours, the inexpert blending and the hint of pencil lines, suggestion of folds and pleats and all as he had seen behind his own eyes. He would have to work with Rosey on shading and blending, perhaps on perspective.
And there it was – the folds of fabric he had dreamed, had painted, were pulled aside and there, the thing he had sought, had felt at the edge of his mind.
“I can’t - ” Rosey’s eyes downcast, hands clenched to fists.
“Explain it?” Bauer’s hand on his elbow then, unable to hold back any longer and Rosey’s nod of acknowledgement.
“It shouldn’t need explaining, I know – surrealists do not seek to add conscious meaning. I just need - ” His right hand grasping at the air as though to pluck the words from it; Bauer understood.
“You expect to pin it down with words,” he suggested. Rosey frowned but did not disagree. “I meant no disrespect. It’s just this gulf between – “
“Between communicating with words and with images?” And Rosey understood it too, felt that there must be somewhere in the middle where they could find common ground. “I think, Herr Artist, that you have stolen my words.” A smile at last, and Bauer returned it.
“A fair price, considering you have pilfered the images from my head.”
With Rosey’s painting in one hand, he crossed the room to retrieve his own work from the previous day, placing it with some difficulty on the easel for Rosey to see. Pleased with himself for capturing the softness of worn fabric, the questing movement of roots; Rosey’s sharp gasp of surprise and “Yes,” understanding, recognition of something shared. Rosey taking back his own painting to hold it next to Bauer’s. The colours were different, Bauer’s were bolder, more assured, they lacked the precision of Rosey’s choices but his painting the better for it. More said in the recklessness of automatism – Rosey’s meticulousness seemed to hide something that Bauer was determined to bring to the forefront soon.
Later, Bauer paid for a meal in the café they had visited previously. He told Rosey about the landscape he had sold; Rosey suggested he stay away, that Breton knew of galleries much more amenable to their ideas and that if Bauer carried on painting landscapes he “would suffocate, it would steal the life from your palette and you would die.” Bauer laughed at the drama of it all but Rosey had already convinced him, as far as he was concerned there was no risk in following Rosey and Breton. Rosey had painted for him with palest yellow and so Rosey had made a promise.
Breton would want to see the newest piece, Rosey said. They would meet the following day; Rosey and Bauer parted outside the café, Rosey’s hand on Bauer’s elbow as they said their goodbyes.
That night he dreamt of roots, white and green, young, and a tree with four limbs, paintbrushes gripped in its branches, painting its own leaves. He resolved that the image would be the last thing he painted by himself.
tbc...
Two days since the café and Bauer imagined the off-white walls of his room were slowly being gilded by the sun. His dream of mountains of billowing fabric, folds and wrinkled heaps hiding secrets, he searched all night to find what they were hiding – all that now fixed on the canvas. Delicate orange-rose hue like some exotic flower cultivated for a rich land-owner, he felt unworthy, and a sense of something growing, he’d painted the fabric folds extending out like roots at the bottom of the canvas. Further up, they made different shapes, suggestion of an eye, a hand, he looked at the finished picture now and felt again that he was searching, looking, hands reaching out into – not a void, there were colours there, but colours he had no word for, colours which meant nothing to the eye.
How strange it had felt at first to paint with no tangible frame of reference, to make one still image from the roiling, shifting pictures in his head. But then how liberating to see in the physical world what had existed until that moment only behind his own eyes. For once he cared not whether the painting would sell – his prime concern was for it to be seen, to be able, at last, to actually speak in colours.
Rosey’s phrasing, and Rosey would be the first to see it, he still felt the guilt of talking about his dreams with Breton first and Rosey’s surprised eyes, had Bauer actually felt pain then?
The landscape hurriedly finished, ready to be delivered but he dared not leave the room, two days since Rosey had brought him home from the café, since Bauer had pressed paints into his hand with instructions to create something – yellow and orange and Rosey’s painting imagined so he almost didn’t dare want to see it for real.
But restless now, Bauer couldn’t sit still and no more canvas to work on until he collected his fee for the landscape, so he dressed – best shirt and jacket, then taking the jacket off to add a waistcoat too, chill breeze outside and impressing his buyer could lead to another commission.
Long walk to the outskirts of the city and his shirt sweat-damp, the wrapped painting cumbersome under his arm and he hesitated on the doorstep of the house to catch his breath. A minute or two before the bell was answered; he was ushered in quickly, escorted through to a dark-wood panelled drawing room. The buyer entertaining guests already, Bauer had arrived at an opportune time, he said. His landscape quickly unwrapped, breathless moment of silence and he ought to be more professional but opinions still mattered. Then congratulations, and his shoulders sagged with relief, broad smile that he couldn’t hide and the buyer’s guests eager to talk with him, where could they see his work?
He left smiling, the fee in an envelope in his pocket and promises to attend his gallery showing, he’d have to be there if he wanted to pick up any more commissions.
