Manual of Painting and Calligraphy

by José Saramago

  The table is the first thing to attract my attention (nothing else attracts me, but once having set eyes on the table I imagined there would be other objects of interest). The table is enormous, polished, dark as basalt, and looks like a vast swimming pool filled with black water or mercury. There is nothing lying on top: not so much as a briefcase, inkstand or writing paper, not even a symbolic blotter. The chairs, eleven of them, are all alike except for the one at the head of the table, on the left, which is about ten inches taller than the others. The chairs are upholstered in red (expensive fabric) with lots of tiny brass studs. Perhaps dissatisfied with the lighting or disturbed by my silence, Olga the secretary ostentatiously drew back some curtains. I stopped gazing at the table and stared at her (a verb which means virtually the same thing but avoids that tiresome repetition reputed to damage style). This Olga the secretary is quite good-looking: much too tall for my taste (but what has my taste got to do with it?). She is also rather bony but smart in appearance. She treads the ground firmly, and there is that untranslatable curve in her leg and thigh which the French call galbe. I watch her advance, suddenly aware that I am examining her swinging her breasts and tossing her head just once, so that her loose hair settles on her shoulders just where the mirror prescribed. Frankly, I have to smile because of what I am seeing, the rather nervous smile of someone who, being as fond of women as I am, always fears them to begin with, but I modify my smile with words and they come out constricted by that rectangular room and not free like those breasts and swaying hips.

  She motions me to the far end of the room opposite the president’s chair. I follow her, amusing myself, sniffing her out but hating her for those swaying hips, which will never dispel or placate this black cloud forming deep inside my body and which I recognize as sexual desire. I pause at her side. “Here is the frame,” she tells me as she stands there, staring at the empty space as if inviting me to join her in contemplation. It is clear that the portrait alongside the frame is that of S.’s father and those further along of his uncle and the company’s founder. I go up to one of the windows: surprisingly, it looks onto a garden, suddenly green and luminous. I take another look around me, ask Olga the secretary to turn out the lights and open all the windows, to close all the windows and turn on all the lights, to turn off some and switch on others, to turn on others and put some out. I amuse myself a little, perform my little role as sorcerer and perturb Olga the secretary, make her nervous, cause her to breathe with greater anxiety, I am a kind of hypnotist, capable of laying her on top of the table with a simple gesture in order to possess her at my leisure while thinking about something else, perhaps about the green garden, perhaps about that mysterious fringe of light which has settled on the edge of the frame. And as I withdraw I shall be careless enough to leave behind on the mirrored surface of the table a trickle of sperm, like a protruding white scar wherein my frustrated children stir restlessly.

  Olga the secretary is right beside me, composed, a little stiff, as if I had actually tried to rape her, and she, out of respect for her employers, were anxious to avoid any scenes. I give another smile and inquire about the dimensions of the frame. She blushes and tells me she does not know. I ask her to telephone me at home the following day once she has checked the measurements, since I need to buy a canvas to fit the frame. She understands but is blushing again, and as I go up to the window to take another look at the garden, she deliberately heads for the door, makes it clear that there is nothing more to discuss and it is time I left. As I walk along the corridor to the top of the stairs, she starts talking about S., informs me he is expected back in the office next day and that she will be in touch to make an appointment for the first sitting. I make some suitable reply and we bid each other a dry farewell. Somewhat puzzled, I recognize this same dryness in myself as I descend the stairs and start to see the revolving door flashing ahead of me. I look around the foyer for the man with all those papers. There he is, opening and closing his arms as though he were methodically drowning amid yellow filing cards and green papers, while a magpie chatters before him and tries to speak.

