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booshslashhavenUnrest - it crept in like something from the shadows, slinking, greasy. Soiled everything and everyone. Aragon had threatened repeatedly to end his association with lès Surréalistes, said Breton was not concerned enough with politics, that surrealism was a tool that was being left to rust, that the fascists were a growing threat they could not afford to ignore. Breton’s argument: everything was political, surrealism would bring France to a new understanding that would take men beyond the need for anything so dogmatic as fascism or communism or any other ism Aragon could name; “It will liberate man from the shackles of the system which has allowed the massacre in the trenches.” And Dali dancing through the middle of it all entirely unconcerned - his vision of a surreal world becoming less and less distinguishable from the real world.
In the middle of it all, Bauer and Rosey, walking the line between politics and art. Politicised intrinsically, Aragon’s warnings about the fascists forcing on them a need for secrecy that Bauer did not like - just as the canvas had become a cage for their art, forcing them to make branches (literally) in the realms of sculpture, so their studio was becoming a cage for his life with Rosey - he had taken to pacing the floor as they worked, sometimes dropping his work to pounce on Bauer, to claw and bite at his skin until Rosey howled with pleasure, sometimes sulking in the corner while Rosey worked and talked, assembling pieces guided by the occasional grunt of acceptance or irritation from Bauer.
In Breton’s meetings they took delight in showing off both their connection and their brazenness, casual remarks carefully crafted to shock, effortlessly making sentences together until the others forgot who was speaking.
And the group fragmenting, were they with Aragon and his passion, were they for purity like Breton, or were they with Dali in his rise to fame? Dali who was now married to Gala, Eluard barely even a memory, and Dali often absent from their meetings as he worked at surrealising Paris.
“Dali. The light -“
“ - never settles on him. It’s like I -”
“ - can’t look at him for more than a second before I have to look away - his edges -“
“ - are always shifting.” Rosey and Bauer’s thoughts as they sat in Breton’s study, on the couch opposite Breton’s desk. Breton arched an eyebrow in curiosity.
“Dali redefines himself?” he asked them. From his seat by the window, Aragon snorted.
“Dali is - “
“ - indefinable.”
Breton nodded.
“You mean he does not make sense.” Aragon looked out of the window, neither inviting or expecting a response.
“As it should be,” Breton explained.
*****
Rosey’s fingers threaded in his hair, untied and unkempt - his arm heavy over Rosey’s chest as they lay in bed, Paris wide awake and busy outside the window but Bauer chose to ignore it. His eyes closed, lazy, focused on the slow stroke of Rosey’s fingertips on his scalp, his neck, his shoulder. Awake over an hour now but neither had spoken, they’d barely moved and Bauer would have to get up soon to piss but he couldn’t bring himself to stir, not now, not yet.
Behind his eyes, golden-rose and violet took on new textures, warm like velvet, like the almost-invisible hairs on Rosey’s upper-arms. Textures more and more a feature of their art lately; contrast of wood and metal, ceramics and fabric, Bauer found natural colours both fascinating and frustrating. He imagined the roughness of unfinished wood-grain painted the colour of bluebells, shades of innocence with the feel of something unpleasant underneath.
Palm flat, fingers splayed, he slid his hand up to the side of Rosey’s throat, up to his jaw, feeling faint tension and listening for Rosey’s tired sigh.
“Tell me,” he whispered, eyes still closed, feeling Rosey’s irritation and wondering at its cause so early in the day. Twisted silence for a moment had Bauer convinced he was the reason - apologetic kiss at the base of Rosey’s throat, eyes still closed.
“We’re not good enough.”
Sick threatening seconds passed; Bauer almost convinced that Rosey meant him, meant he wasn’t good enough. Thought about all the evenings he’d sulked in the studio, muttering about propriety and fascists and why being outside in public was just a show, why did everything real have to be kept hidden? Strange, too, the way doubt only ever crept in when they were hidden, how outside they were RoseyandBauer, the human mind surrealised - did they ever even speak to each other outside of their room?
Then Rosey’s fingers, gentle sweep over his back and Bauer immediately calmed.
“Dali. Everything’s so much more difficult now.”
“Everyone expects more.” His head turned to the side, cheek against Rosey’s chest so that his lips brushed faintly over skin as he spoke.
“Everyone expects the worst. I don’t know if I want to give it.”
Bauer thought of Dali’s deranged, disturbing visions, of the sickly muted colours he painted with; felt Rosey tense for a moment and tried to turn his mind back to their own work, concentrated on the colour of clouds until Rosey relaxed. He turned, chin on Rosey’s chest, looking up - Rosey nothing but nose and chin - Bauer grinned, lascivious, “There’s pleasure in depravity too,” eyebrows raised to make it a question. Rosey worried at his lower lip; Bauer couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed.
“Are we not depraved enough?” Faint sound of a smile in his voice, deliberate, to stop Bauer sulking. “I thought you wanted something pure.”
“We are pure,” and his hand drifting down, down, over Rosey’s hip, “it’s art that’s lacking. The physical world isn’t nearly as pliable as the mind.” He yawned - too early for this, he thought.
“Perhaps - “ Rosey’s yawn, and Bauer’s wide grin, “perhaps the physical world isn’t for us.”
