Come here. You’ll have to stoop down a bit to fi t through the door.
If you look to your left you’ll see her. She has blue eyes and her hair is half-shorn, orange in some parts, streaked with pur-ples, other parts left brown indiscriminately. When you look there, notice the brush in her hand. (Look and see that she is missing a fi nger: she was separated from it in an accident some years ago and had it capped with her old babyhair and fashioned into a brush. Watch as she holds it and the fi nger once again becomes part of her hand, skin cradling bone.)
She began painting when she was very young, sitting with her grandfather and watching as he ground leaves, seeds, and stones to color his work, made beetle reds and cowpiss yellows and, as he got older, began slowly to burn his things, instead — orange rinds from breakfast, bits of couch cushion, undershirts, scraps of wallpaper — and used the ash and charcoal to cover his can-vases. In time he sat naked on cushionless springs among his peeled walls, and he burned more intimate things to make his drawing media — small trinkets given to him by the wife who had passed, Scrabble tiles with which he had built the love let-ters he wrote to her every night on the board they had used to
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play together while she was alive, pages of her diaries — and the little girl helped him mix the soot into linseed oil and spread it across the canvases, and the walls, and his face, and the win-dows, until one afternoon she came to visit and the room was bare and blackened and he had disappeared into it.
There is no charcoal, here. She never paints in grays or blacks. She has instead made pigments of herself, dipping her brush into pots of drying oils mixed with little piles of dry tat-tooed skin, powdered lacquered nail clippings, shavings of dyed hairs or green-mascaraed eyelashes. She colors herself so as to become the color she paints with.
Look again. But be careful how you look. Watch as she turns to look back at you. As you give her your gaze you, too, become part of her pigment. Look down at your sleeve: wasn’t that blue this morning? Pull out your phone and look at your reflection in the screen: were your eyebrows always so thin? When did your lips turn flesh-toned? She has taken your freckles, the tinted lo-tion you applied this morning. The quickly fading blue of your jeans is soaking into the wall — do you see it?
Look back at her. The walls around her are covered in hand-prints, in dark and dusty browns (you run your fingers through your hair and feel it turning brittle as the color bleeds out), in powdery whites (your increasingly bloodshot eyes itch as you feel the whites disappearing). Now there are spindly-legged creatures on the wall in ochres and oranges (and your skin is lightening) and you realize she is making a cave painting.
And so, as you begin to feel increasingly transparent you do the only thing you can think of. You turn around, and you look at the door, and you begin to work. Gently you brush your fingers across the wood. She hears the sound and turns to look. And as she does so, your fingertips begin to leave the slightest traces of orange and violet. Your hands move in circles, and as the colors intensify, you move them to your body. She watches as you softly brush aqua across your cheeks, rub greens into your brow and shiver as your fingers graze a translucent onyx throat. She shiv-ers, too, and you go on like this, forgetting yourself until you hear a sigh behind you. You turn to look, and she’s no longer there.
the gesture of painting But there’s a mirror on the far wall, and if you walked to it and looked inside you would see a mandala staring back at you. And you would understand that you’re now trapped here — if you stepped back outside the door you would blow away in a thou-sand colors. Now sit down, painter, and wait for your next visitor.
The Gesture of Painting
Sudeep stared at the ceiling, his eyes tracing every crack in the peeling paint. Lying on top of his sweaty mattress, on the fl oor, he wondered whether some of the lead fl akes break off and fall into his mouth as he slept, like toxic snow. Not that he slept very much these days. Th e bedroom was completely empty and una-dorned, save the mattress; his lethargic body on top of it; and the sunlight which poured through the curtainless window. A year ago, this sunlight felt like a blessing from God. But on this day, it revealed the chilly melancholia, hidden deep within its warming rays.
For Sudeep had lost his lover, to the disease which his be-loved Michael had fought so bravely. And now Sudeep found this missed visage among the cracks on the ceiling. Visions of their love, and lovemaking, played across this surface, as if it were a cracked screen; as damaged as the smartphone which lay on the fl oor next to him, with no missed calls. Th ese memories did not arouse Sudeep, as his heart was far too heavy. But he did, at that moment, recall a confession he once made to one of his friends: that Americans were the best lovers, because they were the most repressed and ashamed. And Michael was nothing if not the all-American boy.
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Together they had moved to Detroit, in order to start an ide-alistic new life together, helping the local community, and filling the enormous house — bought in full, with a surprisingly mod-est inheritance — with objects both beautiful (from Michael) and kitsch (from Sudeep). But the diagnosis came soon after, and the great gathering of nesting fetishes never occurred. Too much time and money was spent on doctors, tests, medications, palliatives, and distractions. They didn’t even get to enjoy the montage moment that all new domestic couples deserve: the painting of the house in fresh coats and colors. Something about the decrepit surfaces around them made sense, as Michael’s con-dition, and his own frame, deteriorated. So they lived among flakes and chips and the honest evidence of Time’s indiscrimi-nate tendency to strip bare. A house stripped of laughter and levity. But not stripped of love. Even after Michael’s body was no longer to be found. Just a mattress on the floor. Some po-litical magazines in the bathroom. And a coffee machine in the kitchen, almost the size of a small European car.
