“As you can see, this place is every bit the disaster it was last time. I’ve thought not so much about changing hotels but changing neighborhoods when I’m here next, which would be a pain because I’ve already got my agenda organized. But I’m just so sick of this nonstop construction.”
Sebastian’s voice sounds vibrant, solid and robust, full of resonance, with its own interior echo; he slowly floods Jonás with energy, from head to foot, from cheek to hand, that almost imperceptible palpitation in his lips that is not only the proximity of a cold sip of gin, but a sudden absorption of Sebastian’s personal wholeness and vigor, his subtle decisiveness.
They cross the street and open the glass door. Up a set of wooden steps, they come to a second door, opened for them by a waiter.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Your coats, if you’ll allow me.”
“We’ll be dining tonight, but first we’d like a dry martini at the bar. As you know, there are no second chances when it comes to me and my martinis.”
“Vodka or gin?”
“Vodka for me; it’s smoother. He’ll take his with gin.”
With its restrained lighting, it is a space given to confidentiality. In the front part of the restaurant, between the bar and the great glass windows that look onto the street, there are several armchairs, white and clearly comfortable, in an area that appears designed solely for drinking cocktails. The bar is quite long; the bottles on the counter in different colors and shapes, lit up from inside the blue glass wall, offer a bold contrast to the rest of the décor, with its polished wood and shadowy sections.
“On the weekend you need a reservation, but the place is empty on days like today.”
Jonás nods. They settle onto two tall stools next to the bar and analyze the maneuvering of the waiter, who has returned from the cloakroom and displays a sureness in each of his movements: first he grabs two cocktail glasses and fills them with ice, which he covers with water as the glass cools off; next, he takes a pair of shakers, fills these too with ice, and lets two jets of vermouth—not too abundant, but not negligible—wet the cubes in a couple quick splashes; then he closes them, shakes them, and after removing the cap, empties them into the sink beneath the bar. The metal of the receptacles lets the cold seep through, while he chooses two white bottles from the shelf.
“You’re doing alright so far,” notes Sebastian.
After expelling the vermouth from the shakers, but with the flavor retained by the ice, the waiter pours a measure of vodka into one, gin into the other, and mixes them with a stirrer. He caps them, empties the glasses, fogged up from the cold, drops in two olives, and pours the contents of the shakers inside, filling them halfway up.
They toast. Sebastian brings his glass slowly to his lips. The liquid is not quite transparent: it has a slight silvery tone to it with a few tiny filaments of frost.
“Excellent. The best I’ve had in a long time.”
“You’re right. It’s incredible.”
“Just one little complaint: it could be a bit colder. But no matter. This is a great dry martini.”
Jonás enjoys that first sip with delectation, swirling a mouthful over his palate. He lets the freezing liquid take hold of his taste buds, sinking in as the swig of gin crystallized into tiny particles of ice ascends slowly toward this throat like a metallic vapor, while a brief echo—barely perceptible to the insufficiently accustomed palate, the tenuous and slippery subtlety of the olive, almost more aroma than flavor—stirs briefly.
Jonás lifts his glass.
“How long has it been since we last saw each other, Sebastian?”
“Two months, at least. It’s incredible how fast the days go by. I have two contemporary art biennials to prepare, and I’m finalizing the details on a big group exposition on your generation.”
“My generation? Is there such a thing?”
“Chronologically speaking, of course. Artistically, that would be arguable, because there’s barely any common ground. Although if you think about it, that in itself could be a concurrence: the absence of concurrences. That, and the fact there’s still no big star, you know? The major artist who suddenly sums it all up.”
“But those are hard to come by.” Jonás takes a long swallow. He’s half done with his martini.
“Not before, it wasn’t. Thirty years ago, when I was about your age, there were three or four artists on the cutting edge whose work everyone had to know if they were going to keep up. It went without saying that it would be impossible to continue taking photos, or painting, without analyzing the oeuvre of those three or four front-runners, who are now considered masters.”
“My relationship with photography has changed,” whispers Jonás. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like a photographer. Although today…”
He draws his glass close and drinks slowly, as if avoiding the end of the phrase.
“Today what? What happened today?”
“Well, I’ve had a busy couple of hours just now. Mentally, I mean. I had an idea about stages, after the actors leave and the stages remain intact.”
“Intact only for a little while. An intermission, shall we say, that won’t last long. Later on, someone will occupy them again or they’ll be abandoned.”
“Right. That was how I saw things up until now, above all in those two exhibitions: the decline, the crumbling. But what if we capture that precise instant, that interval, when it seems like the characters will return to the set? When their presence is not yet erased, when it’s tangible but you start to realize they’re never coming back?”
“Go on. This is starting to get interesting.”
