Igor is the one I must do. The last.
Charcoal.
Charcoal.
They wanted colour- red, pink, blue.
Like the primroses and the edelweiss and all those pretty European things in European stories.
But Igor; not Igor.
Igor is mine- charcoal. Smudged and sharp at the same time; like Igor is.
They want colour. Ivan- the glorious prince- the slayer of Igor- in purple and gold of royalty. And the beautiful brainless princess he rescues- golden flowing hair, limpid vapid eyes.
They want colour.
They can have all their Ivans and their princesses in all their fancy plumage.
But not Igor.
All my work I can see now, laid out on my work bench- fearful and adherent and conforming to everything but me, their creator- splashes and splashes and splashes of horrible colour- suppressing and throttling any reality and meaning that they possibly had. All of it- stupid Goldilocks and the idiotic Red Riding Hood and the silly Anoushka- all of them- slaves to the colour.
Slaves to the colour they must have- for that is how they must be. Red Riding Hood must have a disgusting vermillion cape and Anoushka must shine in silver. The colour blazing and blazing. Each tint I painted, each applause I received for all the colour I painted and didn’t believe in and tried to find contentment in- all of them- screamed in falsetto.
But not Igor.
Igor would be my last.
It is curious. I have not thought of how life would be after blindness overtakes me. The only thing that sends me into a feverish delirium is the fear whether I would be able to finish Igor.
Igor, the villain. My last. I had to paint Igor for me.
They want colour.
Like the dragon that Beowulf slew, perhaps- with fiery red eyes and flaring nostrils- your typical villainous creature- your typical nasty picture- the more typical it is, the greater they would like it.
But this picture is not for them.
Each day I spent painting Igor with charcoal, only charcoal. Each day I threw away my work at the end of it.
It requires a certain amount of bravery to work all day and all night on something very special- something that would not be repeated- the completion of all your wishes- a masterpiece- and then throw it all away, like just another piece of sketch, because you are brave enough to admit that it is not right- despite all you did- it is just not right.
That sort of courage sets you free- the courage to forego.
Deadlines seem to me like a thing of a distant past I could never return to.
Their threats and entreaties and expressions of disappointment are merely words that hang around in their space of sound- trying in vain to penetrate my impregnable fort, that impending blindness that built around me.
Each day I spent painting Igor, the sharper I could see. Igor gave me focus- gave me to me.
One day, I completed Igor and looked at him in all his villainy and tyranny and wrath- painted my way, without flaming nostrils and fiery eyes. I looked at him for perhaps a minute- my masterpiece.
I lost my sight completely. Just around the time my doctor said I would.
I had walked to vision.
No comments:
Post a Comment