THE UNVEILING
The Unified Universe, with all its ancillary installments, was received with gasps and “ahh’s.” There was not enough wall space for the entire series, but I received an overwhelmingly positive response to what was hanging. I was rather taken aback by it all, I guess because I’d been living with it all these months, and the novelty had somewhat dissipated. With art, you never know how any one person will respond, and hearing each person’s favorable appraisals of my work was incredible. It appeared that my duende, reflected in the pieces, was—in the poet Lorca’s terms—“corkscrewing” into the souls of the small audience.
Conversation was lively and animated and went on for a couple of hours. I recognized that the party titans Tex and The Raven, even Jean Paul, were disappearing sporadically to indulge in their secretive amphetamine intake. Tex babbled offers in my ears for any of the works, repeatedly trailed by “If you ever want to sell . . .”
I just smiled and thanked him for the support.
After everyone had been able to take in most of The Unified Universe, Akira asked me about the rectangular construction of four silver walls that stood in the corner of the room. I told her it was a new project, and once again I figured, Why not? So I allowed them all a glimpse of Bathroom Stall Walls. The interior of Walls was decorated graffiti-style in international handwritings and cursives with select phrases, poetry excerpts, quotations I enjoyed, nude drawings, semi-erotic designs, and choice erudite vulgarities. In the middle was a toilet seat with a standing urinal opposite, while collaged into the walls were urinal-cleaning cakes, rolls of tissue, hand soaps, and towelettes. There was even a hand dryer inset on one wall.
When the flock left the silver Stall Walls, I was left alone with Jean Paul. He embraced me fully with a warm hug and congratulated me once more on the new body of work.
“You want a bump?” he added, and apologized soon after.
I pondered it momentarily and declined. He was about to slip out of The Stall, and against my better judgment, I held him back. I asked him to close the door. And I gave him the nod.
I took a few whiffs off my hand and a few more.
I figured I’d been well behaved for so long and had been so true and dutiful to myself that I deserved a little dopamine rush as a reward.
I felt instantly energized and intake-inspired as we left Stall Walls and joined the others at the studio couches and chairs. Akira sat beside me, Jean Paul sat opposite, and Tex and The Raven came and went as we engaged in lively yeyo-fortified dialogues. We covered the history of art, modern art, the art business, other artists—the conversation went on and on. I even delineated in detail to Jean Paul what I had learned about my condition from Dr. Wincott. And then I showed him the new canvases based upon the Warholian brain-image scans, which were stacked and hidden in the corner. Jean Paul and I had more bumps while we were apart from the group, and I felt somewhat liberated to be able to have a solitary blowout after all this time.
“Just brilliant, Rodrigo, totalement. The range of your new work is extraordinary. And in that context, there is someone I would like to mention here. The great Francisco—”
“Goya?”
“Yes,” he said. “And you, as a fellow Spaniard, probably know more on this subject—on every subject,” he added self-deprecatingly, “than me. But Goya’s illness lent itself to perhaps the freest, most significant, and enduring of his works. Ask Manet or Picasso. Or Bacon. For this reason, he is widely considered the father of modern art. There are many hypothèses as to his illness and consequent madness. But it has been best broken down to two causes. Syphilis treatments. And lead poisoning. Les lettres imply this. Syphilis was widespread, and the treatment for syphilis at the time was a mercury ointment. But with prolonged use, it caused lesions on the central nervous system that led to neurological disorders. Anxiety, tremors, dizziness, tinnitus, depression. Depression does not affect you, Rodrigo—”
“No, I’m a happy boy, happy, happy, happy—” I said on the bounce.