“I’ve always sought, and you know this better than anyone,” Jonás follows the example set by Sebastian, who has just wet his lips, “to reflect in my photographs the ending of each setting.” Sebastian nods, closing his eyes and then taking another sip, more prolonged now. “Buildings just before they’re demolished, blocked-off streets, construction sites left half-done, the insides of palaces that no one visits anymore, stores that have lowered their shutters and never opened them again… Similar motifs have kept occurring to me, like those abandoned railways on the outskirts of town that no longer lead anywhere, just devoured by the weeds.”
“Jonás, you’re starting to lose me. You’ve done all this before. In fact, when I thought of you for the show, I remembered all of this. Don’t forget I still have some of those photographs.”
“Right; the idea is to reflect that exact instant when all those realities are extinguished, whether it’s an old butcher shop or a back road. I don’t know, reflect the emptiness, the essence of that transition, when it starts to become clear that something has happened and things will never be the same, even though they don’t look any different.”
“Don’t you think that’s almost impossible? You’re talking about the soul of things; I mean, we could debate whether philosophy, or even theology, can be photographed.”
Jonás finishes off his dry martini and sets the glass on the bar. He looks at the clear bottles, glowing with the blue backlight of the vitreous wall, and notes that Sebastian still has enough left for him to order another; and so he does.
“You taught me that photography, like all art, can address any subject you can think of. Or don’t you remember?” finishes Jonás, with a half-smile that Sebastian replicates.
“Perfectly. But now I’m not so sure that the fantastical, to give just one example, has a place in photography, though you could essentially depict anything—even imaginary subjects—with absolute realism. The thing is that realism is not exactly that, it’s not just representation. Reality is the starting point: you subjugate it in order to manipulate it. The balance between that subjugation and its subsequent manipulation is verisimilitude. And that verisimilitude evokes the fiction of realism.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. That moment is real. Just before things are abandoned.”
“It may be real, but I’m not so sure it can be captur
ed. How would you depict it?”
“Let’s say I’ve been taking notes this afternoon. Just a few quick thoughts. You know how I like to think things through before I take my photos.”
“You better not over-think things; just start shooting, because my secretary will be in touch in less than two weeks to ask you for those photos, and you’d better have them ready. I’m not going to budge on the deadlines this time, and I don’t want you missing out.”
When Sebastian finishes his glass, the waiter who opened the door takes them upstairs, where their table is waiting: in the back, next to a curtain of pale light. The music is louder, yet airy and sensual, nuanced and smooth, like the orange illumination. The table is not all that large: mahogany; shine-less, almost matte; dark, set with two slender wooden placemats on which flat, clear plates with a reddish inlaid border are resting; beside them, the silverware is arranged on cloth napkins, rectangular and larger than the plates, with water and wine glasses to the side of a cylindrical pitcher, and an enormous yellow candle which the waiter has just lit.
They take a seat and Sebastian opens the menu, cased in leather.
“To start, the home-style liver and mushroom pâté with whole-grain crackers and pickles might be nice, although maybe a little heavy for the evening. Or the Nordic sushi platter; maybe that sounds better to you. The herring and the pear rolls with surimi and almonds are very good, as is the smoked venison and tuna tartar.”
“The Nordic sushi platter sounds good, don’t you think? The other one seems like a bit much.”
“I was thinking the same. And for the main course, the duck magret over potato emulsion or the crispy lamb with red onions and apple sauce. That one is excellent.”
“Whichever you recommend.”
“The lamb, then. Would you like some wine to drink, or are you going to continue with the martinis? I’ll have a glass of wine, not a bottle, unless we’re sharing.”
“I’ll stick with the martinis.”
“I thought so. But don’t underestimate them, even if you do have a strong tolerance.”
“I’m ready to take all comers today. It’s really great to see you, Sebastian.”
After the waiter notes their order and moves off, Sebastian raises his eyes and looks at Jonás.
“The reason I asked you all those questions is because I wanted to make sure you know what you’re aiming for, and this wasn’t just a half-baked idea to scrape something together for the show.”
“To be honest, it’s a little bit of both.”
“That’s fine by me. You convinced me, now you just have to convince yourself. Have you thought of a title for the series? It’d be good to have one as soon as possible, so you can start getting used to it as you take new photographs.”
“I’ve got two. Very bad ones, I think. Landscape Without Masks and Theater Without Faces.”
“Too obvious. Trying too hard to be poetic. I’d leave it at Faces, nothing more. It’s harder-hitting.”
“Yeah, but there’s not going to be a single face in them. The idea is to take pictures of empty spaces.”
“That’s exactly it; I’m completely with you on your idea. But don’t give everything away to the viewer beforehand: make him work a little, searching for those faces in the title. Make him find traces of them in the objects.”
The same waiter sets Sebastian’s glass of wine and a dry martini on their respective placemats; the martini is even colder than the first, with the surface of the gin covered completely by a frozen, circular layer, thin as a needle, which cracks slowly with a beautiful asymmetry as Jonás brings it to his lips.
“Even better than the last one. They took your advice, it’s colder. Try it.”
