Stilled Life
by
George Potter
I always knew I was an artist, even though I couldn't paint or draw worth a damn. I always knew there was a major work of art in me, even though I couldn't sing or play any instrument or write the simplest line of prose. All those years I wasted, trying in vain every artistic medium I encountered--I had no talent in any of them. My attempts at pottery created warped bowls. My attempt at sculpture a small pile of rocks.
But I persevered, feeling that grand artwork in me. I cried over the works of masters, cried in both appreciation and jealousy. I persevered, despite mockery and honest criticism in equal abundance. Against the laughter of strangers and the worried lectures of friends and family.
And then, one day, a merciful universe gave me my canvas.
I slide her blouse off with practiced ease, like a chef whipping eggs. I place it in the garbage bag by my side. The bag is nearly full, and is the last one in the box. No matter, I remind myself. The work is nearly done, the artwork nearly complete. I feel a thrill pass through me, and a hint of sadness. How long has it been? I've lost track. Months, I know. Perhaps even years. There is no way of being sure.
Pretty bra, I note, as I deftly undo it and drop it into the gaping black plastic mouth. Lacy and quite girlish; little pink flowers. She had to be at least 30, I guess.Perhaps it is her one concession to immaturity. The jeans, as usual, are the most difficult chore. As is the fashion, she wears them so tight that they are very nearly a second skin. Yes, yes, very attractive; accentuating her pert buttocks and wide hips below a trim waist. But, lord, they are tough to get off! On certain occasions I have been forced to gently tip the subject over and remove the denim skin inch by painstaking inch.
Thankfully, this is not the case. I merely have to do the customary manipulations required to remove shoes and socks. I am able to get the jeans free in a matter of moments, working from the feet.
Intriguing. The panties are a clash with the sweetly girlish bra--a silken black thong affair, extremely sexy. Or at least I suppose. I seem to have grown immune to such things in my long quest towards the final artwork. Such details are clinical and barely rate a passing thought. The removal of the panties is quick and discreet. One might as well imagine Rodin being aroused by the finished form of the Mermaid. Ridiculous!
Finished.
The thought explodes in my mind. The ever present noonday sun above seems to grow oppressive, suddenly. I feel faint. Could it be? Could I at last be finished?
In one sense, there is no way I could be sure. There are places I could not get to, doors too stoutly locked. I put them out of my mind. I had long ago decided that my art would concentrate on the outdoors, the streets and courtyards, the sidewalks and outdoor Cafes. Even Van Gogh had to choose a final brush stroke. Even Mozart penned a finite number of notes.
I deposit the underwear in the garbage bag and tie it closed. As I had a thousand times before, I toss it over my shoulder and begin the long march towards the depository. I had chosen a wide public courtyard to be the resting place of the stuffed bags. I imagine, one day, there will be long lines waiting to search through the mountain of goods contained in those uncounted bags.
I am exhausted; and with good reason. I rarely sleep, eat infrequently and with impatience. Like the masters before me my work is my life. How can I give but the bare minimum of effort to such banalities as sleep and food? My beard and hair are long, tangled and filthy. Bathing and shaving are utter trivialities. Sleep and food are needed to maintain life, to continue the work. No one has ever died from being unkempt and dirty.
I lay the final bag at the foot of the black plastic mountain that has risen in the courtyard slowly but surely over the course of my labors. I am trembling--more from excitement and eagerness than exhaustion and hunger.
Finished!
I feel sudden impatience, and something else. The same feeling that had overtaken me when the world changed so long ago begins to sing in my bones again.
Finished!
I fall three times rushing back to the downtown intersection that I had chosen as the centerpiece of my great work, it's living heart. A torn knee and scuffed elbow, a pain I barely feel.
Yes. The same feeling. As it was in the beginning, so it will be in the end.
I tremble uncontrollably as I climb the 30 feet of scaffolding, to the perch where I shall view my finished masterpiece, the first and perhaps only work of living art the world has seen.
Trembling, wheezing, excited beyond comprehension. I clasp my knees to my chest and stare out at my creation, my life's passion, my art:
The crowded scene of a Chicago lunch-hour, downtown, streets filled with cars, sidewalks with pedestrians.
All are naked. Beautiful and ugly, thin and fat, male and female.
"Still Life: Chicago, Noon." I whisper, the first words I've spoken since time stopped, so long ago, and left me wandering in a frozen moment.
Since the universe took mercy on me and gave me a canvas.
I do not know or care how time stopped. I do not know or care how I was exempted from the stillness.
Because I know why.
The universe is a patron of the arts.
The silence breaks. My watch begins to tick...
...and below, in beauty, in grace, in slow and wondrous majesty, my art begins to live.
FIN