“So we should stay here? Always? And be pure?” He bit his lower lip. Rosey managed to lift his head; Bauer finally saw that his eyes had been open all along. In Rosey’s eyes, Bauer caught a glimpse of the white silence that still haunted the edges of his dreams, always tantalisingly out of reach.
“Maybe a little depravity now and then,” and a smile, wolfish, and Bauer caught it, returned it, and kissed him.
...tbc
In the middle of it all, Bauer and Rosey, walking the line between politics and art. Politicised intrinsically, Aragon’s warnings about the fascists forcing on them a need for secrecy that Bauer did not like - just as the canvas had become a cage for their art, forcing them to make branches (literally) in the realms of sculpture, so their studio was becoming a cage for his life with Rosey - he had taken to pacing the floor as they worked, sometimes dropping his work to pounce on Bauer, to claw and bite at his skin until Rosey howled with pleasure, sometimes sulking in the corner while Rosey worked and talked, assembling pieces guided by the occasional grunt of acceptance or irritation from Bauer.
In Breton’s meetings they took delight in showing off both their connection and their brazenness, casual remarks carefully crafted to shock, effortlessly making sentences together until the others forgot who was speaking.
And the group fragmenting, were they with Aragon and his passion, were they for purity like Breton, or were they with Dali in his rise to fame? Dali who was now married to Gala, Eluard barely even a memory, and Dali often absent from their meetings as he worked at surrealising Paris.
“Dali. The light -“
“ - never settles on him. It’s like I -”
“ - can’t look at him for more than a second before I have to look away - his edges -“
“ - are always shifting.” Rosey and Bauer’s thoughts as they sat in Breton’s study, on the couch opposite Breton’s desk. Breton arched an eyebrow in curiosity.
“Dali redefines himself?” he asked them. From his seat by the window, Aragon snorted.
“Dali is - “
“ - indefinable.”
Breton nodded.
“You mean he does not make sense.” Aragon looked out of the window, neither inviting or expecting a response.
“As it should be,” Breton explained.
*****
Rosey’s fingers threaded in his hair, untied and unkempt - his arm heavy over Rosey’s chest as they lay in bed, Paris wide awake and busy outside the window but Bauer chose to ignore it. His eyes closed, lazy, focused on the slow stroke of Rosey’s fingertips on his scalp, his neck, his shoulder. Awake over an hour now but neither had spoken, they’d barely moved and Bauer would have to get up soon to piss but he couldn’t bring himself to stir, not now, not yet.
Behind his eyes, golden-rose and violet took on new textures, warm like velvet, like the almost-invisible hairs on Rosey’s upper-arms. Textures more and more a feature of their art lately; contrast of wood and metal, ceramics and fabric, Bauer found natural colours both fascinating and frustrating. He imagined the roughness of unfinished wood-grain painted the colour of bluebells, shades of innocence with the feel of something unpleasant underneath.
Palm flat, fingers splayed, he slid his hand up to the side of Rosey’s throat, up to his jaw, feeling faint tension and listening for Rosey’s tired sigh.
“Tell me,” he whispered, eyes still closed, feeling Rosey’s irritation and wondering at its cause so early in the day. Twisted silence for a moment had Bauer convinced he was the reason - apologetic kiss at the base of Rosey’s throat, eyes still closed.
“We’re not good enough.”
Sick threatening seconds passed; Bauer almost convinced that Rosey meant him, meant he wasn’t good enough. Thought about all the evenings he’d sulked in the studio, muttering about propriety and fascists and why being outside in public was just a show, why did everything real have to be kept hidden? Strange, too, the way doubt only ever crept in when they were hidden, how outside they were RoseyandBauer, the human mind surrealised - did they ever even speak to each other outside of their room?
Then Rosey’s fingers, gentle sweep over his back and Bauer immediately calmed.
“Dali. Everything’s so much more difficult now.”
“Everyone expects more.” His head turned to the side, cheek against Rosey’s chest so that his lips brushed faintly over skin as he spoke.
“Everyone expects the worst. I don’t know if I want to give it.”
Bauer thought of Dali’s deranged, disturbing visions, of the sickly muted colours he painted with; felt Rosey tense for a moment and tried to turn his mind back to their own work, concentrated on the colour of clouds until Rosey relaxed. He turned, chin on Rosey’s chest, looking up - Rosey nothing but nose and chin - Bauer grinned, lascivious, “There’s pleasure in depravity too,” eyebrows raised to make it a question. Rosey worried at his lower lip; Bauer couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed.
“Are we not depraved enough?” Faint sound of a smile in his voice, deliberate, to stop Bauer sulking. “I thought you wanted something pure.”
“We are pure,” and his hand drifting down, down, over Rosey’s hip, “it’s art that’s lacking. The physical world isn’t nearly as pliable as the mind.” He yawned - too early for this, he thought.
“Perhaps - “ Rosey’s yawn, and Bauer’s wide grin, “perhaps the physical world isn’t for us.”
“So we should stay here? Always? And be pure?” He bit his lower lip. Rosey managed to lift his head; Bauer finally saw that his eyes had been open all along. In Rosey’s eyes, Bauer caught a glimpse of the white silence that still haunted the edges of his dreams, always tantalisingly out of reach.
“Maybe a little depravity now and then,” and a smile, wolfish, and Bauer caught it, returned it, and kissed him.
...tbc
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