Dead Artist

by Ivan Jenson

  One afternoon as Samantha was taking her astonishingly long, sumptuous summer afternoon nap accompanied by Milo’s equally sleepy dog, Milo decided to take the bus to visit his mother in her gloom.

  Milo entered into his mother's dreadfully stale room with every intention of talking her out of her own death. He had convinced himself that she had chosen to die under the mistaken belief that she was no longer needed. She was taking his success as a cue to bow out of life. Milo had always been the most needy member of the Sonas family.

  “Mother,” he said, squeezing next to her on her bed. They both now lay side by side. He tried to imagine what it might be like to be at the end of life's journey.

  His mother was breathing through tubes, and the machine was sighing in and sighing out. It was hypnotic in its new age repetition. Milo found himself breathing in sync with the apparatus.

  “Are you sure that this is really what you want to be doing?” Milo whispered to her. “Is this really the right time to die? Now that I am on the brink of so many great accomplishments I want you to be there when I marry, when I have my first child. Isn’t that worth sticking around for?”

  “So you are getting married,” she said as if she were talking in her sleep.

  “There is a girl that has come back into my life.”

  “This is the first I hear of it.” It wasn't.

  “She just kind of just showed up out of the blue, at my doorstep so to speak. Remember Samantha? Remember the girl that was with me in New York during 9/11? Well, guess what, she missed me, and she caught a Greyhound bus out here to see me.” Milo sought recognition in his mother's face.

  Sonia Sonas found some strength. “She took a bus all the way from New York? How exhausting, she could have gotten a plane ticket online for practically the same price. She must be totally worn out from the trip. I once took a bus trip and it nearly killed me. There was a man sitting next to me who told me that he had just been released from prison. He even went as far as to show me that he was packing a knife. He told me that he never went anywhere without his hunting knife. What a fright! I guess it all goes to prove that if she is willing to sit in a God-awful bus from the east coast to Michigan, all to see you; then it must really be love and I would seriously suggest you go for this opportunity while it is here.”

  “That's kinda what I came here to tell you, I am seriously considering it. Here I am with half my life over and believe me, I want to move on to the next level right away. Mom, I want you to be alive to see it.”

  “That isn’t likely unless you get married within the next forty eight hours. I am slipping away quickly here, and I am not even sure how much longer I even want to hold on to life. It doesn’t seem worth it. My quality of life is not ideal, you should see my body, it is pock marked with bed sores. I really don’t see myself as having any more of these spontaneous recoveries. I never thought I would live to say this but Milo, but I want to die.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “But it is how I feel.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I am being totally honest. I want out.”

  Milo, with his eyes welling up told his mother that he would like to make immediate arrangements for a wedding while she is still alive to see it.

  Her answer came after a pause in which she found it hard to regain her breath, but finally she said softly, “Be careful. If you don’t move quickly you are going to have a funeral and a wedding both on the same day. Ha! You know what they say, the three biggest events in a man's life is birth, marriage, and death. All we would need is somebody to pop a baby out on that day and the totality of the day would be complete.”

  The more Milo thought about it, the more he was sure that this was what he wanted to do. What better time than now, all his brothers and sisters were flying out to Gold Haven to be with their mother at her deathbed -- what a perfect time for a dual event.

  Would his mother agree to such an innovation? And how about Samantha...would she go for it?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Samantha:

  Milo asked me to marry him this evening.

  Well, I didn’t come out to the Midwest to see him with any expectations. No. I came out here because Milo will always hold a special place in my heart, being that we were together during that one moment when it felt like New York City was one big, broken, but happy family.

  But I like his idea. In fact I love it. Yes, I am willing to marry him even though I know in my heart that he is doing it all for show for his mother. But I know how important it is for him to feel more complete and to show his mother that he has achieved something like completeness.

  I want to do this for him.

