A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall

by Will Chancellor

  When he had finished his micron etchings, using all six of the colors that came in the pack so that his drawings bloomed, he looked back on his work: jungle-green climbing out of the parks, geometrical abstractions, each a memory of her from a different vantage, drawn in cornflower blue and babbling from fountains, and each apricot lane they walked graffitied with little totems. He removed the map and examined them against a white wall. He knew at once how he would present the piece: a sealed envelope with the transparency inside would be sitting on a plain café table; beside it, an overhead projector would illuminate flat sheets of falling water. The map itself was not his creation and shouldn’t be a material in the piece. He could work with vintage maps, the contour lines and colors of relief seemed to approximate memory. But they were too static. He needed something to fall. And the tokens of memory—always sealed in that envelope—would leap like dust motes in a sunbeam.

  The only thing missing was the color of the world. Once the Gods’ colors came back, he would have different sets of transparencies for different days. He could easily imagine the entire morning with Stevie in peridot or gamboge, but it hadn’t been that way. It had been flat light. And, for now, the transparencies would have to be clear.

  Owen thanked the librarian who had let him work in the reading room. Transparency in hand, now in a sealed manila envelope, he showed up at the bar where he had met Stevie. He was redirected to a nearby hotel and left the sealed envelope at the front desk, STEVIE SCHNEIDER written in all caps on stationery clipped to the envelope and the map.

  He would have to clean the floor to have a place to lie down. Owen walked upstairs to see if Kurt had a vacuum. He stopped a few steps from the threshold of Kurt’s floor when he heard laughing and morning yawns, though it was nearly four in the afternoon. Kurt spoke clearly:

  —I like my body so much more when it is with your bodies. It is quite a new and beautiful thing.

  E. E. Cummings.

  Then more shufflings and puffings of the down comforter. The two girls purred at Kurt’s genius.

  Owen walked back to his room. The sunlit tarp created a heaving of stained glass on the walls and floor. He swept the floor with a stiff piece of cardboard. While plowing the powder and cigarettes to the wall, Owen uncovered the blue lines of painter’s tape marking off the floor. He contorted the yellow frame of the light to get it out into the hall. He had cleared the room of everything but the materials—sawhorses held a few pine planks, a bale of cotton-candy insulation, slabs of drywall, and a table saw. A staple gun, drill, level, putty knife, some sort of eggbeater, and cords of all colors spilled from a milk crate.

  Evidently Kurt wanted to build a partition. Owen arranged the wood on the ground and began the framing. Then he decided the hammering would annoy Kurt and the girls and that he’d be better off sleeping anyway.

  As he was clearing a place, he remembered the poem: i like my body when it is with your / body. It is so quite new a thing. / Muscles better and nerves more. Fuck it. Let Kurt have it. Anyway, it’s plagiarism by anticipation. The poem was always Kurt’s. The story is incomplete without partial paralysis and could only be spoken, really spoken, from a wheelchair.

  He heard someone behind him:

  —What are you doing? Leave that shit alone.

  —I thought you wanted me to build a wall.

  —I’ve hired a contractor.

  —To build what?

  —I’m not sure what it’s going to be yet. It’ll be big, though.

  —You guys just got back?

  Kurt ignored the question.

  —The girls were asking me how you did that to your eye.

  —Playing.

  —Playing what?

  —Water polo.

  Kurt lit a cigarette. Now it was Owen’s turn:

  —How’d you do that to your legs?

  Kurt laughed for the first time.

  —Saskia’s gonna stay and help me with something. Can you walk Brigitte to the U-Bahn?

  Owen agreed.

  Kurt wheeled out of the entryway.

  The sun was already lost behind the old oaks to the west. Owen wondered how the whole artist routine worked. Did they go to sleep now? Take more drugs?

  He had imagined the crisp air and the walk would help. So far that hadn’t proved true. The people whirred by before he could process their faces. They were drawn blank, like the background of a dream.