“In addition, the mercury intoxication was enhanced by the paints Goya used. There was mercury in the cinnabar used to make the color red. And the lead content in the white and yellow oils was substantial. It seeped into the skin through the hands and splattered clothes. This was seen in Goya’s paint bills, all the whites, yellows, and reds he bought in great quantity. I am not a doctor but a student of art. However, I learned the metals would accumulate, causing changes in the circulation and enzyme systems, and this may have brought on the hallucinations, delirium, various psychopathological states, depression, and dementia. This chronic mercury and lead intoxication is likely the cause of his change from the realism of his early works to the morbid fascinations later—horrendous, fantastical images, nightmarish scenes, monstrous characters, ghoulish faces, the very dramatic.”
I pulled from memory the exquisite vision of Carlotta wearing her Damas Goyesca dress. I let it go, like a memory of scoring a goal in a sandlot soccer game in my youth.
“If you compare the Meadow of San Isidro,” I explained, “to the Pilgrimage, completed thirty years later—basically the same scene—you see the difference. One is festive and full of joy; the second is horrific, with mouths agape, white eye sockets or eyes spinning back, and faces like horror masks.”
“Precisely. There were two distinct periods, before and after his illness. Before there is joy and light, and after it’s horror, monsters, witches, and ghosts. This would explain the hauntingly magnificent quality of the Black Paintings. But basically, when he was free to paint outside the royal court, he was free of restrictions. And once he achieved his independence, he could delve into his nightmarish dreams, fantasies, and all the dark forms and themes. But it was the onset of these neurological conditions that helped produce his boldest, most imaginative work, just as it was for you, Rodrigo. His was due to metal intoxications, and yours was—”
“Just intoxication—drugs and alcohol.”
“No, but as you said, your condition may have been with you since your teens. But we all can see the same fascination with dreams, nightmares, perhaps fantasies. And I say this to you, not disrespectfully—félicitations—you have seized our imaginations. The work is significant, bold, and visionary. Un triomphe véritable. Magnifique.”
The small group erupted in applause.
“Well, merci, monsieur. And gracias,” I said. Then I added, “So—Jean Paul—when is that show in Paris?”
That incited the most rapturous applause and cheers of the night.
“As Gaël Monfils would say—allez!”
“And the great Carlos Nadal—vamos!”
More hoots and hollers.
My thoughts immediately conjured H. L. Mencken, who said, “No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.” I quickly transposed that to “No one ever went broke overestimating the ego of an artist.”
Paris. À bientôt!
My last maneuver of the evening, once everyone else had gone home, was to have Alfonso help me load one of the Asian Angel portraits into Akira’s car. She was ecstatic: “Thank you, Rodrigo.”
“No! Thank you, beautiful angel. Without what you did for me, there would be no show.”
When I went to bed, I had a profound sense of relief. I no longer feared fantasizing about Carlotta in some sort of unhealthy paracosm. Because it wasn’t fantasy.
I knew now she was always with me.
46
PARTNER OF INTIMACY / PARIS, JE T’AIME
For the next month, Rafaela and I prepared for the Paris show, and I oversaw everything from packing to loading to shipping. I was a little more outgoing and even invited numerous friends to go to Europe for the show. I indulged in a few evenings of revelry as well, with smatterings of alcohol and light intake. I was pretty much back to my same old self—without the same old self.
I flew over early with Rafaela and checked in to my room at the Hôtel Costes about a week before the event. I went to see the space allotted at the
Centre Georges Pompidou and found it to be impressive. I chose to make the show decidedly Spanish-themed, including the drinks and food.
I wanted some Paris time for myself. I had fond memories of the time when I had an apartment on Rue Dauphine in the Sixth, close to the Pont Neuf. I took strolls in my former neighborhood, on Boulevard Saint-Germain, in the Luxembourg Gardens, and along the Seine. Across the river, I paid a visit to my old friends the gargoyles atop Notre Dame. I walked along the river and up Avenue George V to the Champs. Reacquainting myself with Paris was like seeing an old girlfriend with whom you never broke up; you just floated along in each other’s consciousness through the years and back, hoping for a reunion. Those days prior to the show were our reunion, and we held hands and kissed cheeks a lot.