  I have always felt more comfortable giving.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Milo’s half-sister Amelia was taken aback by the concept of Milo’s hasty nuptials. A cigarette dangled from her lips as she watered their mother’s lawn. She told Milo that he was once again trying to steal the lion's share of attention in the family. And, the idea of a pre-funeral tribute to his mother was downright morbid.

  Ray got wind of the concept in Chicago’s O'Hare airport en route to Gold Haven. Amelia had called him on his cell. This was the match to his gushing fuel. It truly motivated him to get his ass on that connecting flight and get to Gold Haven as fast as technology would jet him there so that he could destroy everything and everyone in his path, and have a good vacation at the same time.

  Ray:

  I look out over the clouds I see on this short connecting flight from Chicago to Gold Haven, and all I can think about is the blinding white that I use to cover the interiors of homes. Opaque white, solid white, off white, egg shell white, whatever. And, I wonder, as I look out over these pornographic pillows, bosoms, thighs, and cupid-like butt cheeks of clouds, what the fuck do I know about painting?

  Most of the time I just draw a blank in front of those floor-stretched tarp canvases. Milo, that prolific dweeb, never runs out of ideas. I knock knock and knock at the closed door of my imagination, but nobody's home. Nobody answers. Each night I read voraciously to fill my mind with color, yet nothing seems to register. Nothing sticks. Sure, I can bullshit my way through the meaningless repartee at gallery opening cocktail events. I sound like a real artist. I stand there, aloof, unshaven, like Milo, unsmiling. But deep down I'm nothing.

  Okay, so I haven't found my way in the world. Is that such a fucking crime, to be still searching as I push fifty?

  It wasn’t such a crime as long as everyone else floundered. Becky, with her pipe dreams of directing a feature film. Amelia, with another failed marriage, and Luna's crazy bastard adopted son Donny stealing cash from her safe just to buy drugs that will keep him out of professional sports. He'll never be that future millionaire. None of them are going anywhere.

  Fuck! But Milo got a break. I felt okay about my monotonous life, applying layers of white over other layers of white and my dabbles at abstract art. I felt okay about my colorful improvisations on canvas, which might look pretty good if I knew when to stop and leave well enough alone before they become muddy and turn gray and brown like dirt after some rainfall. Yeah, I felt pretty good as long as my little brother Milo was living in a flea bag hotel in Gold Haven. The bastard was one step away from being homeless. But now, aside from being discovered again, he goes and decides to throw an impromptu wedding just in the nick of time before my Mom kicks the bucket. Frankly, this is just too much for me to take. And as God is my witness, there must a way for me to well... fuck it up.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Van Gogh, as expected, was extremely nervous about the prospect of a real live New York City university beauty traveling hundreds of miles just to meet him. He drank a lot. His preference was Total Vodka, which Milo had stowed away cases of since the early nineties, when he, along with some famous Pop artists had done an ad for their international campaign. And that very ad just happened to be a pop styled depiction of Van Gogh posing next to a Total bottle
. Now, things were certainly coming full circle as Vincent gulped down the Total Citron mixed with orange juice, ice and a sliced lemon topper.

  Milo's mind ventured back to the day when he got the deal with Total. He had only six dollars that day, and he knew that the CEO would be coming to a club event Milo was throwing that night. He ventured out to the Utrecht Art store on Fifth Avenue and 12th Street and asked the store manager to give him whatever scrap poster board they were planning to discard. The young bearded grungy looking manager was kind to young artists and often cut them a break on prices. Milo gave the manager three bucks in good faith. And he, in turn gave Milo some damaged poster paper in colors of white, blue and magenta. He also gave Milo some white and red paint and two jumbo sized Pilot markers.

  That afternoon Milo created the Total painting in a mad rush. He had a hot date with a blonde Columbia University coed that night and with his remaining three dollars he purchased the cheapest bottle of Chilean wine that he could find. The wine cost two dollars. He had one buck left to his name, Milo Sonas.

