Art of the Republic-Pt II

This is the second installment of  Art of the Republic.  The third and final part will be posted this coming Friday along with a PDF file for your download convenience.

Art of the Republic

“I am sorry, but I must attend to this.  I Have to meet someone crucial to the work at hand.”

“I understand completely.  I assume that it will be sometime before I hear from you?”

“Ha, ha.  Yes, back to the hermit’s life for me.  Well, I must be off.”  And with that Milat Novak left.

I was happy to see Milat so enthusiastic over a work, and a new major work at that, but there was something else, something underneath that forced my brows together when I was trying to dispel any malthoughts.  It had flashed across his face for only an instant when Milat had read the note:  fear.  I got up and retrieved my coat before I had even made up my mind to follow Milat, but out the grand front entrance I saw Novak moving across the square.  I had never been one to pry into the lives of my friends, especially that of Milat Novak.  He was the only one I knew who was more adamant about his privacy than I was of my own.  But Milat’s strange behavior had piqued not only my curiosity, but also my concern.  Just as seeing Milat talk about his work had sparked the idea that would perhaps grow into one of my own, perhaps it was this other person, (his muse manifested?), that was partly or wholly responsible for Novak’s new burst of inspiration.  But why then the fear?  What does the artist have to fear?  Failure?  No one could call oneself an artist if they did not have a growing field of failures whose fruit was the compost out of which successes could grow.

I had no problem following Milat through the wide tree lined boulevards, for I knew that if he was focused on something, then everything else faded into the mist of uncaring.  Half a dozen blocks away, nearing that dilapidated part of town I had passed through earlier that morning, Milat turned down a small side street and entered an alley behind a street-side café.  I slowed down and stopped at the corner of the alley, watching my friend in deep discussion with another man, obviously of a lower class, with threadbare clothes and unkempt appearance.  The stranger handed a packet of papers tied with a string to Novak, and a cleaner envelope passed the other way.  The two men shook hands and departed.  So quickly had the transaction taken place, that I had to quickly duck into the café so that Milat would not see me, but as he passed I wondered if Novak saw anything around him, even above his normal oblivion to his surroundings, such a mixed look of rapture and trepidation was on his face.  A battle waged on in my mind.  Should I ask him what he was doing?  Surely this meeting was a portent; I did not like the look of the man he had exchanged packages with.  Was it connected to his new work?  Surely it must be, else   why should he tear off like he had?  In the end, I decided to be inactive in the matter, the strange man bringing no harm to Milat, something that Milat had been expecting, desiring.  I trusted him implicitly.  I just hoped that my old friend knew that if any assistance were needed I would always be available.

I received a letter a month later.  Milat had scribbled a quick note:  “Going to the Alakush Mts.–landscape studies.  Inform you on how things progress.  M.O.”  I knew that it would probably be closer to six months before I heard from my friend again.  But there was something else as well.  I dimly recalled that years ago, Milat had said after spending months tramping through the Alakush Mountains, that they were just a jumble of rocks, like so much gravel tossed about, understanding totally escaping him why any artist would wish to use them as a backdrop or for a landscape.  This was another strange piece of the puzzle, but there were too many pieces missing to be able to make out the bigger picture.  Had Milat changed his mind about the slopes of the Alakush?  Or was he just using them as an excuse to travel and get out of the city?  That thought came unbidden to my mind, and I saw it as further proof of the uncanny situation I was thrust into—I had never before considered that Milat could lie to me, but now I was wondering if his trip to the Alakush Mountains was a mere misdirection.  Travel, even for us in the guild, was restricted.  I looked at the note again.  Even the way in which it was written, the abbreviation, the truncated sentences, these were so uncharacteristic of Milat that if I had not recognized his handwriting, I could not believe he had written it.  He always maintained that everything one does should have an aesthetic element to it.

