“I’m just telling you how it is. I behave objectionably, but I’m likable, and people want to spend time with me. I’m my own protagonist in my own story. I’m sensitive. Thoughtful. I’m a divo sometimes, because of my fame and the fact that I can get away with almost anything, but deep inside—and I think you understand this already—I am still humble and my heart is pure. I want to be better, to do the right thing, but sometimes I make bad choices.
“I have a passion for life, generosity of spirit—but I also see the lies and can expose . . . the deceit around me. But I’m attracted like a moth to a flame . . . to the fame and glamour. And trapped in the excess. The success, money, ladies, the world at my fingertips, have left me depleted. And empty. I go to Art Basel . . .”
“Rodrigo, you’re a little drunk.”
“I’m being honest here. Full disclosure.”
“And you’re repeating yourself.”
“That’s okay. I’m with the lady I love . . . I can tell you everything, right?”
“Sì.”
“You appreciate my honesty, don’t you?”
She pauses then. “Yes, I do.”
“And I go to Art Basel every year—”
“You said this already.”
“Please don’t interrupt me . . . gracias,” I say. “And I play the town with all the decadence it’s known for. But I’m crashing. On a downward spiral. I’ve hit rock bottom. Carlotta, I am truly, truly, truly—”
“I’m listening—”
“—at a crossroads. Of my life. I’m at peace only when I sleep. When I wake up it’s the same hollow, hedonistic routine . . . into more debauchery and decadence. I have inconsistent rest patterns . . . and fractured sleep . . . due to my crazy, crazy hours . . . and drug and alcohol use.
“I have not been able to remember my dreams—in dreams, everything is possible. But I have been without them. That constitutes a hole. In my life. And work.”
“Rodrigo. It’s time to go to bed. I don’t like seeing you this way.”
“No—hear me out! Full disclosure, remember? I’m giving you what you want. You asked for it. And I’m telling you . . . But suddenly, that changes—”
“What changes?”
“Forgetting my dreams . . . After three nights of partying, my body forces me to rest. I sleep for two days. And during sleep, I meet a woman in my dreams. Until now I have not been able to love a woman in what I would consider to be real love, a pure love, with neither of us having an ulterior motive, because of the contamination of the world I live in. So I am stunned by this meeting. To the point that I want to see her again. But only sleep can bring her back. I’m haunted by her—in a beautiful way—and I fall in love with her, with her beautiful soul and her physical beauty. And she’s there waiting for me, in my dreams. All I have to do is show up. It changes my behavior. My patterns. I arrange my days for her. It becomes all about the night, but in a different way than before. It’s all about the sleep now. And seeing her again. I start sleeping during the day, too. To be with her. I become obsessed with my dream life. I take sedatives to induce more sleep. As my love affair with my dream woman gets more intense, all I want to do is sleep—so I can be with her. And you know who this woman is?”
“Rodrigo—” Carlotta stands then; she doesn’t want to listen anymore.
“You!”
“I think I’ve heard enough.”
“Wait a second—”
“This is crazy talk, Rodrigo. You’re scaring me, okay?”
“This obsession turns my life upside down . . . I lose track of what is my real life and what life constitutes my dreams. Until there’s a total takeover . . . by my nocturnal fantasies . . . which are no longer . . . fantastical. My dreams become my real life . . . and my real life I treat as a dream. How do you like that?”
Carlotta moves out of the living room and disappears into her bedroom.
“Hey, where are you going?” I call out.
“Time to go to bed.”
“With you? Anytime . . . amore . . .”
“No. Not with me.”
“No?”
“Not tonight. You take the guest bedroom.”
“Really? Was it something I said?” I down the rest of my Scotch and pour another. “Do you have any Blue Label?” I blast out. “Guess not.”
With my fresh glass, I move unevenly to her bedroom. The door is closed. “Knock, knock. Who’s there?” I burst through the door. “It’s me! The Eagle! Remember?”
“Yes, Rodrigo.” The voice comes out of the darkness from the other side of her room. “I remember.”
