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booshslashhavenI was hoping to write this while I was away over the weekend, but I've ended up being so busy that I didn't even have time to think about it until yesterday. But here it is at last. Enjoy!
Something shared, that was the key. To watch the sun reflecting off of the rippling waves of the river and know that Rosey was watching too; to breathe the crisp autumn air and know that Rosey felt the same suggestion of winter just weeks away; to attend Breton’s meetings and know that, whatever they discussed, there would be someone who would agree with him emphatically on every point – all that, Bauer craved and was grateful for, hording the moments in his memory. Rosey’s hand in his at every opportunity, always partly for show but Bauer almost needed the physical connection, “As if my mind could reach beyond the limits of my own body,” he’d whispered to Rosey one evening at dusk – they were painting more and more often in the dim evening light; he had stopped for a moment, uncertain, and placed one paint-smudged hand on Rosey’s back to remind himself of what was missing from the picture. The answer suddenly there, had been there all along, in Rosey’s mind – Bauer wondered why he had lost it, thankful that Rosey had been able to return it to him.
The colours seemed to glow lately; everything had its own light. Even in the small hours when they resisted sleep – Bauer thought he might discover where the colours all came from, might be able to reach inside the dresser or the curtains or Rosey’s hair and pull out a handful of colour, finding the shades that couldn’t be bought in any artists’ supply store.
In their bed, the covers pulled right up to block out everything that wasn’t RoseyandBauer – gasps and warm skin and breathy laughter, lip upon lip like the most perfect thing Bauer had ever known, Rosey’s fingers in his hair and Bauer aching inside, miserable that the colours inside his head could never be captured on canvas. Each morning a struggle to leave the bed, unbearable to be parted from Rosey sometimes, as if not feeling Rosey’s skin against his meant that he lost a part of his own mind.
*****
Breton’s army, the devoted footsoldiers of his Surrealist Revolution – the few who remained true, at least (Max Ernst rarely seen, Magritte absent for months and Breton sullen, bitter) seeking out new blood. Galleries, theatres, films, and suddenly a sense of anticipation – new names whispered in the café.
Un Chien Andalou. Eluard told them about it first – he did not accompany them, Breton and Aragon and Yoyotte and Rosey and Bauer, occupying the entire front row of chairs in the tiny room where the film was shown. Bauer, crowded by strangers behind him, low buzz of voices, Like nothing you’ve ever seen, and Bauer chuckled at their naïveté, Spaniards, you know, ahead of anything our own artists are producing. Turning to look at Rosey – a challenge they had no doubts about accepting.
Twenty minutes later and the five of them motionless in their seats, mouths agape. Bauer gripping Rosey’s hand so tightly it hurt. The images still danced behind his eyes, how he wished he could add colour to the film itself; sickly yellows, ugly browns, pale watery blues, the hollow grey of the images was frightening enough but Bauer felt saddened that it had come so close to greatness. His skin crawled, something festering, Rosey agitated beside him and Bauer enjoyed it, astounded that someone else could provoke such a violent reaction.
Brief conversation with Buñuel, Bauer sensed the director’s disappointment at their compliments, Buñuel’s disdain for them, mere painters, as he edged past them to get to Breton. They noticed Dali, but it was nothing more than that – strange little man hovering at the back of the room, eyes on Breton. They turned instead to Aragon; Rosey smiled at his nauseated look. Out in the corridor, half-formed sentences and vague gestures, they couldn’t express anything other than their amazement, the thrill of something truly innovative. Yoyotte chewing his pencil, staring at a blank page, and Bauer knew that they all felt it - the white at the edge of their vision.
*****
Days of discussions, of Breton interrogating them one by one (RoseyandBauer were one in everyone’s mind now). What did they think of Dali? Could the group embrace this new medium? What could they learn from Dali’s film? What were their reactions to his apparent coprophiliac tendencies? (Breton’s worry over that painting kept coming up in discussion.)
In the studio, less to be said now as they worked – just an unspoken sense of pressure. Suddenly the standards were raised, the challenge set by moving images up against those captured by paint on canvas, Bauer had never been more grateful for colour – film could only hazard a guess at the promise of poppy-red, the whisper of pale yellow, the joie de vivre of green – hollow grey film could never live up to Bauer’s imaginings.
Still, Breton invited Dali in, and Bauer and Rosey were as entranced as any of them by the strange little Spaniard who spoke in surrealism, not just about it. Bauer wondered if he ought to be jealous, but Dali was like a tidal wave which had swept them all up – it would have been futile to struggle.
Dali with his faltering French, and Bauer knew his frustration, the lack of correlation between the images in his head and the words he was capable of producing from his mouth. Art as expression, as communication – they took those pictures and made them real, as real as possible with paints at least – words were just the pins that held down the butterfly, so much more wondrous when it was capable of moving its wings.
Frustration seemed prevalent lately – days of watching Rosey studying their paintings, hours passed in the studio with very little accomplished. Bauer’s own brushes immobile as long as Rosey stood motionless and the images were there in his head, they had to be there for Rosey too but Rosey could not paint them – Bauer noticed his eyes creeping constantly to the corners of the canvas. With his hand on Rosey’s shoulder, he felt the almost claustrophobic sense of limitation, felt the edges crowding them in, “We have to go further,” Rosey’s harsh whisper, hand reaching out blindly for Bauer’s – Bauer found him, held on until Rosey’s breathing slowed to normal.
There were shapes behind his eyes, moving out beyond the reaches of the canvas, tendrils, the meaning moving beyond the original idea – he saw himself as if through Rosey’s eyes, his own face in near-profile as Rosey had painted it all those months ago, and knew suddenly that canvas just wasn’t enough anymore.
