chapter One, continued

to read from the FIRST CHAPTER

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EPISODE 2

"For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life; in this way, not to evade destiny, as the ordinary people try to do, but to fulfill it in its true potential - the imagination."

Lawrence Durrell in Justine, 1957

'At your age' -- but I don't think I know my son's age exactly, Carlo thought -- 'or perhaps younger, I used to be a penniless painter.' 

And homeless too, since I had to leave the room I had been sharing, after I graduated from the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris.

My ex-roommate, who had left on a one year trip around the globe, being wealthy, and utmostly generous, paid my rent for another couple of months -- "to give you time to figure out what you want to do", he had suggested.

I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to paint. But I guess he referred to getting a job, or going back to the Apennines, where my grandfather still waited for my return to help him with the crops.

I decided to spend all my money on a new easel, plenty of canvases and painting supplies, and so I could not afford paying the rent after that courteous period ended.

But sleeping rough did not concern me. What I wanted most was to have a small studio, an atelier for myself.

I found shelter in an abandoned factory, very conveniently located in the decaying food packing district.

I wasn't exactly hungered, but my diet consisted mostly of the leftovers 

from the neighboring factories -- lots of canned soup and stale bread, haha!

'Are you telling me... you were that poor? That you didn't have enough food, Carlo?' -- I was astonished. There had never been one single word about this period of my father's life. Had Catherine known about any of this, I wondered... Knowing her, she could have hidden it because she might have been ashamed of her partner's poorness. 

I wanted to ask, but had no chance, for Carlo was no longer before me, but living in his past.

'I would say I had just enough food to survive, Laurent... I was eating only once a day, or every other day, depending on what I found to eat...'

But don't get me wrong! I couldn't be any happier!

I was free!

I had no teacher, no boss, no one to follow nor obey! No marching orders! 

And I was allowed to paint all day and night long, day after day...

My narrow, squeaking bed was just beside the easel, and I would alternate periods of resting, usually during the day, with longer periods of painting. The glasses on most windows in the factory were broken, and there was always a lovely breeze roaming the room.

There was even running water -- though it would frequently smell to rust, sewage and dead rats -- and if the days had been warm and sunny, in the evenings the water in the pipes would not be so cold and I could shower.

I loved the night time for painting, because the district was calmer then 

-- the whole world seemed at peace, with people silenced and lost to their sleep and dreams, keeping their agonies and wrongdoings all to themselves, in another realm.

And there was very little light in the factory, too, just a couple of lamps that still worked, and the effect of such dark surroundings was that my paintings gained in contrast, in vibrancy and intensity of lines and textures.

They were never gloomier. 

I was depiciting cracked walls, burnt tires, broken windows, 

all the beautiful decadence of weathering and damage I found around me.

And in retrospect, I was never again as satisfied with my paintings.

I guess you could very appropriately call them 'still life'. My own life was still like a calm lake, and I was painting the images I saw reflected on its surface.

I never left the factory unless to gather food, the first couple of months, and never met another person.

What a privilege to be completely silent! Have you ever experienced that, Laurent?

No small talk, no deep conversations, nothing! The sound of my breath and my heartbeat, these only were keeping me company.

The patio next to the factory was my whole world, where I spent a few hours outdoors every day, reading, sunbathing, doing pushups.

And meditating.

My ex-roommate from the École had visited India on one of his holidays and brought with him some techniques I was so lucky to learn.

At the end of each sitting session, I would daily pray for the happiness of all beings, and I felt at peace.

'I had no idea, Carlo!' -- I exclaimed, but only after my father's silence had been long enough, indicating that he did not want to talk any further -- 'I've never heard none of this before, nor saw it published anywhere. How come?' -- it would only fill the gaps in his catalogues' biographies, that I confess I had been reading along the years to keep up with my father's story -- 'It would add up so much to your reputation of being a reclusive master!' -- I had decided to tease him a bit, to bring him out of his mutism -- 'I think you know you are often compared to Balthus...'

'Balthus once declared painting was a form of prayer.' -- Carlo retorted -- 'I wish I had said that first. Or maybe I have, but no one heard it... since I had been talking only to myself, haha! But I guess that's the only thing we have in common! As for being a master, that only means I'm getting old and soon I'll have to teach the young, if there are any volunteers, and that my artistic identity is frozen, because art critics have come to respect or fear me! I feel like a mummy when they call me 'master'!'

'I was thinking more on your reclusion than on your 'mastery', Carlo' -- I teased him further -- 'I'm sorry if I mentioned Balthus. But like him, you now have a painting that was bought for over a million dollars. And you are often compared to Morandi, too. How about that?'