Fall was colder than its wont.  Winter, dark and sodden, just seemed to linger on.  The weather did not help my own musings on inspiration, as if to try to focus on inspiration negated the possibility of ever experiencing it.  During the days I spent in research and building images that could support the internal structure.  Nothing would come to me.  In thinking about muses and inspiration all I could think of was that day I had gone to meet Milat.  Not the abbreviated meeting resulting with his strange behavior, but earlier; as Henry had driven me through the center of city with its huddle of tired buildings mirroring the posture of their inhabitants.  All I could think about was their sacrifice and the fact that they received nothing for their hard work.  I started to contemplate late at night a poem about a hero as no one had ever seen before.  A mass of heroes that were acknowledged for what they were, the backbone of society.  After three furious days of writing, I had produced something.  A thing that even as it grew, I could not see its implications.  When I had finished reading it after a day of sleep I burned it in the fireplace.  The guild must never hear about me writing such a thing.  I enjoy my position as an artist of standing but they would not hesitate to turn me out.  Then what would I have?  The winter was unkind.  I had been thinking about going south to greet the spring and get out of the damp city when I received a letter from Milat Novak: Arriving 3 March.  Will be at your home at noon.  M.O.

I had often wondered if Novak stayed in the city or had gone elsewhere, that occasioned better light, how his trek to the Alakush Mountains had gone (had he gone?), and most often absorbing my thoughts on Milat, what business did he have with the man he had met in the alley that afternoon.  Milat’s letter changed that, though; my mind distracted of its own thoughts became flooded with the answers I had been thinking on.

Promptly at noon on the 3^rd, Milat Novak was shown into my drawing room.  I rose from my chair and, turning to greet my friend, was only just able to stifle a gasp at the sight of my mentor.  Novak had aged noticeably: where once had been mature line, now furrows seemed to be plowed around his eyes and mouth that shadowed his pale face; his beard had gone fully gray and his hair was approaching the same color.  Both his beard and hair were in wild disarray, as though being blown by an angry tempest.  He had lost weight, his clothes hanging on him.

“Milat, come sit down.  What happened to you?  Are you all right?”

“What?  Oh, yes.  True art exacts more of a toll than I would have thought, but I am more than willing to pay the debt whatever it is.  But it is done.”  True art?  What did he mean by that?  And why would the result be such an aging?  I noticed his hands shake, but from what I knew not.  Instead of sitting, Novak walked to the windows and looked out, his eyes vague, focused on something beyond the garden, something that certainly wasn’t there.  “All this time, Phillip, and we were fooling ourselves—or being fooled; pawns being moved about on the board, but I have pierced the pasteboard, and seen beyond.  And now other people will as well.”

“What have you seen, Milat?  How has the painting turned out?”

“That my friend, I will leave up to the judgment of the people, and is one of the things I have come to ask you:  that you would do me the honor of being on stage with me during the unveiling.  I have tried to get to the root of things—truth beyond what they tell us, and I think that you above anyone else will be able to see what I am doing.”

“Why, certainly.  It would be an honor.”

“It will be in a month’s time, in Patriot Square.  The powers-that-be have granted me a public display and viewing without their regular inspection of every aspect of the work—I have pushed very hard for this—threatening to withdraw from the guild of Artists if they did not relinquish their meddling.”

“Are you serious?”  This was highly unusual.  In fact, I had never heard of such a thing.  The bureaucrats were always very careful to go over all the art released to the public to make sure that the artist was sending a message in keeping with the state’s sentiments.  But, when one is as popular and powerful an artist as Milat Novak, there is really nothing they could refuse him.

“I cannot stay, my friend.  There are many things to do, and some finishing touches I must put on, but it was wonderful to see you and I look forward to hearing what you think about the work.”

“Again I am honored.”  They shook hands.  What did he mean we were being fooled? Watching Novak leave, I wondered what had happened that had caused the changes in my old friend, and how much the painting would reveal what had occurred over the past months.  Between the drastic change in his appearance and the brevity of his stay, not to mention his strange talk of true art and being fooled and manipulated—by whom?—I had forgotten completely to ask about the trip to the Alakush Mountains.