Chimera (5 page)

W
ilt must have made
his deadline; a picture of Ferry giving me a side hug graces the front of the Community Arts section of the Sunday paper. I reluctantly read the article, feeling my cheeks begin to rise as I realize this is a celebration of my return, not a mockery. There’s mention of my sudden, long-lasting departure from the art world when my wife passed away after a long illness, but respectfully, Wilt doesn’t dwell on it. He honors my need to have escape, but he showcases my return.

Reading the words he put together regarding the kitchen piece, even I begin to believe a comeback is possible. The art world might embrace their once golden boy, possibly even without ridicule. The entire article is upbeat. To immortalize my latest piece, he eludes to the work Ferry and I are doing together. It causes chills to run up my arms in anticipation. The excitement begins to flow through me, and I find myself hopping around like a child in excitement.

I quell my exuberance when my doorbell rings. I glance at the clock, knowing it’s Ferry and his crew, wondering if he read the article and the accolades Wilt gives the two of us as a team. I have to give Wilt Carter props. He alluded to the project and our interaction, but gave the reader no real clues to indicate what we’re up to.

With the paper in hand, held up for him to see, I open the door to a seemingly unhappy Ferry. When he sees the picture, his expression changes, a smile graces his face, and he takes the article from me.

“This is great, Bastian. I didn’t realize Wilt made the deadline. Have you read it?” He sits down on the couch while his people go to work setting up for him. I watch him open the paper and notice scratches all over his hands and what appears to be the early onset of bruising, none of which was there yesterday.

“Yeah, I have. It’s definitely a great re-opener for me.” He glances up with what appears to be genuine happiness for me. I notice another scratch on his face. “Damn, man, what happened to your hands? How did you get that scratch on your face?”

Chuckling, he responds, “Yard work. I don’t get along well with lawn equipment or thorn bushes. No worries, I’m good.”

Last time I checked, Ferry lived in a condo somewhere downtown, but maybe he moved recently. Or maybe I should just mind my own fucking business and not worry about it. I go with option two.

Finished with the article, he says, “Great piece. I’m sure it feels good to be back in the swing of things, huh, Bastian?”

“A little surreal, but I’m sure it’ll become normal again. I think we may be nearing the end of this stage of this particular process, though. The wall’s almost completely black.”

Ferry follows me into the kitchen, where I watch him work like I have every day for over a week. My amazement continues seeing how graceful he is, and watching him search for the lines he wants is like art in itself.

“I think you’re right. Once I take a couple of shots I’ll be able to tell if tonight is the end, or if we’ll get one more day out of it, but I would venture to say this is the day. I’ve been going through all the shots, narrowing the days down so you don’t have thousands of images to choose from. When we finish this, we can set up a time for you to come to my studio to start the next phase.”

Normally, Ferry is here for a couple hours at a minimum between setting up, shooting, and tearing down. I swear, I heard less than ten clicks of the camera before he claps twice, signaling his team he is done for the day. Crimson
F
s flitter about. He shows me the camera, flipping quickly through a couple shots. There’s beauty in the decay, which fascinates me. It’s nothing but waves of darkness. Light reflects off the texture creating depth, but the wall appears to be completely black. A lump forms in my throat, as I realize just how accurately this project symbolizes my life. But, it’s either backwards or needs to replicate to show the period of darkness before finding light again. I’ll have to think on that before Ferry and I select images.

I force the emotion back down, swallowing hard before speaking. “I can’t wait to see this come together, man. I think it’s going to be brutal.”

“I agree, Bastian. You wanna come by tomorrow afternoon around two?” he asks.

“Sure. Your studio still in the same place?”

“Right off Center Avenue downtown. See you then.”

I close the door behind the last of his troop, watching the red
F
s march down the sidewalk, grateful for all he’s doing with me but glad to see them go. Having that many people in my house every evening has been a hard adjustment. I fly solo most days. I didn’t realize how sensitive I’ve become to noise and people in general. I wonder if I’ve developed some sensory disorder or just an overall disdain for society as a whole.

A
t two o’clock
on the dot, I open the door marked by his logo and step foot in Ferry’s studio downtown. I haven’t ever been inside, no clue what I expected, but this place is industrial with a sterile, cold feeling until you get past the front door. The photography hanging from every inch of free space—mostly suspended on steel cords—warms the soul. I search the faces of the nameless people hanging in the air and on the walls, some filled with heartache, others with laughter. The sheer beauty of the landscapes, and with everything Ferry touches, he illuminates and captures the spirit of the occasion, whether the tone is somber or that of celebration. His camera beautifully immortalizes it.

