The Place Where

by Rodion Pretis

  Day 4. Depressed.

  Day 5. Depressed; did nothing. I lost my temper.

  Day 6. My name is Tyrone Watson. I am thirty six years old. I live in Austin. Today is a great day for me. A certain Mr. Simon Pound came and asked a bunch of questions about my art. Maybe I'll be back on stage! I wanted to take him upstairs so he could see how I work, but a quiet voice told me that it wasn't necessary. That is, I want to say, it was not that quiet voice, as then - just intuition; it feels like you don't have to let people in until it's all over. I did a lot today. Tomorrow, probably, I will finish the "Market".

  Day 7. Finished "Market". It didn't work out as well as I hoped, but it nevertheless expresses the essence of the artistic personality. Always unsatisfied. Like Faust. I want to start something in a freer form - this will be the answer to those people who caused me so much trouble. I will call it the Naked Heart. But I don't know how to start. That is, one idea suggests itself, but not very good. My name is Tyrone Watson; I'm a thirty-something-year-old artist head over heels at work.

  Day 8. Busy.

  Day 9. Spent a few hours with my model.

  Day 10. Today, Mr. Pound stopped by. I was disappointed to learn that he was not at all an expert on painting. He is a retired policeman. The story of his life seemed quite interesting to me. Maybe I will make his portrait - after I finish the “Naked Heart”, which is progressing quite well, thank you very much. It turns out a little more bloody than anything I have done in these few years.

  Day 11. My name is Tyrone Watson. Mr. Pound dropped by today, and we discussed stories of our lives that turned out to be strikingly similar. I want to get to know him better, because I'm going to draw a picture from him, which I will call “Multidimensional Blue Lines”.

  He went to the police in the seventies. At first, his cherished dream was to become a detective. He read all the books on criminology, listened to all possible courses and devoted his life only to this goal - however, some political forces somewhere above made sure that he did not succeed.

  I told him how critics ruined both of my exhibitions, especially the second, while Bessie Volman's parallel exhibition won such immoderate praise. Bessie was more "politically correct." And so her career took off, and I barely managed to get a place in this seedy bookstore with scanty incomes and free space for my studio.

  He asked if he could not see how I work, and I told him that it was impossible. I hate it when someone looks at what I do before everything is finished. However, I said that I would like to draw it. At first, he seemed surprised, but then readily agreed.

  He asked if I knew anything about the death of two art critics five years ago.

  I asked him if he still works in the police.

  He said that he quit the police two years ago - he arrested too many criminals, who later managed to get out of any formalities. So he quit. He still had time to resign, and he made several investments that paid off well. But he likes to be in the know. The police, he assured me (at least the good cops who make up the police), still sometimes ask him for advice.

  I asked if he had been interested in painting for a long time. He said that any good cop is interested in painting. The thinking of the artist and the thinking of the criminal are very, very similar to each other. According to him, most of the criminals are failed artists.

  But the criminals have no critics, I told him.

  Even as it is, he objected. After all, policemen catch only worthless criminals. All the great criminals go free.

  I never thought of the police as critics of criminal art.

  Day 12. Nightmares. He was too depressed to open a store.

  Day 13. Almost two weeks have passed, and I am holding quite well. Maybe I coped with my problem? My name is Tyrone Watson. Elementary, my dear Watson! Someone hacked a store that night. They didn't take anything, but it seems to me that my studio was searched. Both the outer door and the studio door were open. And despite this, I can't even say how GREAT I feel! This morning I started two new paintings. I wanted to call the hostess to tell her that the store was opened, but I felt that it would ruin my work. I wrote like Picasso! Will stay here for the night. Maybe I will catch my cracker and draw it. I'm ready. I am ready for anything.I feel GREAT!

  Day 14. Yesterday I worked late and finished the first picture - a study in purple and green colors called “People of the water speak to me”, very violent and all dotted with sparkles. About three in the morning went out for a walk. I needed inspiration for a second work - a chrome-yellow sketch, which I called "The Volman explodes." Oh, what a terrific, amazing, crazy, stunning picture! Bang-fuck-tararah, and boom, and fuck! - that's what I say!

  Day 15. Mr. Pound stopped by and brought news of Bessie Volman. At that moment I felt really very, very bad, as if it somehow concerned me. I suppose this shows how great my soul is - that I can regret my opponent. When I saw that he brought a newspaper with him, I asked him to show me an obituary. And of course, even though I was Bessie's most serious rival, my name was not mentioned there! Maybe I should have sent a wreath or something like that; in the end, they will remember me for hundreds of years, and she will be forgotten by everyone! Probably, it was necessary to go to the funeral and draw it again.

  Mr. Pound said that he was unable to track down any mention of my solo exhibition five years ago. He said that he wanted to see photos of my previous works. It seems he was sincerely upset when I informed him that the entire exhibition was bought up by Japanese sponsors.

