PART FOUR ~ Number Eight: :

Only recently, have I been able to see the paintings as Beauty must have seen them. To really “see” the paintings, one must enter the Gallery without any preconceived notions of what one will see: You must be naked of all expectations; you must come to these paintings, trusting your own judgment; you must see the paintings as an empty house: the viewer, filling in the spaces of light with their own bits of darkness, or bursts of colour. The objective portion of the painting, and the response, (like a dance) is completely subjective. The emotional reaction-- as in an undercoating, revealed--is the effect (affect?)--of collision; a merging of two sides.


Beauty, I’m sure of it, could see all of the loosened inhibitions, and mental contortions, I’d put myself through in order to create these paintings. Without question, she saw “me” in those forty canvases.



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[Easy, Steven. Take it slow. Take a deep breath. Stand back. Fill the emptiness. Step back, and breathe deep.]




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It takes a loosening of thought to “see” these Works for what they are. There is a distinct, emotional response to consider. The nakedness ia only a half-a-frames-worth of realism. There is nothing abstract in these paintings; nothing left to the imagination. What reeks from these paintings is “desire,” plain and simple. What I couldn’t see was a fallen nature exposed.
Beauty, saw it all. In taking me in, she had taken it all into her life.



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“You won’t regret it.” Is that what Rodgers said?


Way too late. Regret had entered the picture. Regret would never help Beauty, or I. If Beauty could feel regret, would she have entered my life? Would she have come to my bed? Would she have taken the chances she took?: Never. Never in a lifetime.


Regrets are scattered bits of blown paper; reams of dreams and memories. [Clothes, lying by my bedside, and Beauty lying in my bed, and Beauty telling lies. Each and every motion, movement and turning, steals time; a draining of all awareness of place--our bodies, merged and connected, together again, in forgetfulness.]




I will only reveal the truth in these pages. [In my imagination, she hears these words I say; reads these words I write. I imagine, she can see me in her dreams. Does she dream of me? Am I a nightmare of a passion spent?]



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I purchased a nice bottle of red wine; a large, green bottle, enshrouded in white netting.


The Twenty-Third of December: I can see that night so clearly now. I walked the three blocks to Cee-Cee’s loft-apartment. There wasn’t any reason to regret this invitation. I’d be among friends; some, more friendly than others, but friends nonetheless.


[You thought you’d repudiated the Past, Steven. Oh, how blind you were in your thinking, your arrogance! Didn’t you see that extra-something possessing you? Didn’t you see what you were walking towards? You must have given fully of your soul in those painting in order not to see, recognize, the false twin she would present to you.

The streets were cold and silent; never giving you a glimpse of what would be. You didn’t know your own secret self, Steven; your own secret knowledge. You were ready for Beauty; ready for anything: Power, love, and (God, help me) recognition.]



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