Hearing what I assume are Ferry’s footsteps on the concrete floor, I turn toward the sound to see one of the many assistants from my house. “Mr. Thames. Mr. Koops is this way.”

I follow through the open room before he ushers me into Ferry’s office, which is stark. There’s nothing on the walls, no personal effects, no color, nothing. It’s completely barren. The only objects in the room are a desk, an enormous monitor with a computer, and two chairs. The walls are bright white. Literally, zero color or life in this space. “Are you re-doing your office?” I ask, trying to get an answer for the blank space from an artist.

“Hey, Bastian, come in.” He stands, extending his hand with a smile. “No, not at all. I try to keep this office free from clutter so it doesn’t distract from the photographs. Color on walls tends to change people’s perspective of the actual photograph, and light can reflect, causing the eye to be deceived, et cetera. Basically, when I have clients in, I want them focused on what they paid for, not whatever shit I deemed appropriate for my comfort. My office is fully adorned with all of the knickknacks of my life, I assure you.” He gestures for me to sit in the second chair in the room before dimming the lights just slightly, further ensuring I will focus only on what’s on the screen.

“I tried to eliminate as many images as possible, so most days there are only ten to twelve remaining to pick from. A couple of days there are more and others less. There are ten days to pick images from. I had thought originally there would be days where there wasn’t much change, but when I went back to look at them, each day is significant.”

With the click of his mouse, the screen comes to life with thumbnails of the twelve shots remaining from the first day. I immediately discard six of the twelve, not liking how the light hits the core of the images; there was an eerie glow in the center that didn’t belong. Ferry didn’t question my decisions and just moved them to another file before enlarging the remaining images. With each image removed, those left for consideration got bigger, enhancing the detail, displaying the luxurious color. I lose myself in the shots for minutes at a time, maybe longer, but Ferry never says a word. As I process, he waits with the patience of Job. I assumed he would’ve been more vocal in the selection, but then again, he chose the selection I’m seeing, so maybe he’s happy with any of my choices. Or maybe he’s waiting for me to eliminate one he thinks should be a strong contender before voicing an opinion. I don’t look at him, so I can’t get a read on what he’s thinking. Instead, I go with my gut and make my final selection for day one without either of us ever saying a word to the other.

There’s some discussion about days three through seven to determine where we want the project to go, what we’re looking for it to depict. We volley back and forth about whether it should start with light or decay. We agree on light to dark as originally planned with filters in the middle, but it took some convincing on Ferry’s part because I don’t want people to see the black as my absolute. I want them to find the light in my kaleidoscope again. He convinced me this is a snapshot of where I have been, not the finality of who I am.

We spend hours going through each day, selecting the photos. We never got to filters before calling it a day. Agreeing to meet back at his studio tomorrow morning, I’m weary, and all I’ve done is stare at a computer screen. Before starting my car, I grab my cell to send Sera a text, having exchanged numbers online. We had planned to get coffee the day after the exhibit, but I haven’t been able to connect with her.

Me
: Just finished at Ferry’s. I had no idea what a process this would be. Wanna grab a quick bite to eat?

Sera
: That would be great. I’m downtown too. How about Rulatta’s on Coffee Street in ten minutes?

Me
: See you then.

Dinner with Sera goes by quickly. She’s fascinating. As I listen to her tales about her travels, I watch her, and I find myself completely enraptured by her expressions—how her face comes to life with each word she utters. She steers clear of anything negative, which endears her to me even more. Anytime something comes up that didn’t go her way, she manages to spin it with a positive, unexpected outcome. I’ve always admired people like that, but I also wonder if it’s truly who they are or if they just hide their reality from the outside world. I can’t get a read on that aspect of Sera. Her body language and the animation she brings to a story make me want to believe it’s who she is, but her eyes tell a different story. There’s something hidden behind them, yet I don’t know her well enough to decipher if she’s disguising pain or sadness…or something else entirely. I try not to dwell on what she’s not telling me in favor of focusing on what she is.

“Your turn,” she says with a gentle smile on her face.

“My turn for what?”

“To tell me about you. Anything you want to share.” I love the way she encourages without pushing.

“What would you like to know?”

“What’s your favorite color?”

I laugh. She doesn’t give a shit about my favorite color. “Blue.”

“Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs.”

“Boxers or briefs?” She giggles.

“What is this, twenty questions? Boxer briefs.”

“No, not twenty questions. I’d love for you to willingly share, open up a bit, but I know you won’t.”

“I will.”

