Last Lovers. William Wharton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ with technical problems; I hope so.

      At about five o’clock, the light is too far gone. I feel the underpainting is finished and a night of drying will get the surface just right for my impasto tomorrow. I’ll start with the sky, make a stab at those constantly changing, magic clouds against the blending blue of the sky. It’s where my cerulean blue should come in handy.

      Someday, I’d like to try wet-in-wet, go right from the underpainting to the impasto with no drying time between. Rembrandt did it and so did some other great Dutch painters, some of the Italians, too.

      I pack up my box, hang the painting on the back of it, and start my walk home. I could take the number 86 bus almost directly to where I’m living, but I like walking in Paris. It’s what kept me together over the worst days. Also, at this time, the buses will be filled and it’s easy to smear a painting on someone, even if it’s only underpainting.

      I walk down boulevard Saint-Germain, across the Pont Sully, up Henri IV to the Bastille. I go along Roquette and cut off down a narrow street called rue Keller. It’s about a forty-five-minute walk. The painting box is light enough so I hardly notice it. The walking helps keep me in shape, too. I’ll really enjoy my dinner tonight.

      I come onto the passage des Taillandiers, the street where I live. It’s still early, so the buzzer to the door isn’t set. I slip past the loge de concierge without any trouble. I know the name of a painter in the building, and if the concierge ever asks anything, I’ve decided to say I’m going to visit him. Actually I’ve never met this artist and hope I never do.

      I go up Escalier C, the least used of the staircases. At this time, most of the artisans, furniture builders, and carpenters have all gone home. I, quietly, but with a casual step, as if I belong here, jiggling a meaningless ring of keys in my hands, go to the very top, past the last legitimate door, up one more flight, and through a heavy fire door into the dark attic, le grenier.

      There’s no light up here. I find my hidden flashlight, flick it on, and feel my way down the narrow hallway, between the individual attic rooms, to the one I consider my own, although I’m only a squatter. I reach for the key hidden over the door and let myself in.

      The smell of old dust, of dry stored wood coated with sawdust, of stale air, is home to me. I stand my box with the painting at the far end of the room. There’s a skylight in the slanted ceiling with a metal brace. I push it open to air the room. I block the cracks in the door with an old curtain so no light will show through, and light two candles. I unhook my painting from the box and put it between the two candles. I look around and see nothing’s been disturbed. I think it’s been years since anyone other than me has come into this room. I don’t even know which of the carpenters’ workshops below uses it for storage.

      I pull down my piece of foam rubber and my sleeping bag from up in the rafters where I hide them during the day. I get out my tiny butane cooker and one of the sealed one-liter mason jars with my supply of cooked vegetables. I take out my bottle of wine and the half a baguette I hoard over two days. I only eat once a day and I’m really hungry. I was about ready to snitch some of those grains from the pigeons.

      I turn on the cooker and warm up my Mulligan-type stew in an old pot. I pull my spoon from behind a supporting post where I store it and pour myself the one small glass of wine I allow myself each day. The six-franc bottle of wine I drink has to last a week. Aside from the costs of my painting materials, this wine, the butane, my baguettes, and the candles are the bulk of my expenditures.

      I sit in the gathering dusk with the candles for light and slowly eat my portion of stew. I, who all my life have been a meat and potatoes man, have, perforce, become a vegetarian. At first I bemoaned the fact, but now, after several months, I sometimes think I couldn’t face a steak, or even a well-done hamburger. I feel a lot better, too. But that could be from the running.

      I look at the painting. In this light, away from the subject matter, it looks better. I probably won’t paint in my sleep tonight. The whole idea of me painting oil paintings, considering everything, especially the cost, is an insanity; but I’m hooked. I don’t know how I’ll ever sell these things for enough money to pay back the cost of paint and canvas, let alone make a few francs. If I have to return to drawing and watercolor again, I’ll feel as if my legs have been chopped off. But I’ll do it, to keep my freedom.

      I bought the paint box for a song. It’s a genuine collapsible easel made with hardwood, dovetail joints, brass fittings. This box has to be at least fifty years old, older than I am. It doesn’t have a metal inner liner as the new ones do, nor a second drawer underneath, but it’s sturdy and light. It’s constructed so the legs fold out and can be tightened to give strength. It’s all there, storage for paints, palette, brushes, turp, varnish, oil, paint cloths, and it opens to hold the canvas, any canvas, up to size 25F. Also, it’s smeared with paint and the air of authenticity. Just going out to paint with it gives me a thrill. I walk along feeling in tune with Monet, Pissarro, Cézanne, Sisley, a real painter in the field.

      I thought carefully when I bought my paints. I found a place called HMB near here. It’s not an art store but a real paint store for the artisans around this area. The paints and brushes are about half the price I’d pay anywhere else. I decided on Le Franc Bourgeois paints, because they’re not too expensive, yet aren’t packed with filler or too much oil. I bought studio-sized tubes. I tried to stay with the cheapest colors, colors listed 1 or 2 on a scale of 6. I bought titanium white and ivory black. Those I remembered as my favorites from when I was back in school at Penn, with dreams of being a painter.

      Then I bought earth colors. If necessary, I’d paint with them and black and white only. I bought burnt and raw sienna, burnt umber, yellow ocher. Next I bought a tube of ultramarine light. That was seven colors. To fill out my spectrum, at not too great a cost, I bought ultramarine violet, the cheapest violet; the other violets were 5s or 6s. Next, chrome yellow, chrome orange, both substitutes for cadmiums, which are 6s. Then alizarine crimson. For green I bought sap green. It’s transparent and can be used in the underpainting and also added to the yellows and earth colors for foliage. Last, I splurged and bought cerulean blue as a thirteenth color. Painting skies in Paris without cerulean would be a real challenge.

      For brushes I bought pig’s bristles numbers 4, 8, and 10 and, luxury of luxuries, a number 6 sable. That last brush alone cost 42 francs, enough for me to live two weeks.

      I make my own varnish from Damaar crystals I buy at HMB. It’s there I also buy huge cans of white acrylic house paint for sizing canvas, also turpentine and linseed oil by the half gallon. I usually have some crystals soaking in turpentine inside a woman’s nylon stocking up here in the attic. I try for a five-pound cut, but it’s mostly by guess and luck.

      It’s the canvas that’s expensive. I shot half my whole wad buying a roll of raw duck canvas at a shop where they sell canvas drop cloths for painters. I snitch boards from up here in the attic to make stretchers. I tack canvas to them with carpet tacks and a hammer. I found the hammer, with a broken handle, in a trash can down the street. The short handle is enough for me, short-handled hammer and now a short-handled brush.

      I use my fingers to stretch the canvas. I can get it tight enough that way. One trouble for me was figuring out when I should hammer the canvas onto the stretchers and heat the glue for sizing. Since weekends practically no one’s around, also the concierge leaves Sundays, I decide that will be the best day. The hammering makes noise and the glue stinks to high heaven.

      I worked all last Sunday, that is, after I’d gathered my vegetables and some fruit when they closed the market at the Marché d’Aligre. They just throw away anything that’s started to rot. I cooked up my weekly stew at the same time I stretched canvas and made glue; all the smells blended together.

      I СКАЧАТЬ