Post by GARRETT SALVADOR FLICK on Dec 19, 2010 22:53:57 GMT -5
GARRETT SALVADOR FLICK
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N/A , 21 , NYC CITIZEN , ASHLEY
048. Perfect backbone. It looks so good in naked sunlight. Morning light always makes the human body so beautiful, this is why I paint in the mornings, this is why I have my subject stand there, her clothes on the floor. I am a painter of women. I am the new Klimt.
I pace around, circling like a vulture eyeing her heart and lungs and liver. I lay down colors and subtle curves that could only be hers. She lets me capture the slow, thundering of her chest and the faults of her skin, strands of stray hair that mark highways down her back. Her shoulder blades are beautiful too.
003. Her laughter is strong and infectious. She comes in and her laughter is rattling her ribcage like jail bars. She lets me strip her down before I head to the canvas. Stride, walk, bend the elbow. Turn waist, look at me, stretch out, this is what she does, trying to find a pose.
"Be natural," I say. "Don't be nervous." I smile, pushing my hair back and making my first marks. This is the thing about women that frightens me.
"I'm not the nervous one." She returns a polite smile, but, oh, I know. I know. And she is settling herself, unraveling me. I am still young.
021. Rebecca. Rebecca insists on calling me Mister Flick though I am sure she is older than me. She insists on proper hello's and nice to meet you's and this will not be all day, correct? I have other matters to attend to's.
But I keep her canvas not because it is the most beautiful, or because it was a new style, a breakthrough, it is because she is the most frail. Her body speaks through the freckles that dot her back, the hollow of her back. She is the holder of a peculiar scar on the back of her neck. She will not tell me how or why.
Out of all, she says the least, her mouth closed tight, just a line on her face, drawn on with red lipstick. But everything about her speaks, this is why I keep her.
When we were younger, mother roamed about with her wine glass and chiffon robe. She floats over the floor; she makes me wonder if I am the product of something out of this world. The curve of her breasts, wonderfully perky, like perfect hills, the darker skin of her nipples--she does not hide. "Darling, come talk to me." It is as if she wanted us to see the skin of her thighs, as if we would want to peel it off her.
Do you know what you say? Yes, mother. Did you call for your brothers? Complete all your assignments? This weekend we are to visit my mother's, you are not to cause a scene with her or your cousins. Yes, mother. I did not really do all these things, you see, I just say I do. You tack on the please when she chides about manners. Please and thank you. Please, please, please. This is what she wants you to say when she is sucking you off. She makes me feel like a man.
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I have a father, he is a sad man. We are an old family, made fortunes selling arms during the World Wars, we are an industry. There is a machine inside all of us, installed in the factories. My father is still in the business--I do not know how he met my mother, she is beautiful and young and free.
They tossed around love like they did money, in that sort of grossly distorted way that makes you see everything inside out. "I love you dear, don't you love mother dearest? Garrett, I've always--you're to love your brothers, didn't you know? They're your blood. Kiss darling, sweet dreams, remember I--loved you more than your father, more than anyone, that's my boy." 3D-glasses that gives you headaches, one eye blue the other red. It makes you see cells and guts and tumors and you're just immune after a while.
There are three boys. I am the oldest. I have two younger brothers, Braddock and Caesar. They are twins and play duets on the piano still. I don't deny we are brothers, because there in our blood lies the most complex interpersonal relationship that we will search out all our lives, but sie verstehen nicht. They are them and I am me.
You feel so distant, galaxies away from anything recognizable. I am wrapped in plastic and tucked away behind glass. This is how I feel when I cannot sleep. Lorazepam, Flurazepam, Zolpiden, Seconal, and Alprazolam. I take and take and take. I keep pill bottles and stare at ceilings and stuff my hands into my pillow. Dreaming is dangerous and during the day I cannot keep still. "Stop fidgeting, act like the man you're supposed to be. You are not five, may I remind you." I continue to move as I pass through my two-minute sleeps--I don't want to see what I want because that is what dreams are.
I leave them, as all things leave them.
