Art of the Republic-Pt 1.
This is another offering of Laskoc’s fiction. Considering the length, I will be publishing it in three parts over the next few days. In Part III look for a PDF file of the whole story.
Art of the Republic (part i)
I took a last look in the mirror, adjusting my tie, then doorwayed out of the townhouse into the unanimous daylight, the gleaming marble facades of the buildings lining the street, the birch leaves fluttering making shadowy faeries dance across the ground. Four stairs down I nodded to Henry, the driver, and stepped into the car.
“Good morning, Henry. I am sorry I am running late, so if you could take the direct route through town I should be able to make my appointment at the Hall.”
“I can get you there on time, we don’t have to go through the center of the city.”
“I want to be sure to get there with plenty of time. Straight through,” I noticed the strange look that flashed momentarily before fading back into his normal expression.
“Yes, sir.”
I have only lived in this residence for a few years, it being provided by the state. I have not yet grown indifferent to the change in tone and hue of the stones of the various houses.
“If I may, sir?” Henry looked briefly in the mirror. I always enjoyed Henry driving because he was not one to often talk to his passengers.
“What is it?”
“I just wanted to say that I read your latest poem in the paper the other day, and it was very inspiring.”
“Why, thank you, Henry,” Against my wishes my lips formed a smile, slight, not near the point of patronizing. I was glad to see that it was at least read. Did he understand what I was trying to do, the unspoken themes, use of moderated enjambment to set the tone for the change in scansion or did he simply take the images of the words at face value, not understanding that certain words, lines alluded to other earlier works as well as other members of history? Most of the people I deal with are either other artists—some of which are tolerable, others with egos with an event horizon, or else officials from the city—to be avoided at all but the most necessary moments, or the moneyed elite, who were always fawning over one’s work so they could brag to their friends that they had spent such and such a time with so and so an artist. They were the most wearying people there were. I was fortunate in being a poet as I can simply have my material printed, not needing a gallery opening or opening night at the auditorium where one cannot escape their presence. “I mean I am certainly lucky enough to have a job driving for the Guild, and all, and I just wanted to say what a pleasure it is serving an artist such as yourself.”
“We all have our parts to do.” We silenced traditionally making our way through the town towards the Hall of Artistry. Trying to suppress the idea of the churlish effete, I eyed out the window, the buildings here being made of crumbling brick and aged timber. On the streets gray-clad people pushed handcarts, looking at the passing motorcar as if it were some creature from another world. Some, thinking a dignitary inside, doffed their caps or offered slight bows. The sight of them was more than enough to drive away the thoughts of the real drain on society.
Perhaps it was because the silence between the two of us had already been broken, but after turning a corner I was the one who spoke up.
“The lines are long today.”
“Yes, sir. There is a rumor went round that there may be beef in today. My wife has been waiting since before dawn.” I had eaten beef just the night before, twice last week, and poached quail eggs for breakfast.
“This war is hard on the doulokoin, isn’t it?”
A nervous look passed over Henry’s face before he answered. “I won’t say it isn’t, but the leaders say it is important, and that our boys are fighting well. It’s thanks to you and the other Guild members that we are able to keep up our spirits. There is glory in victory, and that is what we are working towards.”
The words I had readied for departure remained in my mind instead of disembarking from the pier of my tongue. These are the people upon whose backs the war was balanced. Mothers sent off their children to fight on the fronts. They toiled endlessly to produce the materials, for little or no wage and there was precious little left over for them. Here was the sacrifice that those of money would never be able to comprehend. What hardships did they suffer? What had they given up? Even their sons could buy their way out of military service, paying some poor family to send off their sons for a certain bag of coins.
Soon enough the car pulled up in front of the Hall of Artistry. Rows of steps were ensconced between cornices upon which stood giant statues of Athena and Apollo, carved some hundred years ago when the Hall had been established. It was my wont to seize a moment and gaze at the two figures that inspired and directed so much of the artist’s work within the building. I could never mention out load to any but my closest friends but I always thought that Prometheus should have stood up there as well. I was already running late and hastened up the steps to the bronze doors.
Once inside I went directly to the sitting room and looked around.
“Excuse me, Gregory,” I stopped a passing waiter. “Have you seen Master Novak this morning?”
“No, sir, I haven’t, but I could inquire if he has come in, if you like.”
“Yes, please, and then bring tea. I’ll be right over there.” He left and I walked toward the large windows that overlooked the gardens in the courtyard of the Hall. This was Milat’s favorite place to sit and watch the sun pass.
Before Gregory could return with the tea, Milat Novak came up to the table.
“I hope I haven’t kept you too long, Phillip. It is very good to see you again.”
“No, Milat, I myself have just arrived. Please, sit.” I gestured to the seat with the best view of the garden.
Milat Novak was one of the youngest artists to ever be awarded the term master painter, and he had progressed greatly in the twenty years since that event. He was a distinguished man with an upright, if not severe carriage. While his beard had gone coal and steel, only a bit of gray was beginning to show in his hair. Even though I was a poet and he a painter, I looked upon him as a mentor and solid friend, whose instincts and aesthetics I trusted implicitly. He had been the one who had put forth my name in the Guild of Artists, under whose express sanction art could be produced.
Novak immediately started in on a critique of my latest poem. While pleased to hear my mentor’s kind words, I focused on something else, something different in Novak’s demeanor. He was usually a taciturn man, whose rare words of praise usually ran only to one or two; much more likely to point out the critical weaknesses in a piece with surgical precision, and indeed these were the words I enjoyed hearing, for one never becomes a better artist through praise, only critique. He was just as hard on his own work as that of other artist’s.
“Milat, I thank you greatly for your kind words, but stop. You must tell me what is going on. You are obviously in an agitated state.” His fingers paused a moment in their constant toying with his watch fob hanging from the chain at the left pocket of his waistcoat. “Tell me, what is happening?” Gregory came with the tea.
After Gregory left, “you are right.” Novak leaned forward grasping my arm. “I am going to be starting a new major work.” He took a sip of his tea.
“Milat, that is wonderful news.” While he had been producing paintings, it had been over three years since he had worked on what Novak called a major work. In fact, he had confided to me that he thought he might have been abandoned by his muse only six months earlier. Excitement surged within me as my mind raced, trying to imagine what it was he would produce. “So tell me, what are you going to be working on?”
“It will be a variation on Mustat’s Victory at Velanost Pass, but there will be a number of other influences drawn to exemplify what our troops must be experiencing in the war now being waged.” Novak started expounding on the various symbolisms of form, color and composition that he would draw upon. I was very interested in what he was saying, and am usually an attentive listener, but the idea of him returning to his easel began sparking my own creative energies and I listened with only half my mind; the other half growing more occupied with questions: is there really a muse for an artist? What is innately creative, and what mystically born? Should we seek to please and petition a muse or look solely to our own artistic intent? Slowly a portrait of an artist coalesced, who, being abandoned by his muse, overcomes hurdles of inspiration and difficulty of technique; a poem of rebirth and glory to the artistic frame of mind.
Both of our reveries, his material external, and my questioning internal, were interrupted when Gregory approached the table with a small tray. “I beg your pardon, Master Novak, a note for you.” Milat took the slip of paper from the silver tray. I watched as a strange mix of emotions ran across his face, the most prominent of which was excitement. I had never seen Milat in such a state of emotion.