  I left the Senatus Populusque Romanus and went home. I sat in front of the empty easel and began reading. I had deliberately chosen the writings of Leonardo da Vinci. And passing from precept to precept I came across something which had often crossed my mind: “Painter, look closely at the ugliest part of your own body and put all your efforts into improving yourself. For if you are brutish, your figures will also look brutish and have no soul; and in this way all the good and bad in you will somehow show in your drawings.” Meanwhile, it was time for dinner. I rested the book on the open palm of a Saint Antony who had lost the Child Jesus and made my departure. I cherish the firm belief that this saint never loses any opportunity I give him to improve his knowledge by reading the works of posterity; I discovered this when I saw him looking nervous and bashful one day after I had given him a book which was much too risqué for his pure mind. Today he had something better to read. Having died, according to historians, in 1231, it probably never occurred to Saint Antony that anyone could become as great a sinner as Leonardo da Vinci. Nor as absurdly human.

  THE FIRST SITTING took place three days later. Everything had been arranged through (or more appropriately by means of) Olga the secretary, because, contrary to what she had told me, S. did not go to the SPQR the following day, or if he did, he had more important things to do than waste time on me. Having no maid, secretary or apprentice, I opened the door myself when he rang the bell. My clients usually find it “most interesting” that I myself should open the door without any formality and wearing this overall of sorts, which is a compromise between a baggy shirt and the traditional artist’s smock. As a rule, they are cretins who know nothing about art and think they are about to discover it here just because they see canvases lying around, pictures and drawings stuck haphazardly on the walls and a certain amount of disorder kept within strict limits, which offers an additional attraction to the startled eyes of someone who has never seen any other art nor any other way of living art. My life is a discreetly organized imposture. Since I never allow myself to be tempted by exaggeration, there is always a safe margin of retreat, an indeterminate zone where I can easily appear to be distracted, inattentive and, above all, anything but calculating. I am holding all the cards even when I fail to recognize the trump. It is true that my winnings are small when I win, but my losses are also minimal. There are no great or dramatic happenings in my life.

  I showed S. into the studio. He seemed relaxed, as if familiar with every nook and cranny (he had been here only once before, to commission the portrait), and immediately asked me, perhaps with excessive haste, where I should like him to sit. I sensed a hint of tension. Could Olga the secretary have told him about my magical way of playing with windows and lights in the boardroom? Could he be such an imbecile as to allow himself to be intimidated by my antics, especially when described by a third party? Or was he simply trying to keep his distance, to show the substantial difference between his time and mine? Could he be trying to emphasize that a company director and artist-cum-painter have nothing in common, other than the face one lends X by the hour (with the one clear distinction that in this case the one doing the lending is paying for what he lends)?

