Short Fiction · An Artist’s Life (1/3)

An Artist’s Life

A busman’s holiday. A real busman’s holiday. I stay on the moon for a year, I paint pictures there for three hundred and sixty-five days⁠—then the first thing I do back on Earth is go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at more paintings. Brent smiled to himself. It had better be worthwhile.

He looked up the immense stretch of granite steps. They shimmered slightly in the intense August sun. He took a deep breath and shifted the cane to his right hand. Slowly he dragged himself up the steps⁠ ⁠… they seemed to stretch away into the oven like infinity.

He was almost there⁠ ⁠… a few more steps would do it. The cane caught between two of the steps, shifting his balance, and he was suddenly falling.

The woman standing in the shade at the top of the steps screamed. She had watched since he first climbed out of the cab. Brent Dalgreen, the famous painter, everyone recognized the tanned young face under bristly hair burned silver white by the raw radiation of space. The papers had told how his stay on the moon had weakened his muscles from low gravity. He had climbed painfully up the steps and now he was rolling hopelessly down them. She screamed again and again.

They carried him into the first aid room. “Gravity weakness,” he told the nurse. “I’ll be all right.”

She tested him for broken bones and frowned when her hand touched his skin. She took his temperature, her eyes widened and she glanced at him with a frightened look.

“I know,” he said. “It’s much higher than normal. Don’t let it worry you though, the fever isn’t due to the fall; in fact, it’s probably the other way around.”

“I’ll have to enter it in my report, just in case there’s any trouble.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. I don’t want the fact to leak out that I’m not as well as I should be. If you’ll call Dr. Grayber in the Medical Arts Building you’ll find that this condition is not new. The museum will have no worry about their responsibility as to my health.”

It would make wonderful copy for the scandal sheets. “Moon painter dying⁠ ⁠… Gives life for art.” It wasn’t at all like that. He had known there was danger from radiation sickness; in the beginning he had been very careful to be out in his spacesuit only the prescribed length of time. That was before he ran into the trouble.

There had been a feeling about the moon that he just couldn’t capture. He had almost succeeded in one painting⁠—then lost it again forever. It was the feeling of the haunted empty places, the stark extremes of the plains and boulders. It was an alien sensation that had killed him before he could imprison it in oil.

The critics had thought his paintings were unique, wonderful, just what they had always thought the moon would be like. That was exactly his trouble. The airless satellite wasn’t at all like that. It was different⁠—so different that he could never capture the difference. Now he was going to die, a failure in the only thing he had really wanted to do.

The radiation fever was in him, eating away at his blood and bones. In a few months it would destroy him. He had been too reckless those last months, fighting against time. He had tried and failed⁠ ⁠… it was as simple as that.

The nurse put the phone down, frowning.

“I’ve checked and what you say is true, Mr. Dalgreen. I won’t put it in my report if that’s what you want.” She helped him up.

The moon was out of his thoughts later as one canvas after another swam into his vision. He bathed his senses in the collected art of the ages. This was his life, and he was enjoying it to the utmost, trying to make up for his year’s absence from the world. The Greek marbles soothed his mind and the Rembrandt portraits wakened his interest once again. He marvelled at the fact that after all the years he could still wander through these halls and have his interest recaptured. But he also wanted to see what the moderns were doing. The elevator took him to the Contemporary Wing.

Almost at once, his quiet enjoyment was broken by the painting. It was an autumn landscape, a representative example of the Classic-modern school that had been so popular for the last few years. However it had something else, an undefinable strangeness about it.

His legs were beginning to tremble again; he knew that he had better rest for a few minutes.

Brent sat on the wide lounge on the main staircase, cracking his knuckles, his mind whirling in circles as he rapidly introspected himself into a headache. There was no one thing in that painting that he could put his mental finger on, but it had upset him. It was disturbing him emotionally; something about the picture didn’t quite ring true. He knew there was a logical evaluation of a painting, just as there was a logical evaluation of any material object, but that wasn’t the trouble, he was sure. Equally, there was an emotional evaluation⁠—more of a sensation or feeling; and this was where the trouble lay. Everyone has felt pleasure or interest at one time or another when looking at any form of visual art. A magazine photo, drawing or even a well-designed building could generate an emotional pattern. Brent was attempting to analyze such a sensation now, a next to impossible job. The only coherent thought he could muster on the subject was: “There is something subtly wrong with that picture.”