  Brigitte was after-school-special coked to the gills and had been pointing out multinational corporations going up in East Berlin as an indictment of all things American. He tried to steer the conversation to art.

  —So how did you meet Kurt?

  —It was at his Too Loud concert. A friend told me that one of the most important young artists in Europe was giving a concert, and I was naive enough to expect that there would be music. So I showed up with a couple girls.

  They waited to cross Danzigstrasse. Brigitte texted a friend, laughed, then asked what she had been saying.

  —You were talking earlier about Kurt playing a concert without music.

  Brigitte took a seat on a bench and lit a cigarette. She looked around and then at Owen, as if explaining art to him were a favor.

  —If music becomes so loud that it ceases to communicate, then it can become sublime.

  Owen massaged his temples.

  —If we take music, and more generally art, to be a sign system, then we must admit there is an ideal volume to communicate the message. Volume may be subjective at a certain level—people’s ears are variously damaged, people listen for different things, whatever—but there is also an undeniable level of objectivity. Typically, the only objective sound we confront is silence—the bright line of zero decibels. John Cage knew this, and his composition 4'33" was the most significant performance in twentieth-century music. Until Kurt Wagener, the world only knew silence. In Kurt’s international debut, he gave the world something it had never known: the opposite of silence.

  —Noise?

  —Kurt realized that if you turn things up loud enough, every listener will agree that the music is simply too loud to be comprehended. No one’s eardrums can process anything over a hundred and fifty decibels. Play something that loud and there’s no difference between one note and a thousand notes. Kurt played at two hundred decibels. At that volume it’s not even considered sound, it’s a shock wave.

  —Let me get this straight. Kurt blew out a bunch of people’s eardrums, and this was what made his career.

  —No. Kurt cleared out the gallery. He played with earplugs under industrial-strength earphones while everyone watched on a projection of a closed-circuit video.

  —So it was like an if-a-tree-falls-in-a-forest kind of thing.

  —No. Kurt transcended a threshold volume where nothing is understandable in order to break the Lacanian reflex system with the Other. He raised historic questions: Where is the artist’s agency in this performance? Should Kurt be playing this song to begin with, given the fact that he admittedly doesn’t know how to play guitar?

  —He has a Bösendorfer. He must play piano.

  —You never studied art, did you?

  —Do you like his painting?

  —Painting? He’s not a painter. He is a major young artist. I would have thought that even Americans would know him. I mean, you obviously read. He directed a video for Duran Duran. He’s been on the cover of every culture magazine in the world. He is major.

  —Do you work in art?

  —I’ve been director at Timmons Projects for the last two years.

  —And you show Kurt’s work?

  —I wish. I’m trying. You don’t understand. He is major.

  And with those words Brigitte entered the U-Bahn.

  On his way back from the station, Owen found Kurt on the south side of Danzigstrasse, smoking either a hand-rolled cigarette or a joint.

  Owen crossed the street.

  Joint.

  —Come with me. I need your help.

  Owe
n thought of protesting that he hadn’t slept in days. That he had just ingested his first psychoactive substance and was still shattered. But there was no way he would find sympathy in Kurt by complaining about something as banal as total exhaustion.

  —You look run-down. Do you need something?

  —I’ll survive.

  —Whatever. We have to swing by my old gallery real quick.

  Kurt, now in his white undershirt, admired his triceps as he dipped the push rims of his chair from twelve o’clock to five o’clock. Owen followed him to the heart of Mitte. Suddenly Kurt stopped.

  —Push me in. We’re going to that black glass building on the left.

  A brushed-steel sign jutted out from the black marble and glass facade, laser-etched: TODD ZEALE GALLERY.

  Kurt flicked his cigarette to the street.

  —Actually. When we walk in we should both be smoking.

  Kurt lit two Parliaments and handed one up to Owen. Owen left it dangling from his lip, burning his nose and making his eye water.

  Kurt hit the brakes, and Owen lurched forward.

  —Just open the door. I’ll do the rest.

  Kurt spotted the security camera and bared his teeth.

