IA Show: There's No Place Like London
He steadied the lens and framed the shot, making sure to capture the façade in all its ethereal beauty. He waited a minute for the clouds to pass over and the light of the sun to strike the reliefs at just the right angle. Satisfied, he pocketed that quiet moment in time with a soft click of his shutter. He would later pull it out from time to time while making his way home to Osaka. The image had a strange gravity that he could not explain. It would soon draw him to frame a glossy print which he could then place upon his kamidana, opposite the now two-year-old portrait of his late wife. As he would explain it, he was able to worship before two of the most sacred sites he knew during his prayers each morning. And each morning he would remark on the curious presence of a single tiny figure, walking along the bottom of the frame, forever astride the topmost step of Chartes cathedral. A man in a red shirt, alone in his redness, the spires rising precipitously above him. He would wonder who this man was and where he might be now. He would wonder whether the man had been as humbled as he by the structure which still dwarfs him. He would wonder if the man was still alone in his redness.
The next time the man wore red was two hundred and fifty miles away, walking on the outskirts of Covent Garden at night in search of the place he had since come to call home. He was alone in his redness, but he was not alone. He was accompanied by two lady friends now, and was in the presence of yet another pair, Max the oboeist and Judy the cellist, on their way home from the Royal Opera House. He had received the directions he needed from Max only but a few minutes ago and yet was already discussing with him the prospect of meeting up for drinks after a ballet the upcoming week. He was in love with his uniquely British mannerisms and was not used to such friendliness from strangers back home. He chuckled as Max apologized not once but twice for swearing at the bitterly cold weather. After the two groups parted ways and as he walked away into the night, listening in on conservation of L. Ron Hubbard and E.E. Cummings, both dead, he did not know he would not see Max again.
The night of the ballet Max was seated at a table in an Indian restaurant, unaware that his absence from the orchestra was at that moment a subject of inquiry. He had jumped through all of the hoops necessary to get the night off, weeks in advance. His plans had not, however, included staring at an origami napkin swan swimming on the plate opposite his, the empty seat behind it out of focus. “It’s something I’ve picked up from my daughter. She’s made three hundred and fifty already.” Max’s gaze was broken. “She’s folding cranes of course, but I enjoy the graceful form of a swan.” A slim Indian man with a thin smile and a distant look on his face was standing over him. “They’re a bit easier to make with these bulky napkins too.” Max smiled and placed his order. For the duration of his meal, he imagined the swan in flight, himself on its back, diving with finesse through the window of a California flat, grabbing Alex by the hand and refusing to let go. His meal finished, his reverie dissipating, Max folded his own napkin expertly back into a twin swan. When the waiter came to collect the check, Max handed his swan to him. “For your daughter. I hope she gets well soon.” Max then stood up and walked out the door, singing to himself, “merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…”
The hour was late and closing time had just arrived. The waiter was sitting alone at one of the tables. He had not seated anyone since that peculiar man about an hour ago. During this idle time he had left the swan on the register counter. He had several times caught himself staring at it intently just as the man had done. It was an awful pain that kept his eyes upon the swan. If only I could have the same faith, he thought. When he finally left the restaurant for the night he grabbed the swan on his way out. He set two red waste bags down on the curb and hesitated before perching the swan between them. He did not look back as he walked on into the cold night. Wait and see, wait and see, he thought. Wait and see.
The swan rested there until morning, when the binman stopped to collect the two red bags. He almost didn’t notice it, only something small and white tip over in the periphery of his vision as he hoisted the bags into the truck. He turned to see what it was and saw the swan on its side. He might have left it there but he instinctively picked it up, not carefully and by a single fold. The napkin unfurled in his hand and from where there might have once been wings had the swan seen fit to spread them out fell two fifty pound notes. “‘urry it up, eh? We do have a schedule you know,” the driver shouted. The binman quickly pocketed the notes and hopped back on the truck. For the rest of the day, his mind was at ease. He could actually afford to shut up his landlord another week while he waited for something to sell. After he got off work in the afternoon, he quickly popped into a supply store and bought a few tubes of paint. Today was the day he would finally finish that Claude. It was not since he left Paris that he had completed a master. The National Gallery was a far cry from the Louvre, but he had known that he would have to make some sacrifices if he was ever going to make enough money to open his own gallery some day. Today, it did not matter. He carried his easel and paints through the door with a spring in his step.
The man was not alone in his color anymore. Every color he could imagine was in this very room with him from the deepest, most vibrant red to lapis lazuli blue. As he slowly circumnavigated the walls, studying each artwork with the utmost reverence, he became entranced by an artist painting a landscape in the corner. The artist’s seemingly scientific mixing of hues and swift and sure application of each brush stroke fascinated him. This, this is what I’ll do, he thought, I’ll paint the world, my world. I will be an artist. No… I am an artist.
The man knew color and color knew him and he was never alone again.