Suddenly he had the answer. It came in a second, as if revealed by some hidden source of insight. Perhaps his recent stay on the moon helped the idea to form; it had a relationship to things he had experienced there. It brought to mind the cinder plains that had never felt the foot of man. The sensation could be expressed by one word⁠—alienness.

In the eternal lifelessness of the silent lunar wastes this sensation had a place. But how did it get into the polite autumn landscape? What twist in the mind of the painter enabled him to capture this strange feeling on canvas? Brent cursed himself softly. This wasn’t a painting of an alien landscape. It was an Autumn in the Woods landscape painted by a man who didn’t understand his topic. A man with an odd way of looking at things. A painter who could look at the bustling life of a fall day and capture the eternal death of a lifeless satellite.

Brent leaned forward on his cane, his heart beating in tempo with his swirling thoughts. He had to find this artist. He would talk to him, reason with him⁠—beat him if necessary⁠ ⁠… he must find out the man’s secret. The thought of his coming death sat like a cold black weight in his body. To die without knowing how to capture that sensation on canvas!

He had killed himself searching for it⁠—to no avail. Yet all the time here on Earth was the man who had the knowledge he sought. The bitter irony of it swirled his head with madness.

The insane thoughts seeped away slowly. He sat on the couch until he was rested enough to trust himself on his feet. He had to find the man.

Down in the right hand corner of the picture in the shadow of a rock was the signature, Arthur Di Costa, printed with wide, sweeping strokes. Brent had never heard the name before but this fact was not unusual in itself. Real artists were a retiring crew. They labored in back rooms and old garages, filling canvas after canvas for their own satisfaction. Their work might never be shown until long after they were dead⁠—dead.

That word kept intruding in his thoughts. He turned angrily and walked towards the guard who leaned casually on a sworl of abstractionist sculpture.

“Shore, mister,” the guard answered. “You’ll find the curator in his office⁠—the door there behind them old hangings.”

“Thanks,” Brent muttered, and followed the course indicated by a meaty finger. He found an alcove partially concealed by the luxurious draperies. It contained a photoelectric water fountain and a neomarble door bearing the legend, G. Andrew Kinnent⁠—Curator, Contemporary Wing. He pushed open the door and stepped into the receptionist’s office. She looked up from her typewriter.

“My name is Brent Dalgreen; I would like to see Mr. Kinnent.”

“Not the Mr. Dalgreen! Why I⁠ ⁠…” The girl broke off, flustered. She leaned hard on the intercom button.

“Go right in, Mr. Dalgreen. Mr. Kinnent will be very happy to see you.” But the lovely smile that accompanied the statement was wasted on him; his thoughts were elsewhere, today.

After thirty minutes of shop talk Brent drew the conversation around to the present exhibit⁠—and one painter in particular.

“Mr. Di Costa is one of our most brilliant young painters, yes, indeed,” the curator said smugly, as if he had personally taught Costa every painting trick he knew. “He has only lived in New York a short while, but the boy has made quite a name for himself already. Here, let me give you his address, I’m sure you would enjoy meeting him. Common interests, you know.”

Brent was easily talked into accepting the information he had come for in the first place. He kept his real thoughts secret from the vociferous Kinnent. They would seem more than foolish⁠—unsupported as they were by a single shred of real evidence. He couldn’t let this deter him. The sands of his life were trickling out, but there was something he had to do first.

The building was one of a hundred identical greenstone structures that had lined the streets in the fashionable Thirties. The site of the former garment center was now one of the most favored residential districts in the city. Brent stood across the street from number 31, ostensibly studying the headlines on the newsvend machine. The windowless exterior gave the obvious fact that the owner was fairly well off financially. Any information he sought would be inside⁠—not outside. He crossed the street and stepped into the chrome entranceway.

The inductance of his body actuated the automatic butler and the soft mechanical voice spoke from over the door.

“The Di Costa residence. May I serve you?”

“Mr. Brent Dalgreen to see Mr. Di Costa.”

“I’m sorry, but I have no information regarding you, sir; if you care to leave a mess⁠—” The robot tones stopped with a sharp click, to be replaced by a man’s voice.

“I am very happy to greet you, Mr. Dalgreen. Won’t you please step in?”

The door swung quietly open to reveal a small wood-panelled vestibule. It wasn’t until the door closed again that Brent recognized it as an elevator. There was a feeling of motion and the end wall slid back to reveal a book-lined sitting room. The occupant turned from his desk and stepped forward.