He enjoyed the walk back; took his time, let the conversations of passersby drift past without trying to translate them, wandered a longer route, enjoyed the weak September sun on his face. Almost two hours before he reached his lodgings – Rosey waiting outside, leaning against the wall, trying to look casual but anxious, Bauer could tell, like the blend where red met green, something big about to happen.
Inside and still nothing to offer Rosey. With the money in his pocket he could do something about that, and strange that he was anticipating more visits from Rosey already. The writer clutching a roll of paper, trying several times to speak and managing only half-sentences, aborted words and Bauer knew this wasn’t normal for Rosey. An urge to push him down into the one chair, to make him still because Rosey uncomfortable made Bauer agitated too. In the end Rosey thrust the roll of paper at him and Bauer imagined again how Rosey would have mixed the colours. He looked at Rosey as he unrolled the paper, Rosey who could not meet his eyes, who drew deep careful breaths, and Bauer remembered his first sketchbook, harsh lines until he discovered how to draw shadows instead of edges – he’d had instruction, a mentor and the recklessness of youth. But for Rosey, the cautiousness of adulthood and the company of lés Surrèalistes, how big of a risk was this for him to take? A sudden urge to take Rosey’s hand, assurance and solidarity, but he restrained himself, held on to the paper and looked at last.
It should have felt like déjà vu, like something strange, to see the image of wrinkled bed sheets on Rosey’s sketchbook page, the precise choice of colours, the inexpert blending and the hint of pencil lines, suggestion of folds and pleats and all as he had seen behind his own eyes. He would have to work with Rosey on shading and blending, perhaps on perspective.
And there it was – the folds of fabric he had dreamed, had painted, were pulled aside and there, the thing he had sought, had felt at the edge of his mind.
“I can’t - ” Rosey’s eyes downcast, hands clenched to fists.
“Explain it?” Bauer’s hand on his elbow then, unable to hold back any longer and Rosey’s nod of acknowledgement.
“It shouldn’t need explaining, I know – surrealists do not seek to add conscious meaning. I just need - ” His right hand grasping at the air as though to pluck the words from it; Bauer understood.
“You expect to pin it down with words,” he suggested. Rosey frowned but did not disagree. “I meant no disrespect. It’s just this gulf between – “
“Between communicating with words and with images?” And Rosey understood it too, felt that there must be somewhere in the middle where they could find common ground. “I think, Herr Artist, that you have stolen my words.” A smile at last, and Bauer returned it.
“A fair price, considering you have pilfered the images from my head.”
With Rosey’s painting in one hand, he crossed the room to retrieve his own work from the previous day, placing it with some difficulty on the easel for Rosey to see. Pleased with himself for capturing the softness of worn fabric, the questing movement of roots; Rosey’s sharp gasp of surprise and “Yes,” understanding, recognition of something shared. Rosey taking back his own painting to hold it next to Bauer’s. The colours were different, Bauer’s were bolder, more assured, they lacked the precision of Rosey’s choices but his painting the better for it. More said in the recklessness of automatism – Rosey’s meticulousness seemed to hide something that Bauer was determined to bring to the forefront soon.
Later, Bauer paid for a meal in the café they had visited previously. He told Rosey about the landscape he had sold; Rosey suggested he stay away, that Breton knew of galleries much more amenable to their ideas and that if Bauer carried on painting landscapes he “would suffocate, it would steal the life from your palette and you would die.” Bauer laughed at the drama of it all but Rosey had already convinced him, as far as he was concerned there was no risk in following Rosey and Breton. Rosey had painted for him with palest yellow and so Rosey had made a promise.
Breton would want to see the newest piece, Rosey said. They would meet the following day; Rosey and Bauer parted outside the café, Rosey’s hand on Bauer’s elbow as they said their goodbyes.
That night he dreamt of roots, white and green, young, and a tree with four limbs, paintbrushes gripped in its branches, painting its own leaves. He resolved that the image would be the last thing he painted by himself.
tbc...
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no subject
Date: 2008-08-12 07:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-12 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-12 10:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-13 06:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-13 09:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-13 08:58 am (UTC)And you really captured that tense feeling that comes before you show someone whose opinion you respect something you've poured yourself into. The buckle of complimentary colors is perfect.
Basically, you're just cool. Haha.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-13 10:21 am (UTC)it brings them to the same level now, it feels like, starting to feel a cohesion there :]
They do need to be on equal ground to become RoseyandBauer - less of Bauer as the newbie and more of them teaching each other. I was beginning to worry that my Bauer was coming across as too young and naive, so that's good.
Basically, you're just cool. Haha.
Yay me! Hehe. Thanks.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-13 05:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-13 09:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-13 10:54 pm (UTC)Then my work here is done. :)
no subject
Date: 2008-08-27 01:02 am (UTC)