After a long stretch of such unmoving mourning, Sudeep ex-perienced a mental sea change. He suddenly recalled Michael’s love of art, and all the times that they had spent together in the Met, the MoMA, and the Thursday night exhibition openings around Chelsea. Sudeep showered and dressed for the first time in what felt like weeks, finally throwing away the cardboard and plastic remnants of meals ordered to the house, and hardly touched.
He spent two hours in a second-hand bookstore, and brought home as many coffee table books of the great artists as his weak-ened arms and backpack could carry. He studied the Pantone color catalogue as if it were the Talmud. He researched brushes on the Internet, as if they were nannies he was going to entrust the care of his children to. He took out a loan, and went to the hardware store every day for two months, bringing home can af-ter can of paint — all the colors of the rainbow, and every shade in between — until these were hard to avoid, on the floor, on the stairs, in the bath, and on the kitchen counter. He felt each tin to be a new friend, revealing new vistas and possibilities. They all
the gesture of painting talked to him, in a voice not unlike Michael’s, suggesting modes of inter-chromatic realization. And as he watched the paint shaker machine in the hardware store, Sudeep felt like its vio-lent mechanical shudder was shaking him out of his depression.
Sudeep practiced his latent painting skills (he had attended, and then dropped out of, art school) on one large wall in the living room, until he felt the gesture returning to his body, like an old dance that he had forgotten. His head would cock to the side, his eye would squint, and his elbow would guide. He paint-ed and paintpaint-ed, layer over layer, creating vast palimpsests in dif-ferent, improvised styles, until the multicolored vision became too heavy to stay affixed to the wall, and came curling and crash-ing down: a giant wave of paint, thuddcrash-ing on to the floor, which he then rolled out like a carpet, and carried into the garden.
Sudeep paid the postman, a middle-aged Ukrainian with ample curves, to model for him, in order to practice and refine his facility with faces and figures. The postman blushed to be-gin with, but was clearly flattered to be the object of such an intense gaze, and almost sacred process of replication. For his part, Sudeep was always amazed that the brush — which seemed so inert and innocuous, when standing in a mason jar — would complete a circuit, and become part of not only his body, but the wider assemblage of elements: model, image, imagination, weather, mood…capture. Through this wooden finger — both blunt and exquisite — Sudeep pointed to a more hopeful future, even as his every gesture was a form of fidelity to the past.
This crumbling mansion had eight rooms, and so the master of the house narrowed down his styles — one for each room. The giant living space would be the Bosch room, since it pleased his sense of irony that a living room would be filled with macabre and morbid figures heralding finitude. And so he painted his own Garden of Earthly Delights, all around the fireplace, and up to the fake chandelier; each imp with the face of a previ-ous acquaintance or enemy (depending on the situation these figures found themselves). This initial masterpiece took longer than expected, so Sudeep invited a neighbor to help him, dur-ing one of his tea breaks on the front stairs. Aeshe was a
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ous young girl of twelve, with cornrows and spectacles, through which she peered at the world with a laconic suspicion. But when she saw what Sudeep had already achieved in the Bosch Room, she agreed to be a part of his project. And so she helped with the Van Gough room; that is, the main bedroom. And soon the walls were no longer off-cream and peeling, but vibrant and pulsating with gorgeous sunflowers and starry nights.
Aeshe brought in some friends from around the neighbor-hood to help with the Kandinsky room, which appealed to their child-like imaginations. As did the Pollock room, of course, which Sudeep outsourced to the kids completely. (Truth be told, he found it just as therapeutic to watch these young souls and bodies hurling paint at the walls, and getting splashed in the process, as doing it himself.) He laughed with them, even as the longer they worked, the more they became involved in the gestures rendered in scatters and spatters. At one point, Sudeep even had to intervene, to stop a budding argument around aes-thetics; gently explaining to Jerome — an overweight boy with a tendency to wheeze — that sometimes form is content.
Even more cathartic, though incredibly intricate, was the Caravaggio room, which Sudeep reclaimed for his solitary vigil.
He had trouble capturing the light of the master, and knew that he would never climb to the heights of his Pantheon, but rather present an homage to their spirits; like those folk-made posters for Hollywood films in Zambia, that bring their own idiosyn-cratic energy to a more established style.
After finishing the Turner room, and the Klimt salon, Sudeep took a two-week holiday, camping in Alaska, to clear his mind and palette. His dreams all had the texture of canvas. The inside of his eye-lids were leafed in gold on one side, and watercolors on the other. And he knew he had to flush all those shades away, to tackle his last room. A project he both craved and dreaded.
So he returned refreshed, with the smell of mountains and wind in his prematurely greying hair. He selected his brush, as if selecting a companion to go on a long journey with. Took a deep breath, in front of a completely white wall. Opened a tin of black paint. As black as death. And began mixing it with paint
the gesture of painting the color of blood; the blood that too often escaped his lover’s body. It was time to begin the Rothko room.