  He crashed through the door, hammering down on the tires and wrenching control from Owen’s grip, headed straight for a white pedestal in the center of the gallery which held a brass head under acrylic glass. He slapped the heels of his palms at the rims of his wheels, going faster and faster until, just before impact, he shifted left and hooked the hand rim of the left wheel. Kurt and chair turned violently to the left, losing traction and skidding into the plinth with enough force to rock it back and unseat the sculpture from its stand. Both sculpture and pedestal teetered back toward Kurt, at which point he swiped the plinth to the ground.

  The disembodied brass head fell nose-first onto the cement floor. The warbled clang meant damage.

  —Oh dear God, what have you done?

  The gallerist, Todd Zeale, came running at Kurt as if he were going to hug him and grieve rather than accost him. Kurt changed his vector and wheeled into the middle of some fluorescent orange yarn that had been knitted into a large net. The web entangled Kurt far more than he had intended. He ripped at the junctions, and the screws, blue plastic anchors and all, came unseated from the drywall. He held on to one knot, ringing it furiously back and forth like a madman at the clapper of the town bell. Kurt tore the yarn-art piece from three of its four moorings. One strand of the now frumpy piece clung to the spokes of Kurt’s wheelchair and followed him through the room as he headed straight for a wall-size canvas of interlooping red and blue paint that looked like a close-up of chromatin.

  —This is an interactive piece, right, Todd?

  Todd walked briskly to Kurt’s side, trying to reason with him:

  —Why did you come here? If you wanted to destroy something, you should have gone to the satellite gallery in Charlottenburg. If you don’t stop at once, I am going to seriously freak out.

  Kurt couldn’t quite reach high enough to tip the canvas from its attachments. He hopped in his chair to push as high as possible, but couldn’t dismount the work. He tugged down three times until the wooden stretcher bars finally cracked and the painting caved in on itself. Kurt surveyed the piece, now crumpled on the floor like a car that had just collided with a telephone pole, and looked genuinely pleased.

  —It’s all insured, Kurt, but I’m still pressing charges. Oh you bet. And like it or not, I still have pull in Basel. I can get your booth moved to Siberia with one phone call.

  —Get the fucking checkbook from the desk drawer and write my fucking check.

  Todd seemed to be processing the whole scene as if a skunk had traipsed into the gallery: he needed Kurt to leave, but didn’t want to get sprayed. Two tourists had been standing against the wall this entire time, stunned.

  —It’s been six months since the fucking show, Todd. I need to be paid for my work. I need money before you spend it all on Asian boys and have your assets frozen.

  Now to the assistant, who had been smiling at the entire scene until that last comment:

  —Oh. You didn’t know that Todd touches twelve-year-olds?

  —Fuck you.

  Todd pleaded to Owen:

  —Can you do anything about him?

  For the first time he could remember, Owen had become a spectator, a follower. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe the lack of sleep. He took control of the rubber grips on the back of Kurt’s chair. Kurt flailed wildly in his seat and turned around to grab Owen by the balls. Owen doubled over, pushing down firmly on the handles. The chair rocked back, nearly falling into Owen’s knees, but Kurt sprang forward and landed on the casters.

  Todd swiped at the chair but missed and stumbled into Owen.

  Kurt was now pushing against a white lacquered panel. He opened the hidden cabinet, unplugged a USB connecting to the video feed, and removed an aluminum laptop. He wedged the laptop between his legs and then taunted Todd by wheeling straight at him, then swerving and skidding away. Todd shrieked:

  —That’s enough!

  —Pay your fucking bills and stop living like a Turk.

  —I’m not giving you a cent.

  —We’ll call it even. You’re probably going to have trouble putting that net back together.

  Owen left the gallery in a hurry. Kurt took time to make small talk with the tourists:

  —Don’t see that every day. Isn’t Berlin sooo exciting? Everyone is so creative, don’t you think?