  At 9:00 pm the blonde arrived, looking her age, eighteen; complete with upper braces, curly blonde hair, and wearing a tight fitting black evening gown. He offered her wine as he put the last touches of black outline definition on two Total Vodka paintings. Milo didn’t have enough money to even take a subway with his date to the nightclub event, but as before he functioned on luck and synchronicity. A wealthy patron called him from Toronto and when he heard that Milo was dead broke on this night of rare opportunity, close in on a deal with Total and that Milo had a date and was down to his last dollar, the Toronto patron called up for a town car to whisk Milo, his freshly painted artwork and the pretty blonde college student to the event.

  With electric black tape Milo attached the two finished paintings to the walls of the club and when the VIPs in suits arrived and witnessed the colorful, radical depiction of Vincent Van Gogh juxtaposed with the Total bottle, the dapper English CEO of Total importers said to Milo, “Anybody that can do that in one afternoon deserves the whole deal.”

  Now, twenty years later, who would have dreamed that Milo would end up in a hole in the wall hotel room, paying twenty five bucks a month, and getting afterlife visitations from the wanderlust spirit of Van Gogh who was now caught between the living and the dead? And who would have thought that Milo would now be instrumental in possibly providing Vincent's spirit with what was probably its last hope of finding love?

  Milo hadn't heard from Pablo for a couple of days. Perhaps he was off womanizing and continuing his streak of being wildly successful with the ladies many of whom were miraculously able to see him quite clearly and feel his body as well. Unfortunately for Pablo he had no nerve endings, and felt nothing in return.

  Picasso was experiencing great artistic frustration. He was unable to produce art and to channel his formidable energies. Van Gogh could create a painting, but it would disappear as soon as it was finished. Perhaps this was the universe’s protection against becoming too dense with man-made objects. And so these two dead artists hung around Milo in the hope of channeling through him. And both, Pablo and Vincent, admired Milo despite the fact that he worked in acrylics, instead of the fragrant richness of the oils that they were most accustomed to.

  “When did they first come into your life?” Samantha asked Milo as they drank sugary lattes at the local Barnes & Noble bookstore. The mostly conservative locals did not fathom the age difference between Samantha and Milo, since his boyish features never betrayed his true age; and his jovial smile, that is when he did smile, had a blinding effect on the local ladies. Milo, like an aspiring actor, never disclosed his age, even to Samantha. She was positive that Milo hovered forever somewhere just over thirty five.

  “Let’s see, when did they come into my life? They came to me one afternoon while I was painting. They never told me what or how to paint, never coaxed me, prodded me, or asked me to change my style. They just Poof! appeared, rolled cigarettes, drank my coffee and watched with envy. It was really just recently, right after Nick sent me more art supplies than I have ever had in my life.”

  “You are so lucky it is happening to you at such an early age.”

  Samantha may have been flattering Milo with that remark about his “early age.” But Milo knew the truth, it was happening in the middle of his life, and just a little too late for his liking.

  Before Samantha arrived, before the dead artists appeared and before Nick christened Milo with hope; Milo, in his hotel studio had felt frozen in time. All winter long, static cold energy seemed to surround him, chill him. He was wrapped in the uncaring arms of loneliness, and wandered the streets and wallowed in unquenchable self pity. During long late night dialogues with Dr. Hyatt, he tried to understand exactly why it was so impossible for him to puncture the frozen bubble that surrounded him, and why that bubble always made him feel so utterly alone.

  For the first time Milo noticed on Samantha signs of bruising around the eyes. Samantha felt his gaze and responded, “I was wondering when you were going to notice that, considering you are a visual artist it sure took you a long time.”

  Samantha explained that she had a boyfriend over the past few years. She said she didn’t like the person she had become when she was with him. She didn’t like the arguing, the fights, the verbal and physical abuse. He brought out the worst side of her. She said that the two of them had a kind of “accidental” fall. “It was more my fault than his,” she said. “At least that’s what the judge said. The judge also advised us to keep a distance from each other.”

  It seems that her boyfriend was carrying laundry down the steps of their apartment building and she, like an angered bull, charged him and they both tumbled down the steps.