“And what are you? What animal? Still haven’t told me—”
“Another time.”
“ ’Cause remember, I’m the Eagle . . . I fly close to the heavens, close to God. Looking for enlightenment. And salvation! Are you going to save me?”
“No, Rodrigo. No one can save anyone—but themself.”
“Kinna harsh. Well, I’ve got it rough, then. ’Cause I have another problem.” And I walk deeper into her bedroom and stumble and fall down.
“Yes, you do.”
“I know—I have a lot of problems. But I have one major, major problem. Know what it is?”
“No.”
“I have to decide . . . what is my dream life? And what is my real life? I mean, who’s real? Who are the players of my conscious dreams? And who are the players of my unconscious dreams? Or is everyone a dream player, and life is one complete dream from beginning to end? It is said all over the world, in every language: ‘You are the man of my dreams. You are the woman of my dreams.’ There has to be more to that. Are we just players in one another’s lives? You, me, everyone? It’s possible, no? Because in dreams, everything is possible. I leave you with that thought.”
“Buona notte.”
“Buona notte, Carlotta . . . Ti amo . . . Oh, and another thing—”
“Please, Rodrigo, I’m getting angry now . . .”
“Just one more little thing?”
“What is it?”
“I made some new paintings.”
“You told me already.”
“Not entirely. It’s a series . . . of installments. Like chapters. To a journal. My dream journal on canvas. Been meaning to tell you, but my past got in the way. Funny, the past always gets in the way. It’s called The Parallel Universe. They’re about you. Us. I’m not selling them. Won’t let anyone see them . . . except you. I think you’re going to like them. Hope you do, anyway. But they’re in New York—”
Carlotta remains silent.
I think she should have more of a reaction. “Well—?”
“In New York?” she finally asks.
“Yes. I will have them shipped over.”
“Shipped from where?”
“From my apartment. They’re locked up. In my studio.”
“In your dreams, Rodrigo. In your dreams.”
“You’re teasing me now. Is that all you have to say?”
“That, and congratulations.”
“Grazie . . .”
I get up off the floor and stagger back out of the bedroom.
The conversation reminds me that I have to call Rafaela and tell her to ship the new series to me. But the fact is, I do not want her to see the work. She’ll show it to Jean Paul and sell it. I’m going to have to figure that one out. Maybe I can get Tex or The Raven or Alfonso to do it. Or my attorney. Yes, that’s it. I’ll have Alan Steinberg send it. He should be happy with me now. After all, I agreed to the psychiatric evaluation.
I hope I can get some X-rays. Of my brain. I love the black, and the texture of the plastic the X-rays are on. I can collage them into another series.
Like I did at the Beverly Hills Hotel. After the stabbing. With my bloody jeans. And make light boxes for them. The X-rays lit from behind. So you can see the brain. And skull. And teeth. Very electric.
I’ll call it The Intervention. No, better yet. The Electric Palette Diaries.
With X-ra
ys of my mind.
Fuck that. It’s the same old narcissistic shit. It’s a New York idea all over again. I will never paint about New York again. It represents everything I hate. Everything I am leaving behind. Shame on me for even thinking it. I have left that exoskeleton. Like a snake, I have shed that skin. I have metamorphosed. I was a larva in Spain. A caterpillar in L.A. I was wrapped in a cocoon in New York. And now I am free. A butterfly.
But butterflies don’t live long. Only two weeks. They dance in the air with all that brilliant color. For just two weeks. I’ve always felt for butterflies. They bring such joy to the lives of children. To everyone. Then they die.
Fuck that. I’m no butterfly. I am an Eagle! I’m immortal!
I must be really drunk.
I slip into the guest bedroom and lie down. But I can’t sleep. I glare at the ceiling for half an hour and ride the tangents of many splintered thoughts. I go back and forth between the universes. I would like to get all the dream players in one room. And give them a piece of my mind. And tell them I’ve figured them all out. That I know what they’re up to. They can’t fool me!
