(no subject)
The Documentary Artist
By Jaime Manrique
Part V
Final Segment
(For previous segments, see journal. DO NOT READ THIS without reading the other parts. Spoilers like crazy.)
Several months went by. I won't say that I forgot about Sebastian completely in the interval, but life intervened. I finished my documentary that summer. In the fall, it was shown by some public television stations to generally good reviews but low ratings.
One night, a month ago, I decided to go see a movie that everyone was talking about. Because it was rather late, the theater was almost empty. A couple of young people on a date sat in the row ahead of me and there were other patrons scattered throughout the big house.
the movie, set in Brooklyn, was gloomy and arty, but the performers and the cinematography held my interest and I didnt feel like going back home yet, so I stayed. Toward the end of the movie there is a scene in which the main character barges into a bar, riding a motorcycle. Except for the bartender and a sailor sitting at the counter, the bar is empty. the camera pans sowly from right to left, and there, wearing a sailor suit, is Sebastian. He slowly turns around and stared into the camera and consequently into the audience. The moment lasts two, maybe three seconds and I was so surprised, I gasped. Seeing Sebastian unexpectedly rattled me so much I had trouble remaining in my seat until the movie ended.
I called Sebastian's parents early the next morning. This time, his mother answered. I introduced myself, and, to my surprise, she remembered me. I told her about what had happened the night before and how it had made me realize I hadn't seen or heard from their son in quite some time.
"Actually, I'm very glad you called," she said softly, in a voice that wasw girlish but vibrant with emotions. "Sebastian passed away six weeks ago. We have one of his movie tapes that I thought of sending you since your encouragement meant so much to him."
Then she told me the details of Sebastian's death: he had been found on a bench in Central Park and had apparently died of pneumonia and acute anemia. Fortunately, he still carried some ID with him so the police were able to track down his parents. In his knapsack, they had found a movie tape labeled The Hunger Artist.
I asked her if she had seen it.
"I tried to, but it was too painful," she sighed.
"I'd be honored to recieve it; I assure you I'll always treasure it," I said.
We chatted for a short while about it and then, after I gave her my address, we said good-bye. A few days later, on my way to school, I found the tape in my mailbox. I carried it with me all day long, and decided to wait until I got home that night to watch it.
After dinner, I sat down to watch Sebastian's last film. On a piece of cardboard, scrawled in childish, gothic calligraphy and big characters, appeared THE HUNGER ARTIST BY SEBASTIAN X. INSPIRED BY THE STORY OF MR. FRANZ KAFKA.
The film opened with an extreme closeup of Sebastian. I realized he must have started shooting when he was still in school because he looked healthy, his complexion was good, and his eyes were limpid. Millimetrically,the camera studies his features: the right eye, the left one, pursed lips, followed by a wide-open smile that flashes two rows of teeth in good condition. Next we see Sebastian's ears, and, finally, in a characteristic Sebastian touch, the camera looks into his nostrils. One of the nostrils is filled with snot.
I stopped the film. I was shaking. I have films and tapes of relatives and friends who are dead, and when I look at them I experience a deep ocean of bittersweetness. After they've been dead for a while, the feelings that we have are stirring but resolved; theres no torment in them. However, seeing Sebastian's face on the screen staring at me, I experienced the feeling I've always had for the old actors I love passionately, even though they died before I was born. It was, for example, like the perfection of the love I felt for Leslie Howard in Pygmalion, although I didn't see that movie until I was grown up.
I could not deny any more that I had been in love with Sebastian; that I had stifled my passion for him because I knew I could never fulfill it. Thats why I denied the nature of my concern for him.
I pressed the play button, and the film continued. Anything was better than what I was feeling.
Now the camera pulls back, and we see him sitting in a lotus position, wearing shorts. On the wall behind him, there is a sign that reads, THE ARTIST HAS GONE TWO HOURS WITHOUT EATING. WORLD RECORD!
There is a cut to the audience. A woman with long green hair, lots of mascara, and purple eye shadow, her lips painted in a grotesque way, chews gum, blows it like a baseball player, and sips a Diet Coke. She nods approvingly all the time. The camera cuts to Sebastian staring at her impassively.
Repeating this pattern, we see a man in a three-piece suit - an executive type watching the artist and taking notes. He's followed by a buxom blonde bedecked with huge costume jewelry; shes pecking at a large box of popcorn dripping with butter and drinking a beer. She wears white silk gloves.
We see at least a half a dozen people, each one individually - Sebastian plays them all. this sequence ends with hands clapping. As the spectators exit the room, they leave money in a dirty ashtray. The gloved hand leaves a card that says, If you ever get really hungry, call me! This part of the film, shot in garish, neon colors, has, however, the feel of an early film; it is silent.
The camera cuts to the face of Peter Jennings, who is doing the evening news. We cannot hear what he says. Cut again to Sebastian in a lotus position. Cut to the headline: ARTIST BREAKS HUNGER RECORD: 24 HOURS WITHOUT EATING!