Brent took the proffered hand⁠—at the same time trying to penetrate the man’s smile. Di Costa was taller than Brent with a thinness that seemed to contradict his graceful movements. They shook hands, and his hand had the same qualities; thin, long and strong. At this point Brent realized he was staring; he hastened to respond to his host’s hospitality.

“I hope you will excuse my just dropping in like this, Mr. Di Costa. I have seen some work of yours at the Metropolitan, and found it, well, very interesting.”

Brent stopped, aware of how weak his reasons seemed when brought out in conversation. He was more than pleased when Di Costa interrupted him.

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Dalgreen. I have had the same experience many times when looking at your paintings and those of some of our fellow artists.” He smiled, “Not all of them, I assure you. I have looked at these works and said to myself, I would like to meet the man who did that. This very rarely happens, a fact which I deplore. That you feel the same way towards my work is both flattering and most enjoyable.”

Di Costa’s friendliness broke the ice; they were soon on the best of terms. Brent sat in the comfortable leather chair while Di Costa mixed drinks at the built-in bar. This gave him a chance to look around the room. A brown study, it fitted the word. The decorations were all subdued to the room as a whole, the sort of things a man would buy for himself. The only clashing note was the rotary book rack in the corner.

He suddenly realized that it was revolving slowly, had been doing so since he first entered the room. Something else⁠ ⁠… yes, there on the desk, the bronze ashtray was also revolving with the same steady motion. They created an unusual effect, yet an oddly pleasing one. It fitted the room and the owner’s personality.

“And here are the drinks. A toast first⁠—always a good idea. Long life and good painting, to both of us.”

Brent frowned to himself as he sipped the drink. There is a fascination about shop talk that carpenters and bank executives indulge in with equal pleasure. Brent found himself easily drawn into conversation on the merits of alizarin crimson and the influence of Byzantine art on Renaissance Italy. Yet all the time he talked a small portion of his mind was weighing the other’s words, testing and observing. But his host was everything he seemed to be⁠—a gentleman of private means with an active interest in painting.

A half hour had passed, entertaining but unenlightening, when a light rap sounded on the study door. It opened to reveal an attractive woman, tastefully dressed in a gray and silver robe of classic Greek design, the latest fashion.

She hesitated in the doorway. “I don’t mean to disturb you, Arthur, but there is⁠ ⁠… oh, excuse me, I had no idea you had a guest.”

Di Costa took her gently by the arm. “I’m very glad you did, my dear. Let me introduce the famous Brent Dalgreen.” He passed his arm around her waist. “My wife, Marie.”

Brent took her hand and smiled into her large brown eyes. She returned his greeting warmly⁠—with exactly the right amount of pressure on his hand. A loving wife, a pleasant home⁠—Arthur Di Costa was a model of the modern gentleman. The painting in the museum seemed unimportant in the face of all this normality.

For a fraction of an instant as he held her hand, his eyes were drawn to a portrait that hung next to the door.

It was only by the strongest effort of will that he prevented himself from crushing her hand. Marie was there in the portrait, her portrait.⁠ ⁠…

The same subtle transformation as the painting in the museum. Something about a twist of the mouth⁠—the haunting look in her eyes as she stared out of the picture. He tore his gaze from the painting but not before Di Costa had noticed his attention.

“It must be a strange sensation,” Di Costa laughed, “to meet both my beautiful Marie and her portrait at the same instant. But here, let me show you.” He touched the frame and a soft light bathed the painting. Brent mumbled something polite and stepped nearer, as if mere proximity would answer his questions.

Di Costa seemed flattered by his famous guest’s interest. They discussed the many problems of a painting and their happy or unhappy solution. Blushing slightly, Marie was coaxed into standing under her portrait. She pretended not to notice the dissecting artistic analysis that could be so embarrassing to the outsider. “That blue hollow in the neck helps the form⁠ ⁠…” “… the effect of the gold hair on the cheekbones⁠ ⁠…” She turned her head “just so,” and “a little more” while they talked.

Yet all during the discussion a small part of Brent’s mind was weighing and analyzing. The how of the paintings was becoming clearer although the why still escaped him. It wasn’t that there was an alienness in the figure itself, it was more as if the person were looking at something totally strange to worldly eyes.

He felt the small throb of an incipient headache as his frustrated thoughts danced dizzily inward on themselves in ever tightening circles. The mellow sound of a chime from the wall cabinet provided a welcome interruption. Di Costa excused himself and stepped out of the room⁠—leaving Brent alone with Marie. They had just seated themselves when Di Costa returned, looking as if he had received painful news.