'That's the greatest compliment ever made to me. Being compared to Morandi, ha! Might be because we are both Italian? Apart from that, I hate comparisons! And I'm happy to hear you've taken interest in my career, Laurent.' -- Carlo seemed touched -- 'As for the million dollar painting, that has happened just once yet, and believe me, I didn't get all that money.'

'I hate comparisons too, Carlo. I know how that feels. But in my case it's not Balthus nor Morandi' -- I sighed -- 'I'm often being compared to you! I'm always the son of the great painter. It sucks! And the day I publish my first book I know I'll be compared to Catherine, and turned into the son of the best-selling author.' -- after I had finished my ranting, that Carlo had listened with his eyebrows raised, I felt ashamed and changed the subject -- 'But let's return to your story, Carlo... I'm fascinated!'

'If it feels so bad, you're still young enough to try to become a chef or a surgeon. How about those, Laurent?' -- Carlo confronted me -- 'Nothing has been imposed on you, I think. You've always been the handsome prince roaming freely through life... That sounded arrogant and spoiled... and I hope you are not!' -- there was no anger in his voice, just some worry that I had become a different person from the kid he had been raising until 13 years old -- 'As for my story... fascinated, are you son? How fascinating do you think a clogged toilet is ? Or having to dig through trash for food? I'm pretty sure you've never had those experiences, Laurent...'

I did not have food to eat more than once daily, but instead I had to unclog the toilet every time I used it -- again, not so often, because I did not eat much, haha! -- and nevertheless I was happy, so happy to be free, to be on my own, to be left alone!

You have no idea how my solitude was -- and still is -- so very important to me, Laurent.

I knew I could not live like that for the rest of my life, but I was just trying to live day by day and not worry about the rest of my life. Nor the rest of the year; not about the next day, even.

Hunger? 

As I was becoming thinner and thinner, my private joke was that in the end I could always make money posing for Giacometti. Haha! But there was no one but me to laugh at my jokes.

Every once in a while I would startle to some noise -- I was afraid of invasions,

for there used to be lots of homeless people in the neighborhood, some of them violent and dangerous and more desperate than me -- but usually it were only rats or bats or cats in their errands.

And so I painted, day and night, night and day, as if my life depended on that, and not on food.

Actually, painting was more nourishing to me than the canned soup and the stale bread.

Painting was like a prayer, it was similar to my meditation, where I was praying for the well being of all forms of life.

That was so beautifully nourishing, too. I felt thoroughly at peace and fulfilled,

even when my pockets and my stomach were empty.

Sleeping seemed to me like a waste of time, a waste of the precious and fragile freedom I had just acquired -- and in time it became a problem too, as Summer gave way to Autumn.

A cold and rainy season started, and I could not go outdoors daily anymore.

And of course it rained inside the factory, rain leaking from the ceiling, mold growing on the walls, and the wind filled the room through the broken windows with a vicious smell of old burned wood and wet tires.

I could be hungry, but on top of that being cold was starting to weaken me.

Food poisoning became constant, and I realized I was getting seriously sick. 

I had eaten too often from rusted cans, saying to myself there wasn't any real problem. Not to mention the moldy bread that had been my sole starter for so many months.

Not just thinning, I had to face I was debilitated.

The romantic days of breathing and eating Painting were over. 

But I still just didn't want to give them up! Returning to my former peasantry in the Apennines did not seem only like defeat -- abandoning my Art had seemed like death to me.

But now I was facing real death.

In my meditation sessions, that I now had to do indoors, I started praying not only for the happiness of all beings, but for a miracle that would change my situation.

Even if I calmed my mind and heart, my head was constantly aching, and so were my lungs. Concentrating on my breathing was not pleasant anymore, because I had to listen to the gasping sounds that my breathing had become. It was the sound of my own agony.

I started seeing bellow the calm waters of my still life, seeing that it hadn't remained still at all. The muck had surfaced.

You can't imagine the things I did to remain free. 

To stick to my idea of freedom. 

Because I didn't want to work in the atelier of some famous painter as a helper -- that might have diverted me from my own expressive ways, that I had just started discovering, now that I was all on my own -- and I did not consider looking for a job in a factory nor in a shop.

I didn't know it then, but I was enslaved by my freedom.

Trying to attain a way of living that had never been sustainable.

That was the terrible truth I had to face.

In bed, before I dozed into sleep, I secretly indulged in fantasies where marchands would get lost in town and bump into the factory and discover my work...

I wished they'd visit the atelier. You know, over time that abandoned factory had became my atelier... But how could they? Nobody knew where I was. I hadn't seen another person in months.

With winter approaching, I knew it was more than time to face the world outside. And get a life and my health back.

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for more information on the visual artists mentioned in this chapter please visit My Notebook