I am still a little cocktailed, and maybe it’s better not to wake up all grouchy and hungover at Carlotta’s. I wonder if I have been saying too much. I have been known to do that. But she knows me. She loves me. For a love like this, it’s full disclosure. Even though she hasn’t spoken much of herself. Because I am better now. I have jettisoned the liars, the cheaters, the manipulators, and found my new universe. My Parallel Universe. With Carlotta. And it’s all breaking as peachy as a Monet sunrise. Or sunset.
Before I know it, I’m back on the streets of Florence. Not much going on at this hour. But you feel like you are stepping back in time. I walk past the Duomo and down a network of little left-right alleys to the side street that leads me to my pensione.
I trudge up the stairs and snap open the door to my flat. I step inside and head right to the studio. And porco dio, to my utter shock and surprise, the new series is right up there on the wall to greet me, accosting me, saying, “Where the hell have you been?”
I don’t know what I have been thinking. It must be the excellent prosecco. Of course it is. Carlotta’s a professional who produces superior vintages. Best of all, I don’t need to contact Rafaela or anyone else to ship The Parallel Universe abroad. The Universe is surrounding me. Even the eagle looks happy I’m back home. He has been giving me the eyeball a lot lately. Probably because I have been saying I am an Eagle, and he wants to remain top bird.
“There’s room for both of us in this town!” I yell to him.
I better behave. The eagle has got serious juice with God. The One who lives in Duomos worldwide.
Perhaps I said too much to Carlotta. You can do that, you know. Say too much. Then you lose the mystery behind a love. And yourself. Some things you must not give away. You lose power when you do that. When you offer everything or give too much. You can become lost. You must preserve your power. I will preserve my power.
I am an Eagle.
Who needs a nap.
14
THE NEW INSTALLMENT
In my studio in Florence, the morning after my long talk with Carlotta, I have a hangover but still remember that I may have confessed too much. There is nothing I can do about it now, though, so I decide to get to work. I’m nearly finished with the newest installment to The Universe, a prequel to the first. I have gone back in time to when Carlotta and I met. The first installment is comprised of works from Cala de Deià, so the new chapter of The Universe consists of paintings from Florence. I start to attack the canvas, me and my cigarettes. They’re the last vice I possess. Cigarettes and alcohol. But I’m not drinking while I paint. I don’t even suffer loneliness anymore. Nor do I long for the company of serial partners to compensate for it, like in past realities. That had been a vice. Another type of drug. Now I have one partner. I have the best partner, and that is more than enough.
I toil away for many hours, and it dawns on me that I haven’t heard from Carlotta. I decide to phone her, but there is no response. I send her a text thanking her for the great evening and apologizing for getting a little tipsy.
I do remember her telling me I was scaring her. It is our first quarrel. But she understands I am undergoing a transformation. That is why it’s important to let her know about me and my past life. So she can understand fully where I am coming from in my journey, and see the arc of progression.
But I cannot concentrate on that now. I have to get this canvas perfect. This is the most challenging and important one. I’ve already covered poses at the Giubbe Rosso, the Ponte Vecchio, walking the Florentine streets. I did the head-shot portraits and close-ups, even one with sunglasses. And I hope she finds them worthy. Carlotta is the consummate muse, a gift from the portraiture gods. But this portrait on the easel before me is the one I have been waiting to do for weeks.
I will do more than one of this. Perhaps I will make it its own sub-series. I run off ten sketches, some just the head and eyes, others full-bodied.
My charcoal renderings depict the creature compact. Well muscled. Thick chest. Stocky build. Legs short but thick and mighty. A robust, stout head. Its jaws immensely powerful. Large paws, round pads, razor claws. Short tail. Impressive bone-crushing canine teeth, fangs of several inches. The brownish, tawny yellow coat covered in dark rosettes for camouflage. Then smaller dots and irregular shapes within the darker markings. Some resembling butterflies. Which must work well in the dappled light of a forest habitat. The spots on the head and neck are solid and dark but form a band on the tail.
