The Artist
by DAN CARVILLE
Here are all the things I did not say. I admit I do not want you to read them, but others may know them in time, and if not from me, from you. They probably know that you lie, but they may not realize how much.
Your hair and general dress are not all that appealing. I saw you with a friend's cat once; an unfamiliar animal. She loathed you, sensing as she did that you did not even have the curiosity to learn her name.
photo by lise sarfati
The advantage of thinking before speaking is also a detriment. I miss those manic betrayals, when I had this mistaken idea that there was something worth preserving. I recall once standing before a massive model of a stegosaurus. When I went inside, the structure itself held nothing but stale air.
Last week I ran into someone who also knew you. Before I did. I feigned to describe another person, never referencing your name or the specifics of your personality. When I was finished, she said, "It sounds as if you are describing a child." She bought me a mango sorbet. Her long dark hair swayed back and forth like a curtain.
photo by lise sarfati
I read some of your writing today. Parts came across bracingly sentimental; other moments verged on ridiculousness so severe I assumed it was satire. Before I knew you I met a woman who could never identify satire. Do you know how many times I spoke to her after I realized this?
You mispronounced words, all the time. I can't believe you never heard them said before. I witnessed other people judging you for it, and tried to think I was not among them, but now I face the truth.
photo by lise sarfati
On the street a woman approached you with your child. I could see you had no idea how to react. It was callous in a way to put her in your art, but at least you apologized; if not to her, then to me. The sky at that time of day remained molten red. I recall writing in my diary that evening. What I wrote was, "She thought it was happening to her, but it was not."
Oh I don't know, have you ever looked at something beautiful and wanted it to be completely destroyed?
photo by lise sarfati
I know I will forget you. I never really saw us as intellectually compatible. A hill can seem like a mountain once you traverse it, but before long you see the top. Like that.
Sometimes I remember hearing you reach a conclusion (it was usually entirely at odds with reality). The words you used to detail your new knowledge reminded me of a Phosphorescent song and I do not mean that as any kind of a compliment. Whatever I gave to you or put inside you I want back.
It was a rhetorical question. I never spoke to her again.
photo by lise sarfati
As a child, single adults completely bewildered me. There existed no context for their presence, they seemed impossibly alone. The woman I'm seeing now is not like that at all.
Once you didn't see me watching but you shone.
Dan Carville is the senior contributor to This Recording. He is a writer living in New York. You can find an archive of his writing on This Recording here. He last wrote in these pages about what he is composed of.
Photographs by Lise Sarfati. You can find more of her work here.
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