The next time we see the fasting artist, he's in the streets and the photography is in black and white. For soundtrack we hear sirens blaring, fire trucks screeching, buses idling, huge trucks braking, cars speeding, honking and crashing, cranes demolishing gigantic structures. This part of the film must have been shot when Sebastian was already homeless. He must have carried his camera in his knapsack, or he must have rented one, but it's clear that whatever money he used panhandling, he used to make the film. In this portion he uses a handheld camera to stress the documentary feeling. I can only imagine that he used street people to operate the camera for him.
Sebastian's deterioration speeds up; his clothes become soiled and tattered, his disguises at this point are less convincing - it must be nearly impossible for a starving person to impersonate someone else. His cheeks are sunken, his pupils shine like the eyes of a feral animal in the dark. The headlines read: 54 DAYS WITHOUT EATING....102 DAYS.....111 DAYS. Instead of clapping hands, we see a single hand in motion; it makes a gesture as if it were shooing the artist away.
Sebastian disappears from the film. We have footage of people in soup lines and the homeless scavenging in garbage cans. An interview with a homeless person ends the film. We don't see the face of the person conducting the interview but the voice is Sebastians. He reads passages from Kafka's story to a homeless woman and asks her to comment. She replies with a soundless laughter that exposes her diseased gums.
I pressed the rewind button and sat in my chair in a stupor. I felt shattered by the realization that what I don't know about what lies in my own heart is much greater than anything else I do know about it. I was so stunned and so drained that I hardly had the energy to get up and walk to the VCR to remove the tape.
Later that night, still upset, I decided to go for a walk. It was one of those cold, blustery nights of late autumn, but its gloominess suited my mood. A glacial wind howled, skittering up and down the deserted streets of Gotham. I trudged around until the tip of my nose was an icicle. As I kept walking in a southerly direction, getting closer and closer to the southernmost point of the island, I was aware of the late hour and how the "normal" citizens of New York were, for the most part, at home, warmed by their fires, seeking escape in a book or the TV, or finding solace in the arms of their loved one or the caresses of strangers.
I kept walking on and on, passing along the way the homeless who on a night like this chose to stay outside or couldn't find room in a shelter. As I passed them in the dark streets, I did so without my usual fear or repugnance. I kept pressing foward, into the narrowing alleys, going toward the phasmagorical lament of the arctic wind sweeping over the Hudson, powerless over the mammoth steel structures of this city.
By Jaime Manrique
Part V
Final Segment
(For previous segments, see journal. DO NOT READ THIS without reading the other parts. Spoilers like crazy.)
Several months went by. I won't say that I forgot about Sebastian completely in the interval, but life intervened. I finished my documentary that summer. In the fall, it was shown by some public television stations to generally good reviews but low ratings.
One night, a month ago, I decided to go see a movie that everyone was talking about. Because it was rather late, the theater was almost empty. A couple of young people on a date sat in the row ahead of me and there were other patrons scattered throughout the big house.
the movie, set in Brooklyn, was gloomy and arty, but the performers and the cinematography held my interest and I didnt feel like going back home yet, so I stayed. Toward the end of the movie there is a scene in which the main character barges into a bar, riding a motorcycle. Except for the bartender and a sailor sitting at the counter, the bar is empty. the camera pans sowly from right to left, and there, wearing a sailor suit, is Sebastian. He slowly turns around and stared into the camera and consequently into the audience. The moment lasts two, maybe three seconds and I was so surprised, I gasped. Seeing Sebastian unexpectedly rattled me so much I had trouble remaining in my seat until the movie ended.
I called Sebastian's parents early the next morning. This time, his mother answered. I introduced myself, and, to my surprise, she remembered me. I told her about what had happened the night before and how it had made me realize I hadn't seen or heard from their son in quite some time.
"Actually, I'm very glad you called," she said softly, in a voice that wasw girlish but vibrant with emotions. "Sebastian passed away six weeks ago. We have one of his movie tapes that I thought of sending you since your encouragement meant so much to him."
Then she told me the details of Sebastian's death: he had been found on a bench in Central Park and had apparently died of pneumonia and acute anemia. Fortunately, he still carried some ID with him so the police were able to track down his parents. In his knapsack, they had found a movie tape labeled The Hunger Artist.
I asked her if she had seen it.
"I tried to, but it was too painful," she sighed.
"I'd be honored to recieve it; I assure you I'll always treasure it," I said.
We chatted for a short while about it and then, after I gave her my address, we said good-bye. A few days later, on my way to school, I found the tape in my mailbox. I carried it with me all day long, and decided to wait until I got home that night to watch it.
After dinner, I sat down to watch Sebastian's last film. On a piece of cardboard, scrawled in childish, gothic calligraphy and big characters, appeared THE HUNGER ARTIST BY SEBASTIAN X. INSPIRED BY THE STORY OF MR. FRANZ KAFKA.