“Bastian, seriously. I know this is really the first time we’ve hung out in person, but we’ve talked endlessly online, and that last question was the most personal you’ve gotten. I’m not gonna bite. I just want to get to know you.” Her words are genuine. I wish she understood this is a huge step for me. I haven’t spent this much time talking to anyone in years—other than Nate, and he sure as hell doesn’t count.

I debate whether to open up to this woman. I want to know her and her me, but I’m not sure at what cost. Sylvie’s been evading my dreams. I miss seeing her, and I wonder if she’ll leave completely if I allow another woman to be present in my life.

The reality is I need some human interaction, so I choose to take the plunge and be honest.

“I’m not good at this, Sera. I’ve been closed off to the world for half a decade. I’ve made huge strides in the last three weeks, but it’s a process I need help with.” She waits patiently for me to proceed. I know the questions she has; they’re the same questions everyone has. “I’ll try to answer any question you have, but
you
will have to ask them, and I’m not guaranteeing an eloquent response.”

“I don’t want to pry, Bastian.” She lowers her gaze to the table.

Sighing, I reach across the table to lift her chin, forcing her green eyes to make contact with mine. “You’re not prying. I just need help. Why don’t we just rip the Band-Aid off and go straight for the gusto. Ask the most prying question in your arsenal.” I reassure her by taking her hand on top of the table with a gentle squeeze.

“Wow. Okay.” She searches for the words to phrase the question that will open up my past. “Why did you quit painting?”

“My wife passed away about five years ago from Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. It was very aggressive and consumed her faster than the doctors could treat her. It was brutal to watch. I can’t imagine the torture she endured.” I have to look away and gather myself before continuing the jaunt down memory lane. Sharing them seems like a betrayal of some sort.

“We grew up together. She was my best friend—well, her and Nate. I’ve always painted from inspiration; usually, I found it in her, at least as an adult. When she left, I lost that part of me. I didn’t even attempt to pick up a brush.

“After the funeral, I came home and rid the house of anything Sylvie. Not because I didn’t want it, but because I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t have her stuff around without her there, too. When I got rid of it, all my canvases, brushes, pallets, oils, acrylics…they all went, too. Without her, there was no me. Without Sylvie, I had no muse, no reason to live, no reason to paint, no reason to do much of anything.” I shrug as if what I just told her was part of the normal grieving process. I don’t want to go any deeper than that, but I doubt she’ll let me off that easy.

“Were you suicidal?” Her eyes round in disbelief over the words escaping her mouth, and then her delicate fingers cover her lips as she waits for my answer.

“I’ve thought about death a lot, but I’m a coward.”

“What do you mean?”

“The pain here in this realm is a known entity. It’s excruciating, but it’s become familiar. I’m always too afraid to pull the trigger for fear it doesn’t end here. If there is an extension of life on the other side of this, wouldn’t I just have to continue to endure what I’m already suffering with? Only in that realm, it would be unfamiliar and even more alone. If I had a definitive answer that there’s nothing more beyond this life than darkness, I might have had a different outcome. I guess the pain never got bad enough to take the chance.” She’s staring at me in utter shock. “I’ve never told anyone that, not even Nate. I’m sorry to have placed such a burden on you.”

“I’m honored you felt like you could tell me. Will you tell me about her?”

“Who? Sylvie?” Perplexed, I wonder why this beautiful woman would have any interest in my dead wife.

“Yes. What was she like?” There’s genuine interest in her question. I don’t see any ulterior motive other than her possibly wanting to give me an outlet to speak freely of someone I love dearly. To honor her memory by sharing it with someone else.

“You really want to hear about her?”

“Absolutely.” The excitement on her face puts a smile on mine.

I tell her the good and the bad, although there was little bad. She had annoying habits like leaving her makeup all over the counter in the bathroom, or when I was in a bad mood, she’d poke the shit out of me until I got so mad I started laughing. I miss her throaty voice, her jazzy old soul. I miss the way she could brighten every day, but more than anything, I just miss the way she loved me. She accepted flaws and all, and in a way, that made me feel she cherished even the negative. She never complained, even in her death, and everyone adored her. I think most of our friends were around because they wanted to be close to her. I just got the benefits of her being my wife. Even when she knew she was dying and in constant pain, she never uttered an adverse word.

Sera doesn’t ask for details about how Sylvie died, which is a relief. I’m not sure I’m ready to relive those memories just yet, but I’m sure at some point, I’ll have to tell her. Those months changed me. They made me angry and resentful, then they just left me desolate and without fight. The truth is, I can’t blame it all on her illness or her death. I’ve made the choice day in and day out to allow it to consume me, to wallow in self-pity, immerse myself in death.

When she died, she took the best of me with her.