  I pointed out the large upright chair used on these occasions, which I take the trouble to modify from portrait to portrait so that at least the chairs are not repeated, for I am quite sure that my clients would not tolerate any such repetition. They would sooner accept looking like each other than seeing themselves seated in the same chair. Uncertain, perhaps suspecting that he was sitting down far too quickly, S. settled into the chair and waited. He crossed one leg, a gesture with which I am all too familiar, and then uncrossed it at once. I told him to relax and not to worry about striking a pose. For the moment, I simply wanted to make a few quick sketches in charcoal in order to familiarize myself with his face, the movements of his eyes, the twitching of his nostrils, the curv
es of his mouth, the weight of his chin. I prefer not to talk while I am working, but I have to adjust myself to the client who is paying, become almost like putty in his hands while painting his portrait. Therefore I force myself to speak but rarely succeed in sounding natural. I refuse to discuss the weather and try to avoid asking questions that are indiscreet, although I have sometimes asked them inadvertently, and with experience I have learned to open these conversations on the same note, tactfully inquiring if this is the first portrait. I do not insist, even less so if they answer, No, this is not the first portrait. One might easily lapse into or willfully indulge in disparaging remarks whereby, once the moment of mutual agreement had (perhaps) passed, I would naturally end up betraying myself in public as a disloyal fellow artist. In the case of S. I knew I was risking nothing. Had he already had his portrait painted, Olga the secretary would certainly have told me, either to annoy or to flatter me. Even without this reassurance, there was no risk. S. was not the type of man who seeks the trite satisfaction of a portrait in oils. Sporting a nice, even tan, which bore no resemblance to the wretched appearance of the man in the street whose skin begins to peel after being exposed to the first rays of the sun, S. overcame his initial nervousness now that I had assumed my role as craftsman and started tracing on paper what his features dictated. I do not believe I thought about this at the time. But on reflection (I now have to reflect on everything before giving my hand a free rein to write without interruption) I discover the reasons for S.’s sudden complacency: our relationship had defined itself after some initial uncertainty and the world had been restored to order. He did not answer my question but raised another, to give the impression that he was sufficiently interested, in the precise terms of a paternalism he had exercised on other occasions: Had I been painting for long? As far back as I can remember, I replied. I don’t believe I have ever done anything else, I added. Of course it was a lie, but it is an interesting phrase which flatters the person saying it and pleases the person who is listening. It can be a pretext for engaging in a lively discussion about the controversial issue of vocations (Is one born an artist or does one become an artist? Is art an ineffable mystery or a question of rigorous training? Are the revolutionaries of art truly mad? Did Van Gogh really cut off his ear? Is the naive painter terrified of the void? And what about El Greco? Did El Greco have some visual defect? Picasso, on the other hand, had a constant and implacable lucidity, would I not agree? And what did I think about the painter Columbano?), but S. pretended not to be listening and asked me if he could see the sketches. Naturally the patron wished to inspect the work of his employee. I passed him the sheets of paper, which he quickly scanned, nodding his head with greater force than the situation warranted, and then he handed them back to me. I punished him somewhat for his impertinence by keeping the drawings in my hand without looking at them or at him, thus showing that there had been some mistake, that the rules of a cordial relationship between painter and client had been infringed. Did he not realize that a drawing is something sacred? Was he not aware that it cannot be seen without permission and sometimes not even with permission? Putting the sheets of paper on one side, I told him that was all I needed for the moment. I also suggested it might be a good idea to arrange the next session right away rather than waste time trying to contact him through an intermediary. I spoke these words on a somewhat aggressive note, I accentuated the word “intermediary.” At that moment I felt certain (mindful of thousands of illustrated anecdotes worldwide) that S. was having or had had a sexual relationship with Olga the secretary, and by sexual relationship I mean everything that happens in bed or somewhere else in the absence of a bed between persons of a different or the same sex who decide to investigate a partner’s sexuality with some parts of their body. S. was equally brusque as he suggested a date for the next session, and I softened my tone, reassured and confident (by his very brusqueness) that there was no longer any (sexual) relationship with Olga the secretary. I accompanied him to the door. We tacitly avoided shaking hands as we said goodbye. I heard him quickly descend the steep staircase and within minutes start up the engine of his powerful car and drive off. There was no need to go to the window to know that the message vibrating in the atmosphere was from him. Still annoyed? Or being sarcastic? Had my reign ended so soon? Had my prestige, aura, see-how-different-I-am waned so quickly? What would he have to say, what sour comments would he cynically make while dictating letters to Olga the secretary? When talking about me, would they refer to H. or to that artist fellow? How do others actually talk about us? How do others see us? How do we see ourselves?

  I picked up the drawings again, examined them with indifference, laid them aside. This was a face that would cause me no problems: as regular and commonplace as any well-designed advertisement. A mouth which would look good with a pipe, eyes one could show half closed against the sea breeze, hair for the same wind to tousle or for feminine fingers with long, lacquered nails to stroke with knowing and calculating sensuality. Looking through the window, I saw the white evening sky and felt I was all alone. Holding a gin and tonic, iced and aromatic, in one hand, I leaned back on the well-worn studio divan and sipped at my leisure. I had left the kitchen light on but made no attempt to get up and switch it off. Had I closed the fridge door? The clock chimed (I never use a wristwatch when I am working) and I thought Adelina might already be at home. I got up from the divan, went into the bedroom, where I keep the telephone, and when she answered I immediately invited her to dinner and suggested we could go to the cinema afterward. She accepted without a moment’s hesitation. She never refuses.