I visited the Musée de l’Orangerie to say hi to some old friends. Monet’s water lilies dominate l’Orangerie, but I remembered reading that the museum had once mounted a temporary exhibition of some of van Gogh’s works. I am especially fond of Vincent’s irises, the periwinkle of which I used often in my own paintings—and in the trim for the Goyesca dress I had designed for Carlotta. Did mercury and lead make him go mad-brilliant, too, like Goya? I wondered.
I checked out some newer galleries, too, but was disappointed by the show art. The wall art. The “I like what you did but I have this crazy-big wall to fill, so stretch it and supersize it, even if you have to make potato heads, and we have a deal, you know?” art-by-the-meter art.
Rafaela and I shared several meals together at Chez Dave, Chez l’Ami Louis, and La Coupole. We went over logistics of the show. She was inquiring again as to price points for the works, something I was unconcerned with and was happy to avoid. My participation was about sharing, not profiteering.
On the morning of the show, I was beset with annoyances. They came from Alan Steinberg, my attorney. First of all, Jean Paul had sent over a contract for representation weeks before, and I still hadn’t signed it. Something—my inner voice, the gut feeling that you have to listen to—had told me not to do so. I was not trying to be duplicitous or dishonest with Jean Paul, but something did not sit right with the situation, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Second, The Raven had contacted Alan; he’d been detained at Charles de Gaulle in possession of Molly and Adderall. He had claimed they were for me, and he wanted me to bail him out. I could not get wrapped up in other people’s misguided paths, sufferings, or failures at this point. The Raven would have to learn to turn his life around the hard way. Or not. But I could not intervene in his arrest.
In the early afternoon when I was still in bed resting, the concierge buzzed to say that a package had been brought for me, and I needed to come down to sign for it. I threw on some sweats and headed down. I stepped into the lobby and was told to go on back to the small, dimly lit bar. When I walked in, I saw the package resting on the top of the bar; a messenger wearing a hoodie was standing next to it, facing away from me.
“Is that package for me?”
The messenger spun around. I thought I was seeing a ghost. Her smile was bright, the hood fell away from her hair, and I was looking at a figure I’d given so much thought to, in my life and in my art. The thick ocean-boosted tresses, the dolce vita exquisite face, the Mediterranean skin, and the smoldering Spanish eyes. With a name potent enough to support it all. Desideria.
Was I dreaming? Had I slipped into the paracosm once again? Had the recent intake inflamed my affliction? After all, I had been in bed, floating in and out all day.
“Hello, Rodrigo.”
“Desideria,” I said woodenly.
“You look shocked.”
“I . . . am . . .”
“Don’t be frightened. I tried to call you, but, well, when I could not reach you, I thought maybe it could be a nice surprise.”
I hesitated again. “It is.”
“Forgive me. I should have gotten ahold of you. Are you okay?”
“I must say, I’m . . . confused.”
“How so? You’ve made progress, no?”
“I have? What—? I’m not really sure of . . .”
“Of what? . . . You’re crying.” She squeezed my hand. “It’s okay.”
“Is it really you?”
“Sí. It really is. Let’s sit down and talk. Shall we?”
I invited her upstairs, and we sat next to each other on the couch in the living room of my suite. I explained to her all I’d been through personally, medically, and psychologically. I even confessed to her that I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming now or not.
“No, Rodrigo. You’re not dreaming. And Ana Paola sends her love.”
“But the people in New York had convinced me that everything in Valldemossa—you, Ana Paola—were all a part of this detailed phony world that I had invented. I have a fantasy disorder and . . .”
“We know.”
“You do?”
“We have been in contact with Dr. Wincott.”
“Why didn’t—?”
“We decided it would be better to wait. Because you were not well when we met, and you were making progress under his care, so we didn’t want you to be set back psychologically in any way.”
“You mean—it all really happened?”
She nodded. “Many times I wanted to communicate with you, as a friend who cared for you . . . but I also had a professional obligation, and that took precedence.”
“But the photos—when I checked the camera, they weren’t there.”