  Do I have any unsold paintings that I could part with?

  Of course, I had to tell him that I sold everything I had a few years ago, when devastating poverty raged in my life.

  Well, we all have ups and downs, he said. For a policeman, he is a very reasonable person.

  I asked when he could come to pose, and this question excited him. Apparently, some people are scared by the idea of posing for eternity. They fear that their flaws - and each person has at least one tiny flaw - will increase over the years, like in a magnifying glass, and after a while only that flaw will remain from them, and nothing more.

  My name is Vincent van Gogh and I am one hundred thirty-eight years old. Joke

  Day 16. I dreamed that I was a child again. It must have been when I went to sixth grade. We had a drawing teacher, with whom we studied twice a week. She asked us to draw something from what is in the schoolyard, and I painted a blue cubicle of a portable toilet, which was on the football field. She was visible from my desk, if you properly turn your neck. The bell rang and the lesson ended; it was supposed that by this moment I should have already completed the drawing. Mrs. Elgood came up to me and told me to give her a piece of paper. That I can modify it on Thursday. And I said: wait a minute, I'm almost done;and at the same moment the drawing was completed, and I gave it to her, and she said: “Tyrone, but there is nothing like that outside!” And I told her to look herself, and she said that she would not look, and I told her to look, but she said that she wouldn't, and then I took her head in my hands and tried to get her to look, and broke her face with a glass, and she was bleeding.

  And then I woke up, and all I could say was what she had to see!

  I reread what I wrote yesterday. I'm just beside myself because newspapers publish fakes. Someday I'll go and draw them all. I will draw each fucking critic so that my mother will not recognize! I got so mad that I didn't open a store today. I heard someone knocking on the door, and the damned phone rang unceasingly. Dr-r-market, dr-r-market, dr-market, until I finally picked up the phone from the lever and put it down. Must be a goddamn mistress. I will take care of her too. No one is allowed to take genius from work! It is necessary to issue a special law. Today I painted a picture in bright red and orange colors - "The evil sun bites a man." I'll open tomorrow.

  Day 17. Depressed and angry.

  Day 18. Police pounded and pounded on my door. Mr. Pound was not with them. They wanted to know if I knew that Mrs. Robert Says, the owner of the Book Cellar (and theoretically my
tenant), had died. No, I said, I don't know. She was killed, they said. No, I said, I don't know anything. I'm very busy. I am waiting for my work on the picture. I told them thanks for the news. She left a will, they said. I said that I always knew that she was chasing things. No, the will, they said - I have to close the store until the will is opened. Great, I said; I will make a sign that says "Closed for death" and hang it on the door.

  In the evening, Mr. Pound came and pounded on my door until I opened it. I said that we have closed.

  He said he came to pose.

  I let him in, intending to make a few drafts. He went upstairs to the studio, but I told him that I always sketch in the store. It was not easy to sketch him, because he talked all the time. He hinted that he was a vigilant [63], hunting for criminals whom the system might have missed due to some legal formalities like the Miranda rule [64]. He told a bunch of stories about cars in the middle of the night. For some reason, I imagined them moving silently and without lights. “Night darkness is not a hindrance, huh?” I asked.

  At first he jumped violently, then laughed and said: "No, night darkness is not a hindrance to me."

  He talked a lot about criminals, from whom it was easy to achieve a sincere confession. With his connections at the police station, he could greatly help such a criminal. So, let's say if the offender who committed these recent killings is now recognized by him, then he can greatly ease his fate.

  And on the other hand, if this current criminal is trying to dodge and wants to avoid the long arm of justice, then he can create great troubles for him. He will track down the killer and strike at the moment when he will least expect it.

  He did not ask me to show him sketches, and it was successful, because I was not satisfied with them. When he left, I tore them all into small pieces.

  This night I'm going to sleep in the studio - so that, if anything, to protect my paintings. For some reason, I worry about them.

  Day 19. Today painted "The Last Innocent" - a lot of big blue eyes, looking in all directions. In the lower right corner of the picture is a single yellow square - it represents a window. In it you can see the artist who paints a peaceful landscape strewn with flowers. Maybe I will change the name and call it “Inside my skull.”

  Day 20. This morning I came to my senses and took the medicine. I realized that I had apparently done some bad things. I decided that I would wait for Mr. Pound, and when he arrived, I would make him a sincere confession. He will be able to ease my fate. He is my friend. I waited all day, but he never showed up.

  About six o'clock I called the central police station. Mr. Pound said that he still had friends in the police; I thought I could ask them, and they will tell me how to find him. It took ages to get in touch with the kill department. I waited and cursed myself for not taking his number from him. Finally, I was connected to Detective Blik. I asked if he knew Mr. Pound.