  At this time, I had only known Adelina a little over six months. That is to say, I had known her for at least two years but had only been going to bed with her (to have sex, of course) for little more than six months. We had started this affair in the usual way: some friends who had called for a chat after dinner brought Adelina with them, a long-standing friend, the hours passed, eventually everyone left except Adelina, her idea or my silent insistence, and once we were alone we discovered we had been interested in each other for a while, and things being what they are, she stayed and slept what was left of the night after we had made love. She lives with her widowed mother, who does not ask too many questions if Adelina returns home in the early hours, but to stay out all night looks bad. And Adelina tells me she tries not to upset the old girl. I pray in silence that her dear old mother will not change her mind, but to keep the fire burning I periodically throw a tantrum. Poor Adelina, torn between a false lover and a mother who has relinquished all her authority except for this nightly vigil. So far, this triangular situation has worked to perfection.

  Anxious to speak about S., since the objective of this inquiry is to find out what has been lost between the first and the second portrait, or what was already lost forever (what had been forever lost in me), I must probe the meaning of this complacency which brings me to discuss Adelina when it has nothing to do with Adelina. But perhaps there is no point in drawing up an inventory of someone’s strengths and weaknesses in order to fight them, or to record statistics without first examining our own strengths and weaknesses. Any such examination will make it impossible for us to ignore those which weigh on us like lead pellets revolving inside a cylinder moved by some other force, within whose movement those same lead pellets are activated without affecting the cylinder or the effective force. Poor Adelina, as I jokingly think of her, is much less “poor” than I have suggested. She comes into my bed, consents and demands that I enter her (this ingenious transposition results in total obscenity, because entering her literally means that I have reduced myself to minute proportions in order to be able to press [or should I say regress] inside her or, on the contrary, that this same interior has become as big as a cathedral, the Basilica of St. Peter, the Church of Notre Dame, the greenish gold grotto of Aracena through which I pass [penetrate] in my natural size, splashing about amid humors and secretions, resting on swollen mucous membranes, and ever advancing
toward the secret of the universe, toward the laboratory of the ovaries, the stentorian cry of [mute] Fallopian tubes, inhaling the earth’s primordial odors stored there in all female sexual organs, no longer obscene because sex is not obscene, as I have come to know). And because I am entering her and she is, however involuntarily, a part of this life in which she and I participate and where we are both on the same ledge, on the same narrow ridge of Chartres, I can neither say “Poor Adelina” nor forget her. Inside her I am forever spilling millions of spermatozoa already condemned to death, trapped in a viscous fluid which pours from me as I lie there panting, and even though I do not love her nor she love me, neither of us escapes the fleeting moment when our weary and sated bodies rest, mine nearly always on top of hers, hers sometimes on top of mine, and as we lie, the one on top of the other, our united bodies support each other. At the end of the sexual act (also known as making love) the body underneath weighs on the one on top, and anyone who has failed to discover this possesses neither body nor sex nor self-awareness. The force of gravity is therefore exercised twice, not in order to annul itself but to ensure complete prostration. For the levitation of bodies is impossible when the male organ is still deeply anchored inside a woman’s body, spilling or having spilled the white secretion from the testicles and is washing itself between the red or rosy inflamed walls at the same time as the remote sadness of copulation enshrouds the mind in veils and pulverizes those abandoned limbs one by one.

  Adelina and I both know that one day we shall terminate this relationship; only our inertia keeps it going. Needless to say, I am not the first man in her life; she has had various men, some of whom I know and who speak to her as friends, for they never loved her nor did she love them, just as I shall speak to her as a friend when we come to experience the brief sorrow of parting. And perhaps she will call at my house when some other Adelina is there who will spend the night with me when all the others have gone, perhaps she will leave with another man and spend the night with him, and far away from each other we shall make gestures we both know on other bodies, our past forgotten and so absorbed or distracted by this new encounter that there is no common memory, and even if there were, it would be pure thought, something from another existence or even relating to someone else. That is why I am so convinced of this simple truth of mine: the I at this moment is fundamentally different from what it was a moment ago, sometimes the opposite, but certainly always different. So I am convinced the past is dead (it would not be enough simply to say it is over). The women I have had so far are dead, and the more I loved them, the more dead they are. Yet I loved none of them sufficiently for part of me to die with them.