...tbc
Something shared, that was the key. To watch the sun reflecting off of the rippling waves of the river and know that Rosey was watching too; to breathe the crisp autumn air and know that Rosey felt the same suggestion of winter just weeks away; to attend Breton’s meetings and know that, whatever they discussed, there would be someone who would agree with him emphatically on every point – all that, Bauer craved and was grateful for, hording the moments in his memory. Rosey’s hand in his at every opportunity, always partly for show but Bauer almost needed the physical connection, “As if my mind could reach beyond the limits of my own body,” he’d whispered to Rosey one evening at dusk – they were painting more and more often in the dim evening light; he had stopped for a moment, uncertain, and placed one paint-smudged hand on Rosey’s back to remind himself of what was missing from the picture. The answer suddenly there, had been there all along, in Rosey’s mind – Bauer wondered why he had lost it, thankful that Rosey had been able to return it to him.
The colours seemed to glow lately; everything had its own light. Even in the small hours when they resisted sleep – Bauer thought he might discover where the colours all came from, might be able to reach inside the dresser or the curtains or Rosey’s hair and pull out a handful of colour, finding the shades that couldn’t be bought in any artists’ supply store.
In their bed, the covers pulled right up to block out everything that wasn’t RoseyandBauer – gasps and warm skin and breathy laughter, lip upon lip like the most perfect thing Bauer had ever known, Rosey’s fingers in his hair and Bauer aching inside, miserable that the colours inside his head could never be captured on canvas. Each morning a struggle to leave the bed, unbearable to be parted from Rosey sometimes, as if not feeling Rosey’s skin against his meant that he lost a part of his own mind.
*****
Breton’s army, the devoted footsoldiers of his Surrealist Revolution – the few who remained true, at least (Max Ernst rarely seen, Magritte absent for months and Breton sullen, bitter) seeking out new blood. Galleries, theatres, films, and suddenly a sense of anticipation – new names whispered in the café.
Un Chien Andalou. Eluard told them about it first – he did not accompany them, Breton and Aragon and Yoyotte and Rosey and Bauer, occupying the entire front row of chairs in the tiny room where the film was shown. Bauer, crowded by strangers behind him, low buzz of voices, Like nothing you’ve ever seen, and Bauer chuckled at their naïveté, Spaniards, you know, ahead of anything our own artists are producing. Turning to look at Rosey – a challenge they had no doubts about accepting.
Twenty minutes later and the five of them motionless in their seats, mouths agape. Bauer gripping Rosey’s hand so tightly it hurt. The images still danced behind his eyes, how he wished he could add colour to the film itself; sickly yellows, ugly browns, pale watery blues, the hollow grey of the images was frightening enough but Bauer felt saddened that it had come so close to greatness. His skin crawled, something festering, Rosey agitated beside him and Bauer enjoyed it, astounded that someone else could provoke such a violent reaction.
Brief conversation with Buñuel, Bauer sensed the director’s disappointment at their compliments, Buñuel’s disdain for them, mere painters, as he edged past them to get to Breton. They noticed Dali, but it was nothing more than that – strange little man hovering at the back of the room, eyes on Breton. They turned instead to Aragon; Rosey smiled at his nauseated look. Out in the corridor, half-formed sentences and vague gestures, they couldn’t express anything other than their amazement, the thrill of something truly innovative. Yoyotte chewing his pencil, staring at a blank page, and Bauer knew that they all felt it - the white at the edge of their vision.
*****
Days of discussions, of Breton interrogating them one by one (RoseyandBauer were one in everyone’s mind now). What did they think of Dali? Could the group embrace this new medium? What could they learn from Dali’s film? What were their reactions to his apparent coprophiliac tendencies? (Breton’s worry over that painting kept coming up in discussion.)
In the studio, less to be said now as they worked – just an unspoken sense of pressure. Suddenly the standards were raised, the challenge set by moving images up against those captured by paint on canvas, Bauer had never been more grateful for colour – film could only hazard a guess at the promise of poppy-red, the whisper of pale yellow, the joie de vivre of green – hollow grey film could never live up to Bauer’s imaginings.
Still, Breton invited Dali in, and Bauer and Rosey were as entranced as any of them by the strange little Spaniard who spoke in surrealism, not just about it. Bauer wondered if he ought to be jealous, but Dali was like a tidal wave which had swept them all up – it would have been futile to struggle.
Dali with his faltering French, and Bauer knew his frustration, the lack of correlation between the images in his head and the words he was capable of producing from his mouth. Art as expression, as communication – they took those pictures and made them real, as real as possible with paints at least – words were just the pins that held down the butterfly, so much more wondrous when it was capable of moving its wings.
Frustration seemed prevalent lately – days of watching Rosey studying their paintings, hours passed in the studio with very little accomplished. Bauer’s own brushes immobile as long as Rosey stood motionless and the images were there in his head, they had to be there for Rosey too but Rosey could not paint them – Bauer noticed his eyes creeping constantly to the corners of the canvas. With his hand on Rosey’s shoulder, he felt the almost claustrophobic sense of limitation, felt the edges crowding them in, “We have to go further,” Rosey’s harsh whisper, hand reaching out blindly for Bauer’s – Bauer found him, held on until Rosey’s breathing slowed to normal.
There were shapes behind his eyes, moving out beyond the reaches of the canvas, tendrils, the meaning moving beyond the original idea – he saw himself as if through Rosey’s eyes, his own face in near-profile as Rosey had painted it all those months ago, and knew suddenly that canvas just wasn’t enough anymore.
...tbc
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