  “Mr. Clarence Pound? ” - he asked.

  - I do not know exactly his name. He is a retired policeman. He said that he still had friends in the police.

  - Let me assume: he told you that he wanted to become a detective, but some political forces did not allow him to succeed, right? And he also said that he is a vigilant who administers justice for criminals who managed to avoid fair punishment?

  “Uh ... well, yes,” I said.

  “I am very unpleasant to tell you this, sir, but Clarence Pound is a former postal worker who quit due to a serious mental illness.” Once every few months, he stops taking medications for a while, and then begins to imagine himself as some kind of super-police. If he will bother you, let me know; we will pick him up and deliver him to his doctor.

  “No, no, he didn't bother me at all.” Thank you very much.

  I hung up just when he asked: "And who are you ..."

  So Mr. Pound is just a schizo. I have to be ready to meet him.

  Day 21. I slept in my studio when he broke into it. I woke up and saw him looking at my paintings. He had a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

  “They're empty,” he said. - All of these canvases are simply smeared with white paint!

  “No,” I said. “It's just a very subtle painting.” They need to be considered very carefully.

  - They are empty! You are just a schizo!

  - Nothing like this; it's you - schizo! You are a former postal worker, not a policeman at all! You have never been a cop!

  - It's a lie! - He pointed a gun at me.

  - It's true. You are not a cop.

  Suddenly, he sat down - as if his legs were buckling. For a long time he did not say anything. I was about to approach and take the gun from him.

  Then he began to speak in a low, indifferent voice. He explained to me who he really was, and everything became clear to me.

  His name is Mr. Carlos Pound, he is the owner of a very famous art gallery in New York. Today we will collect all my paintings and load in his minibus. He will take me to New York, where he will organize a personal exhibition for me.

  I guarantee we will make a splash.

  Leslie wat

  Stubborn girl

  Independence Day - July 4 - Fireworks begin

  I waited in the corridor to be the first to approach the door when the bell rings, but my mother still got ahead of me. She held the clam spy carefully, with two fingers, like hand cymbals; a green light blinked on it, indicating readiness. The clam shell was of gray textured aluminum, it looked both comic and intimidating; but actually in our house it's always like that - you never know whether to laugh or cry.

  - Oh mom! - I said.

  “Ginny, we have to find out!” She replied.

  And she opened the door.

  Jason took a step forward. He screamed as the clam spy opened and released his foot, grabbing a pinch of his skin to measure temperature, blood pressure, and psychological profile. Jason sweated on the freckles (I would never have thought that the freckles could sweat), and although his crown almost touched the lintel, he cringed so much that my mother seemed taller than him.

  He glanced at me, as if wondering if I was worth it to deal with her. I warned that a lot of interesting things awaited him - but I swear that now he was already beginning to doubt whether he had done the right thing.

  Mom looked at the display and squinted. The leg, meanwhile, slowly pulled back, the clam slammed shut and a soft humming was heard. She already knew what Jason was thinking, for this she did not need a clam spy. He was seventeen, like me, and he was thinking about what all seventeen-year-olds think about and what will happen next. Mom was forty, and she thought about what would happen after. About his “after” and about all the problems that will fall on her because of this.

  She pressed a button on my trousers, turning on the “electric shepherd”, and said:

  - Good. I think you and John can go for a walk.

  “With Jason,” I corrected.

  “Well, anyway,” said mom.

  Shepherd's trousers sat on me like a steelworker's mitten, densely stuffed with wire and tuned to the maximum defeat. In them, I seemed to myself huge and awkward, like the Maykelin Tire Man [65], unless I was just a girl. These pants made their inventor, that is, my mother, fabulously rich. Millions of copies have been used all over the globe, and so far only five deaths have been recorded - from a heart attack. Mom put all the proceeds into the development of the “Resilient Girl” and heaps of other advanced tracking and control technologies, most of which she tested on me.

  It was a hot, stuffy evening, and I practically cooked in my pants. I could smell my own body even through the sweet fragrance of deodorant and baby powder. Mom didn't give a damn what bothers me when I sweat. My god, she was completely crazy! No wonder the CIA rejected her application.

  I could not wait for us to leave the house.

  “Well, bye,” I said, grabbing my purse and hoping that my mother would not search her.

  “I was glad to meet you, Mrs. Wuoto, ”Jason said.

  “Miss,” M
om corrected.

  “It doesn't matter,” Jason said, and I dragged him outside where his van was standing.

  The seats smelled a bit unpleasant - some kind of mixture of sweat and brake fluid. I lowered the glass for my part. A stream of air, passing through an air freshener in the form of a paper tree, hanging from Jason's window, washed the seats with the smell of green foliage. We drove away from my house.

  “Have you got the tickets?” I asked.