The Impressionist

The Impressionist

            The sky was pure darkness at first, but as the eye descended some natural blue seeped through the emptiness. Clouds that swirled by the moon had sapphire, rather than silver linings. The sun set behind the city so that radiating from its core, as if in layers, were hues of white, then yellow, orange pink and purple and finally there was a whirling ether of clouds against the night. There was a river. At the estuary it reflected only the blackness of the night, but further it coruscated from lunar reflections. Once it reached the cityscape it echoed the last daylight from the glass of skyscrapers’ sides. Haze soaked the feet of the buildings. From a distance it looked perfect.

            It was the only painting of mine I really loved. Not that there weren’t others I considered “good,” but The Sprawling City was on a professional level in terms of artistic quality. My portraits weren’t flawed, but too flattering. Too untrue to the models. My self portraits were narcissistic. My still-lifes were moribund. My landscapes, with the exception of the Sprawling City, were either too plain unless cluttered with ornate details.

            As an artist I was hyperaware of the flaws of my paintings before unintentionally insulting questions, like, “Who is it of?” were asked. The button noses that were lies, the boring tones, chaotic color, and the lifeless figures infuriated me.

            A friend of mine once told me “God is an artist, and we are all his work.” Hearing that, I understood why a hell would exist. I have burned many of my own works, wishing that they could only burn longer.

            Finally I had The Sprawling City. It needed exposure. I had it hung in a small coffee shop. Unfortunately there was already an artist exhibiting a full collection there. Her paintings were of flowers. They hung The Sprawling City in the bathroom, to my chagrin. I repossessed it once flies began chewing pixels out of the sky. At least it looked like I’d painted fine stars.

            I hung it above and behind the easel in my studio. It was a studio in the sense that I painted and made art there and in the sense that it could not qualify as an entire room. There were three guitars, each of which wore an exotic hat according to its quality. One also wore a lay. Other than my bed and several empty liquor bottles by my window, the room was empty. Still it felt cramped.

            The studio was perched on the third floor of an apartment building in East Falls, Philadelphia. It had a view of the city glow and the Schuylkill’s wake reflecting the other end of town. Fish, or tree branches, or stones cast by young people would plunge in and the slow undulation of the surface would burst like a broken mirror, except in this mirror the cracks permeated and disappeared, not the reflective bits. In these moments, the river looked like an impressionist painting of Falls Bridge. Like a Monet, but darker.

            I though it important for me, as an artist, to know the locals so I threw parties. The guests were mostly musicians, poets, baristas and artists like me. Some were of an entirely different crowd though. There were the business majors, models, barristers and pseudo-entrepreneurs. These groups would mingle in my tiny room and play music or dance, and drink. When people would ask why I had so many bottles by my window, my response was always “I fight crime at night.”

            I found myself missing something. Parties feel hollow to a real artist, I thought. At a party, one brushes at the surface of other people. The only connection made is in the reciprocal seeking of happiness. Such connections felt cheap and obvious to me.  

            After The Sprawling City my paintings were once again uninspired and subpar. I would spend dozens of hours on a single canvas only to curse the finished product in disappointment. My criteria for a quality painting aside, none of my pieces were selling. They were my side projects, but still.

            My main income came from designing shop signs and store fronts. But once they were finished they rarely needed to be redone. I found myself poorer than I’d ever believed I could become. I could no longer afford supplies. Seeing that my rent was up, I threw a last party. But artists have restless souls. While the guests enjoyed my hospitality, I climbed out to the fire escape to look up at the sky, wishing I could paint the way I felt.

            I owed arrears for breaching my lease agreement so I pawned most of my art and music supplies. I left the rest of my paintings hanging in the East Falls flat, where my life as a painter ended, but I took The Sprawling City home. In the suburbs it reminded me more of the dream that had failed me than of the city that had inspired me.

            Winter came and I found a job as a cashier in the pizza shop I’d grown up near. Old faces peeked in and reminded me of how irresponsible I’d been, even in high school. I became nostalgic for the years when I didn’t worry about being a success or a failure. All I’d wanted back then was to discover what I loved in life. I loved to paint. But artists aren’t people who love painting. Artists are people who can afford to paint.