  He autographed the older woman’s purse with a Sharpie and rolled after Owen. Todd and his assistant watched from the front door as Kurt wheeled off. Halfway down the block he shouted over his shoulder:

  —Todd, you’ve been great. Can you get the tourists to sign releases? Thanks! Love you! See you in Basel!

  The sidewalks were too narrow for Kurt to wheel at Owen’s side. He nipped at his heels and then veered into the street and yelled over parked cars for Owen to wait up.

  Owen hit a red light and couldn’t jaywalk through the swift traffic. He glared at the red light as Kurt repeatedly nudged his calf. It was the carefree homburg-hatted traffic man telling them to stop, but Owen bit down so hard that he nearly cracked a molar. Kurt noticed a police car waiting at the light and gestured for the passenger to roll down his window. The officer in the passenger seat didn’t know Kurt, but the driver did. He smiled and lifted his chin in greeting before accelerating off the line.

  —See, artistic immunity.

  —I’m leaving for St. Petersburg tomorrow. Thanks for everything.

  —Bad choice. It will take you months to get a visa. Especially after Abu Ghraib. You really want to travel to sketchier places when your country is torturing people? Look. Don’t worry about Todd. You don’t have the full context. I’ll patch things up tonight. And if I don’t, Hal has the kind of pictures of him that can end an argument.

  —It’s not that.

  —Just stay until our piece is finished.

  —Holding up an art gallery wasn’t what you meant by a collaboration?

  —No. Speaking of which, we need to see my lawyer tomorrow.

  —I don’t think it matters what kind of pictures you have. You need to go to your lawyer’s now.

  —You’re a twenty-one-year-old American. Can you trust me that maybe you don’t know exactly how the Berlin art world works?

  —No. I think I’ve got it. Be loud. Be good-looking. Break a bunch of shit.

  —Art requires brutality because life is brutal. Thinking otherwise is fucking naive. You see paintings, I see bloodstains.

  —You’re right. I’m naive. So why collaborate with me?

  —I have a booth at Art Basel next month, and I haven’t sent anything yet. I was thinking we could bang something out. It’s going to play with representation, and you know a lot about that shit, right? Look. You’re smarter than I am. You’re taller than I am—at least when I’m sitting down. But you’re trying to make i
t in the single most competitive field in the world. You need all the help you can get. And I’m willing to help. Tell me what you want to do, and we will make it so. Seriously. After this project you’ll be able to get a solo show at any gallery in the world. You may be the first artist ever who doesn’t have to stand on the backs of all the morons in all his shitty little group shows just to get a solo show. You are a very lucky man. Now you’ve got to tell Daddy about your dreams.

  —Will Stevie be in Basel?

  —Sure.

  Owen let that hope hang in the sky for a second, then continued:

  —I’m working more on subtlety right now, keeping things hidden and sacred. Do you know about memory palaces?

  Kurt lit another cigarette. Owen continued:

  —It’s how people memorized huge texts like the Iliad or the Bible. You find images in the story, find nooks in places around you, and then pin down those images to make a tight link, and every time you pass that store or park bench or whatever, you’re able to remember the images from the text. Because our brains are amazing at remembering spaces. Take the water tower: I’ve only been there a few times, but I can remember the panels on the door, the doorframe, the knob, the strike plate, the threshold, the puddle on the floor, three skateboards in the corner, wheel marks on the wall, grind marks on the handrail . . . every place you’ve ever lived has thousands of these little nodes. To memorize something huge, you need to create a route, a trail. My idea is to present mental maps of Berlin, so that people can see memory—or at least, they could if they broke the seal of the envelope.

  —You sound like you need sleep.

  —We can integrate anything into the map. We can use photos, performances, whatever you want, but the map would be the scaffolding, the armature of the sculpture.

  —Let’s not talk details until after you’ve signed all the paperwork. I’d love to go into all this memory palace shit, but experience has taught me that you’ve got to sign all the paperwork before you start making art. And don’t forget the first rule: There’s got to be something to sell. Rule two: Don’t make anything too dense. The world doesn’t need any more fruity esoteric bullshit.