The film opened with an extreme closeup of Sebastian. I realized he must have started shooting when he was still in school because he looked healthy, his complexion was good, and his eyes were limpid. Millimetrically,the camera studies his features: the right eye, the left one, pursed lips, followed by a wide-open smile that flashes two rows of teeth in good condition. Next we see Sebastian's ears, and, finally, in a characteristic Sebastian touch, the camera looks into his nostrils. One of the nostrils is filled with snot.
I stopped the film. I was shaking. I have films and tapes of relatives and friends who are dead, and when I look at them I experience a deep ocean of bittersweetness. After they've been dead for a while, the feelings that we have are stirring but resolved; theres no torment in them. However, seeing Sebastian's face on the screen staring at me, I experienced the feeling I've always had for the old actors I love passionately, even though they died before I was born. It was, for example, like the perfection of the love I felt for Leslie Howard in Pygmalion, although I didn't see that movie until I was grown up.
I could not deny any more that I had been in love with Sebastian; that I had stifled my passion for him because I knew I could never fulfill it. Thats why I denied the nature of my concern for him.
I pressed the play button, and the film continued. Anything was better than what I was feeling.
Now the camera pulls back, and we see him sitting in a lotus position, wearing shorts. On the wall behind him, there is a sign that reads, THE ARTIST HAS GONE TWO HOURS WITHOUT EATING. WORLD RECORD!
There is a cut to the audience. A woman with long green hair, lots of mascara, and purple eye shadow, her lips painted in a grotesque way, chews gum, blows it like a baseball player, and sips a Diet Coke. She nods approvingly all the time. The camera cuts to Sebastian staring at her impassively.
Repeating this pattern, we see a man in a three-piece suit - an executive type watching the artist and taking notes. He's followed by a buxom blonde bedecked with huge costume jewelry; shes pecking at a large box of popcorn dripping with butter and drinking a beer. She wears white silk gloves.
We see at least a half a dozen people, each one individually - Sebastian plays them all. this sequence ends with hands clapping. As the spectators exit the room, they leave money in a dirty ashtray. The gloved hand leaves a card that says, If you ever get really hungry, call me! This part of the film, shot in garish, neon colors, has, however, the feel of an early film; it is silent.
The camera cuts to the face of Peter Jennings, who is doing the evening news. We cannot hear what he says. Cut again to Sebastian in a lotus position. Cut to the headline: ARTIST BREAKS HUNGER RECORD: 24 HOURS WITHOUT EATING!
The next time we see the fasting artist, he's in the streets and the photography is in black and white. For soundtrack we hear sirens blaring, fire trucks screeching, buses idling, huge trucks braking, cars speeding, honking and crashing, cranes demolishing gigantic structures. This part of the film must have been shot when Sebastian was already homeless. He must have carried his camera in his knapsack, or he must have rented one, but it's clear that whatever money he used panhandling, he used to make the film. In this portion he uses a handheld camera to stress the documentary feeling. I can only imagine that he used street people to operate the camera for him.
Sebastian's deterioration speeds up; his clothes become soiled and tattered, his disguises at this point are less convincing - it must be nearly impossible for a starving person to impersonate someone else. His cheeks are sunken, his pupils shine like the eyes of a feral animal in the dark. The headlines read: 54 DAYS WITHOUT EATING....102 DAYS.....111 DAYS. Instead of clapping hands, we see a single hand in motion; it makes a gesture as if it were shooing the artist away.
Sebastian disappears from the film. We have footage of people in soup lines and the homeless scavenging in garbage cans. An interview with a homeless person ends the film. We don't see the face of the person conducting the interview but the voice is Sebastians. He reads passages from Kafka's story to a homeless woman and asks her to comment. She replies with a soundless laughter that exposes her diseased gums.
I pressed the rewind button and sat in my chair in a stupor. I felt shattered by the realization that what I don't know about what lies in my own heart is much greater than anything else I do know about it. I was so stunned and so drained that I hardly had the energy to get up and walk to the VCR to remove the tape.
Later that night, still upset, I decided to go for a walk. It was one of those cold, blustery nights of late autumn, but its gloominess suited my mood. A glacial wind howled, skittering up and down the deserted streets of Gotham. I trudged around until the tip of my nose was an icicle. As I kept walking in a southerly direction, getting closer and closer to the southernmost point of the island, I was aware of the late hour and how the "normal" citizens of New York were, for the most part, at home, warmed by their fires, seeking escape in a book or the TV, or finding solace in the arms of their loved one or the caresses of strangers.
I kept walking on and on, passing along the way the homeless who on a night like this chose to stay outside or couldn't find room in a shelter. As I passed them in the dark streets, I did so without my usual fear or repugnance. I kept pressing foward, into the narrowing alleys, going toward the phasmagorical lament of the arctic wind sweeping over the Hudson, powerless over the mammoth steel structures of this city.