  “I have never seen that angry side of you,” Milo said. “What is it that the two of you fought about?”

  “We fought about the same thing that every guy fights with me about. You know, my condition, my...tight pussy. Sometimes I feel like a character in a porno fable on DVD where all the men in some enchanted kingdom attempt to get inside the body of the princess in her castle, but I, the thigh-clenching princess will not allow anybody to enter. My pussy is my chastity belt. Until one day one gallant young man is able to penetrate my fortress.”

  “I’m not so sure if I’m the man for that job,” Milo joked, to ease the tension. “It is a tough job, and requires a gallantry and precision that I, quite frankly, don’t possess.”

  “Well, join the club. What can I say except that men get pissed off if they are denied entry into their significant other. And you know what, it makes me feel like I have become a virgin all over again. Hey, maybe I have been saving myself for you.”

  “But I can’t get in there either.”

  “You will Milo, when the time is right.”

  The next afternoon Milo sat down for coffee at a newly built Starbucks and had a talk with Pablo about the unusually awkward erotic predicament he was in with Samantha.

  Pablo retorted with, “I would not stay with a woman like that. A man must consummate with his woman, otherwise he is supplicating to the woman. A man should not have to beg.”

  “Sure, it's frustrating, but I am still happy that she made it out here during this difficult time.”

  Outside it was another lovely day in July, the clouds looked as white as freshly primed canvases and the baby blue color of the sky reminded Milo that light blue might possibly be his favorite color. He used the color obsessively. As a boy he once believed that if he used this color as much as possible that maybe his eyes might turn blue, or better yet that one day it might be acceptable for a man to wear blue lipstick, and blue eyeliner, or maybe dye his hair blue.

  “Perhaps you see her as a challenge,” Pablo said, cigarette butt dangling from his mouth, and his eyes squinting from the puffs of smoke like a gunslinger in a spaghetti western. “The only good thing about a challenge is triumph. As you know, I never try, I succeed. But no matter what I say, you will do as you wish.
”

  Milo explained that Samantha reminded him of a time that he strangely found to be most romantic, the days following 9/11, that post-apocalyptic time in New York City, a time when Samantha and he used to roam the downtown streets. Her university was a couple of blocks from Ground Zero. That morning, she overslept and had to catch a later subway. Otherwise, she would have been at the train station at One World Trade Center when the buildings came down. This bit of lucky fate boosted her out of a minor depression and strangely raised her self- esteem level. Perhaps there was a reason for her life after all. Why else would she be spared? Milo and she both felt that somehow the attacks made them feel proud to be living in a city that was the center of world attention.

  “That's just craziness,” Pablo said. “I wouldn’t pay that girl any mind. And I think you should have painted on 9/11. I painted constantly through the war. You know Milo I truly hope that this new art dealer really does it for you. I don’t want to see you wind up like those other characters you see in the book stores and the coffee shops just wandering the afternoons and evenings away. I used to see those types in the cafes in Paris. Except for the crazy ones, most were there for the same reason, endlessly killing time waiting for success.”

  The barista then interrupted their conversation to ask Milo a question. The young man explained that he had been asked to paint a logo for the coffee shop and he wanted to know how he should go about charging for his work. The young man was unable to see Picasso.

  Milo gave him some advice. “Okay, here's what always worked for me. Young artists tend to price themselves either too high, or too low. Too low and you are underselling yourself, too high and you lose the commission. So what you must do is ask the owner of the restaurant what his budget is for the art. This will put him in the hot seat, and chances are that he will quote a higher price than you expect. I once was going to do a mural for a fashion boutique showroom, I was broke at the time, and in my desperation I was prepared to do the job for a mere eight hundred bucks. But then I held my tongue, paused, and used silence as a tool, sometimes silence can be the best negotiator, and I asked them how much they had in their budget for the artwork and to my happy surprise they told me that it was ten grand. So I got smart and asked them for ten thousand and five hundred. Always add just a little bit more, so that they don’t feel tempted to bring it down a notch.”