I need to express the solitary, opportunistic, stalk-and-ambush nature that comes to fruition in that exceptionally powerful bite, more powerful than a lion’s. A bite that can pierce the shells of sea turtles. And then there’s that unusual killing method. Its canines spike directly through the skull of its prey to deliver a fatal strike to the brain. And all of that needs to be reflected in one place and one place only: the huge eyes—gold and reddish and glittering like Spanish doubloons, with round pupils and irises—and the fearless, merciless, lethal glare contained within them.
Majestic. Solitary. Elusive. Mysterious.
That’s what I need to capture in my poses. This is The Universe’s fiercest challenge. I feel like I am up to the task like never before, and I get to it with a fury. I administer the oils and incorporate color like never before. I work through the day and into the night. Then into the next day. And the next night. And this goes on for a week.
And I go back and forth. From a dangling tree pose to a portrait, to stalking, to a jungle nap. Mouth open with fangs protruding to an indiscernible jungle smile. Layer upon layer, addition upon addition. I undo and repair. And constantly add more shading and color and check consistently for nuance. Nuance is the crucial element. That is what my mentor, Heriberto Carrion, has told me is my gift. That is what I deliver.
I take my time with this fresh chapter of The Universe, not trying to rush. And what I have created is a bomb. It is an explosion.
I am very proud.
15
A SHOW OF ONE
I am happy, painting in Florence. I call Carlotta each day when I take a break for light food; I do not want to eat too much and neutralize my real hunger. But she does not answer, and she has not contacted me. I figure she must have gone to the country to take care of her responsibilities to the business and to see her family.
Now the new chapter of The Universe is complete. I decide to take a walk and air myself out. I am floating, really, and so thrilled with gratification that I utter a silent prayer of thanks to God as I walk. I have never done that before. I walk along the River Arno and cross one of the baby bridges and look down the river and see all five bridges spanning it in the distance.
My next stop is the Giubbe. I sit at the bar and have a Rodrigo, and the barkeeps tease me because I have paint all over my hands and clothes. As I’m explaining the futurist movement to a German tourist couple
and letting them know that the Giubbe was the birthplace of it, I receive a text at long last from Carlotta: Ciao, Rodrigo. Mi dispiace to have not been in contact. Can you meet me at the café at the Accademia in one hour, per favore?
I text her I will. I love the Accademia. I’m glad Carlotta has chosen such a Rodrigo-friendly and art-centric place. It is why I came to Florence in the first place, to be surrounded by the works of the masters: Botticelli, Brunelleschi, Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo, the list goes on and on. The town may be dead to the modern art movement, but to me it’s alive, and I’m thriving in it.
When I arrive at the little café, Carlotta is seated at a table in the back. She is sipping tea. When she sees me, she rises, but the sober expression doesn’t leave her face. I approach, and she steps away from the table and extends her cheek to allow me to give her a disappointingly amicable and reserved peck on each one. Nothing more.
She says nothing and we settle into our chairs.
“You’re such a mess,” she says with a weak smile. “You must have been working.”
“I have been. Nonstop.”
“The colors on your hands are mesmerizing. Such a wide variety.”
“Jungle colors.”
“What were you painting? What types of stuff?”
“It’s a surprise.”
When I say that, her expression reverts to the more complicated grim one, and she takes a deep breath. “Do you want a caffé or something?”
“No.”
“Rodrigo. I have been doing a lot of thinking.”
“Thinking’s good. Mind expansion.”
“Yes, you’re right. But I have been thinking about us.”
“Okay . . .”
“I love you. With all my heart I do. But I cannot be with you.”
I am stunned to hear this. It is much worse than anything I might have thought she would say. It is too much to take in. I immediately flash back to the last night we were together and realize I have gone too far; I have told her too much about myself. She did warn me that I was scaring her, but I never, ever could have imagined that it would lead to this.
The Beautiful Dream of Life Page 10