He holds out the glass to Sebastian, who draws it toward his mouth, careful not to spill it—this time they’ve filled it to the brim—and takes a minuscule sip.
“You’re right. No matter how well they make it, if it’s not cold then it’s no good.”
Shortly thereafter the sushi platter arrives. The waiter sets it between the two plates, and they help themselves. Sebastian tells him how far along the two contemporary photography biennials have come: he’s signed off on the catalogues to be sent to the printer’s and he’s expecting the events to attract considerable press. There are some new names, first-timers with daring ideas, quite groundbreaking.
“To be honest, that all seems so far off to me.”
Sebastian watches him for a second, as he picks up the penultimate piece of sushi.
“That one’s yours. I don’t like what I’m hearing. After all, you’re an artist. And an artist has to be attentive. You can’t hear about everything through me, over dinner, every two months. Interesting things are happening in galleries like Ingrid’s and others, while you’re living in limbo, exiled from everything, as if the rest of the world has nothing to do with you. You just might get left out, you understand that? Something truly exciting could happen, and you’d never know. You’ve got to follow the journals, go back to exhibitions; you’ve got to be on the lookout. You can’t spend week after week taking those pictures for the paper, which, by the way, have been getting less and less inspiring; you’re going to burn yourself out for good. Don’t forget that you’re not a journalist.”
“What does it matter?” Jonás takes up the last piece, marinated salmon on a roll of rice. “I’ve got nothing to do with that anymore, and in part that’s thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me why? That one you’re going to have to explain. Have I ever insinuated that you should quit showing your work?”
Jonás takes a long sip.
“You’ve shown me what’s not important.”
“I don’t think I ever said anything of the sort. Whatever the case, you have to keep an eye on what’s happening around you.”
“And I am, more than you could imagine… People are starting to disappear.”
Sebastian rests his gaze on Jonás’s third martini and then looks at him squarely.
“What did you say?”
“I’m talking,” Jonás pauses, “about my idea for my new photographs. The settings without characters. Pools, for example. Done in different styles, but always solitary. Preferably outdoors. This time of year is perfect. They’re probably all empty, or covered with dead leaves.”
“Sorry to keep insisting, but you’re back at square one. It’s still the same thing.”
The waiter serves the two dishes of crispy lamb.
“But it would be different now. It wouldn’t be just a decrepit building with a demolished façade and no walls in the bathrooms, suddenly exposed with the shower curtain still in place, the mirror over the sink, or the kitchen visible from the street; it would be the moment just before, between abandonment and collapse.”
Sebastian lowers his head and finishes the meat and apple sauce. He’s left the red onion almost untouched. Jonás too finishes his meal, and they sit in silence for a few minutes. Neither of them wants to see the dessert menu, but they decide to go for another drink.
The warmth of his dinner and the dry martinis has settled into Jonás’s body. They cross the road and turn down another street. A few meters on, they can distinguish the lit-up lanterns of the Pópulo. As they walk through the wood-and-glass double doors, Jonás sees himself reflected in the mirror above the bar, in turn contemplating Sebastian, wrapped in his black trench coat and hat, with a determined and elegant confidence as he pushes his way in. The waiter smiles from the other side of the room, where there is a small stage occupied now by a pair of tables, welcoming them.
They pick a table next to the window, which offers a view of the street while providing safe harbor within, amongst those amenities from another age: the marble tables and oddly cozy chairs, prepared perhaps for long chats over a drink; old photographs with glassless frames hung from the walls, displaying other moments in the life of the bar, mostly long ago, with a sepia tinge, when it was a café and the city was a different one. The bar is still the same, and so i
s the shelving, with its modernist design and mirror hanging behind it, holding up bottles covered in an ancestral dust, nearly murky now, and others more recent, like the one the waiter has just opened for them. Jonás knows that many years ago, even before Sebastian first booked a hotel in the neighborhood, modest plays had been performed on the stage in the back, recitals and concerts, all on those same gray floor tiles.
“Jonás, I wanted to ask you something… Have you heard from Oliver?”
It’s been a long time since he heard that name. Oliver is another photographer, a bit younger than him and an adopted son to Sebastian. They started out together in some of the first group shows at Ingrid’s gallery. For a moment his face appears to Jonás, slender and dark-skinned, with evident pride and a black gaze marked by unknowable regions, just like his photographs, which at one point had developed—over the course of successive stages—a sort of inventive deformation, a dreamlike discomfiture which wasn’t to Sebastian’s liking; he’d always preferred Oliver’s more objective side, the urban photographs with their tentative lyricism, rooted in the sudden discovery of public intimacy. Oliver is Jonás’s only friend among his fellow photographers, though lately he hasn’t heard much from him. He left town, in search of other realities to enrich his perspective: no doubt he’s succeeded, because Jonás knows of no other photographer with Oliver’s ability to arrive in a new space and assimilate it, with a similar talent for adapting and familiarizing himself with any context.
The Swimmers Page 12