“I know. I removed and replaced the memory card. Not because I feared you would do anything with them beyond your work, but you never know—if they got into the wrong hands—and these days, well . . . it could be embarrassing, professionally speaking.”
“Okay. But after the photos disappeared, I wasn’t even sure I went to Valldemossa at all.” I was stunned. “Dios mío . . .” I struggled for words. “But if that all happened, and you are real, why did the fMRIs you took show no problems?”
She eyed me levelly. “They did. And Dr. Abreu did inform you about it. Apparently, you redesigned what he said to reflect what you wanted to hear, which is somewhat common in these cases.”
“I rejected the real diagnosis and superimposed a false negative?”
“Yes, to support your fantasy. To further validate the world you had created and deny any science that challenged it.”
“What about the image scans you gave me, then? I thought I had collaged them into the Brain series portraits—”
“I forgot to give them to you. I’m so sorry. And your creative inspiration blended it into the fantasy.”
“What about the napkin with the lipstick butterfly?”
“Signed by me in Jungle Red, at dinner.” She smiled, of course. “I wasn’t sure if you got that.”
“Mariposa—Butterfly—you’re coming to the show, no?”
“I’m afraid I cannot, regretfully. I have to get back to Valldemossa, to the hospital.”
Desideria rose then and asked me to open the box she had brought.
I tore away the flaps and found within, carefully encased in newspaper and bubble wrap, a sculpture. A beautiful rendition of an eighteenth-century ship.
“Maestro,” I said, and shivers released through my arms and up my spine.
“He’s still with us, doing well enough. Working a lot. Alzheimer’s is degenerative. But he has been able to impose his fantasy on his work. He asked me to give this to the ‘sailor’ whom he had ‘sent to the brig.’ ”
“So he never knew it was me.”
“We think he did. Otherwise he wouldn’t have asked me to give it to you. He’s never made such a request before. You were special to him.”
“Heriberto . . .” I whispered aloud.
I extended my hand to clasp hers. I asked her how she was doing. She told me she was starting to take on another life. As a painter. She was working from sketches. Then using oils. She was going to have a little show in Deià. She even showed me a few accomplished image
s on her phone.
“Butterfly,” I said.
“Gracias, Rodrigo. Your encouragement was all I needed. And you?”
“I’m not impatient. I’m developing me.”
“A new cycle?”
“Sí. And that’s enough for now.”
I could have broken down right then. But I held down the rising emotions. “How much time do you have?” I asked.
“My flight is in three hours.”
“Vamos! Let’s go!”
“Dónde?”
We dashed down Rue de Rivoli, and within ten minutes, we were at the Pompidou Center. We passed through security and were given access to my designated show area of the huge space. The crew was setting up still, finalizing all preparations for food, beverages, and decor.
Desideria praised the work and marveled at the pieces dedicated to our day in Mallorca. We paused at length before one in particular called Señorita Butterfly. She avowed it was her favorite. I located some masking tape and wrote “Reserved” on each one of the Mallorca series; then I removed the Señorita from the wall. An attendant noticed and alerted one of Jean Paul’s on-site employees, who questioned me with concern. I told him the piece’s inclusion in the show was a mistake and that the Mallorca series was to be sent to the hospital in Valldemossa. In the back, away from the show area, I rewrapped the Señorita in plastic and encased it in one of the packing boxes. I sealed it and carried it out the back alley to the street. I instructed Desideria to give it to the airline for special handling. She was exultant.
Outside on the curb, we kissed each other’s cheeks, genuine kisses that said everything about everything.
“Thank you for bringing Heriberto’s ship.”
“As much as anything, Rodrigo, I came to congratulate you. And to let you know there are people who care, even in the littlest corners of the planet. And I’m one of them.”
We embraced again.
“Keep soaring, Rodrigo.”
“Bye, Butterfly.”
I put her in a cab along with the painting, and they were two butterflies in flight. I think I smiled, too.
The Beautiful Dream of Life Page 24