XXXII

D

ark thoughts did not once entertain my enthusiastic brain as the concert date drew near. Briefly I designed to write a letter but I crumpled it away when I asserted that it was inconstant with my cheer. Nothing swayed me from the optimistic path that I was skating upon in those new December days. Should ghosts be visited upon me, they would be put down to the product of undigested beef so thus I would banish them hastily away.

As much as my waking unworked minutes were engaged in repainting my Battle of Cascina, time still allowed for long winter walks that would often turn my thoughts to these same feet in different shoes upon the aged Arno banks. I know that I was picturesque, striding along the snowy streets of V______ with waistcoat, fob watch, and warmest overcoat. My sideburns were so voluminous as to bring the words 'whiskers' and 'mutton chops' to mind. My top hat, only felt, was ever at a jaunty angle (or so I imagined). Had I an overlarge woollen scarf about my throat, I'd have been entirely Dickensian. My Jack Wild routine was indeed performed on a couple of occasions. As it was these eccentricities were born as much of the notion that I was free to dress entirely as I chose, as it was due to the brain tumour that afflicted me.

Well medicated, that infestation was a minor irritation. It was unable to further swell and so remained no larger than an orange, or so the doctor told me. One is made to wonder at the use of a growing fruit as an indication of size but perhaps it was thereby appropriate. There was a great benefit to this intrusion in that I was, for months, sent home from my civil employment and so, more guiltless than penniless, I was free to pursue the limits of my fancies. These fancies were, of course, energized by sentiments of mortality and possibly, by infection made more fanciful.

There was no telling, how long the tumour had been flourishing. If, indeed, it had clung to my brain for many years, one is reconciled to wonder which thoughts and imaginings were plundered from this foreign blackness on my mind. It is certain that this growth afflicted corners of my mental mapping but even with this pest removed, I cannot now determine specific distinctions. It is not as though a compressed portion of the brain is all reserved for thinking on all matters red. The mysterious catalogue is cross-referenced in a manner designed to be entirely cryptic. I know that once the tumour had been purged (I did indeed survive), I was not the least inclined again toward such marked eccentric or archaic costuming.

Yet there I was walking through the streets and looking completely, delightedly ridiculous. They should be thankful that the intruder did not compel me to wear no clothes at all. I could have no shame had it been so ordained.

My brain and body, adorned by this natural yet unforeseen growth, was still the producer of my self. A blackhead upon a nose does not invalidate the smiles that one might make. If my brain were but the product of a million compatible and cooperative cancer cells, could I complain of their failings while being likewise proud of their genius-like offerings? My mind is not made by my design. What matter and materials make it work are of no consequence so long as I retain alertness.

Blobs of gooey grey and white, pressed and pushed, thinned or piled, are left lumped and liquid upon a stretched canvas and then it is a cloud in the dawning mind when it is recognized for what it seems to be, and it releases a shower of delight upon the viewer. The medium is a tool and it is a challenge. Should I choose to compose my art from driftwood or in watercolours, I am obliged, should I seek to succeed, to learn my chosen medium and strive to master it. Certainly I must invest in the materials and develop respect for them but also I must render unto them my disdain where required. Whether it be markability or malleability, the distinct nature of a medium does not make it better or worse than another. There is no measurement of value without first an assessment of ambition. Driftwood is much better at sculpture than are watercolour paints. Some things seem perfectly suited for mimicry yet the copying of nature is but a single goal among many possible goals.

If you wish bright colours to rest against a wall then there will follow on further considerations as you weigh the differing qualities of oil, acrylic, or egg tempera fresco. It is not quite akin though to simply selecting the right tool for the job because the chosen tool shapes the job. Yes, a carpenter might decide between mahogany and pine as a painter would select his cadmium or alizarin pallet but too, that builder might instead seek to carve a desk from a single block of wood and the undertaking of that task necessitates re-examined timber decisions.

"Mankind was my business."

My body and its brain were birthed to me and it has, through misadventures, grown and been more formed. I am carving out my life from this single fleshed form and will make from it some thing of merit should I have the will. If I find a dark knot beneath the surface, I will carve it out or employ it to some end. My consciousness may be a flawed as David's 'Giant' marble but the art will be in the carving of a worthy life around it.

The chisel has many times missed its mark and the hammer has too often come down too hard and fast, scarring the surface and causing a deep wound were a soft touch was intended. I have carved with more passion than sensitivity and I have worried away too long on raised points, filing away dust when I ought have only polished.

My mind is not made to my design but I must understand and respect the materials of my life's work. Thoughts, flawed or not, fail to be enough. The wide world must be acted upon but we shall not act on lying ideas or metaphors. Such fanciful flights must be thrown to the ground and made real before they are impressed upon the real. Lies, heroic or not, must be translated ere they are spake. When, too late, untruths have been acted out they must be gathered up and tucked back away.

Our life is the medium for our art. It seemed that were I serious in my quest for beauty and that this corporeal form, this life led, was the medium assigned to me, then there were yet great gulfs to be crossed over.

The stalkings, in time, delivered my tumour and I to a yard of graves. There, bleak monuments declared summations of the worthy lives of those interred therein.

Born. Died.

A life described without any lies.

There were no ghosts to tell me otherwise.

Just try to buy a fatted goose on Christmas morning.

.

XXXIII