            Nostalgia reminded me of another inspiration. I had dated an artist in high school. In retrospect, our relationship hadn’t been as special as I would have believed when I was seventeen. What mattered was that she left an impression.

            Her name was Jess, and she was naturally gifted as a painter. She painted these figure skaters once, a man holding a woman above him as they twirled. The image reminded me of Greek statues. Bernini’s Persephone being carried away by Pluto and Giambologna’s Sabine Woman being stolen by a roman. The painting had everything. There was something sad and graceful in the movements of the figures. Something was alive in the skater’s face and in her gracious thrown back arms. Jess’s face had that look of ease in it, that seemingly implicit understanding of the universe’s workings. She certainly understood art.

            We’d paint each other, but when I’d try to paint her she’d come out looking perfect and lifeless, like a manikin. When she would paint me, no matter how she painted me, she would easily capture my timidity or happiness or whatever emotion I felt, whatever essence I was feeling. I wanted to paint her as she was, not just beautiful but moving graciously through the world, adapting magnificently to everything. But she was the artist that could perfectly represent images.

            When told, a story can never mean to the listener what it means to the speaker. Not perfectly, anyway. Jess could paint what a story meant to her. I wanted to be able to do that. I think that’s why I fell in love with The Sprawling City. It was nice to look at, but it also told the story the city I loved when I was an artist.

            I decided that story wasn’t important to me anymore. With Christmas coming up I’d give it as a gift to Jess, naturally, for inspiring me to paint. She would be at the home she grew up in for the holidays, so I knew how to give it to her.

            Jess was still an artist, and a more successful one than I’d been. I knew she would at least appreciate the art, and maybe think of me more often.

            I started walking it to her house at midnight the Christmas Eve. Carrying it over on foot would make me feel better about letting it go.

            The snow was heavy on the ground but it hadn’t started falling from the sky. The walk was four miles, but I was feeling a sort of victory out of the effort. I must have looked odd, walking with a painting across bare streets into the snowy foliage in the woods. At night the snow illuminated the ground like it was made of florescent lights. They were dim lights with frozen black pillars of trees protruding them.

            I walked around the creek because I was afraid if I crossed it, I might slip and lose the painting. I wanted someone to have it, even if it wasn’t me. I was halfway to Jess’s when it began snowing. I ran. Melting snow slid down my cheeks as I heaved forward. My shin hit a hidden log and I swore I heard my eyes scream as the The Sprawling City fell. It slid on top of the snow and stopped face up. I picked it up and trudged more carefully.

            Snow began to melt on the surface of the city. I was still a mile away. In the snow, that was far. I hated myself for risking the painting. The closer I got, the more the city and the sky and the river melted, like that world was too hot. The gift meant less and less. By the time I reached her house, it was a blur. I left it on the porch and almost walked away.

            I knocked on the door. Jess’s parents were startled when they answered it. Their nightgowns were regular blue but behind them I could see lights and decorations strewn with artful dedication across the room and probably throughout the house. I was a snowy stranger at first, and I’m sure they weren’t too relieved once they recognized me as their daughter’s ex-boyfriend, showing up unannounced the day before Christmas, but they called Jess down.

            Her family watched me from behind her as she stood in the doorway with an arm against the side.

            “I made this for you.” I said. She looked down at the blended black and blue and white and yellow and pink and orange and purple.

            “Thanks” She said. Even then she seemed to know intrinsically how to handle the awkwardness. She gave me a hug, picked up my painting, and smiled as she walked back inside.

            “Anytime” I said.

Author's Note

Please read this. It's the best thing I've written.

Reviews

[Marie]

I don't think it's the best thing you've written, but it's certainly as good as anything you've written. I enjoyed reading it. I enjoy reading about artists, though I'm not one. "The Sprawling City" must have been something to. see. I read anxiously as he took the painting through the snow, then was sad to see it disappear. It might have workd on a happier note with the painting becoming an abstract that Jess could have appreciated. That would have made a good ending too.

[Epipsychologist]

I agree, now. I wrote this a couple years ago, and have probably topped it since, but I think if I edit it, and make Jess more interesting, make the ending more meaningful, and trim it down it could be pretty good. Thanks for the review Marie. I like your idea about Jess appreciating it as abstract art.