Manual of Painting and Calligraphy Read Online Free Page B

burning humiliation of being looked down on, of not being able to respond to S.’s contempt with indifference or sarcasm. I tried to destroy this man when I painted him, only to discover that I am incapable of destruction. Writing is not another attempt to destroy but rather an attempt to reconstruct everything from within, measuring and weighing all the friction gears, the cogwheels, checking the axles millimeter by millimeter, examining the silent oscillation of the springs and the rhythmic vibration of the molecules inside the metal parts. Besides, I cannot prevent myself from hating S. for that cold glance he cast over my studio the first time he came here, for that disdainful sniff, for the disagreeable manner in which he thrust his hand into mine. I know very well who I am, an artist of no importance who knows his craft but lacks genius, even talent, who has nothing more to offer than a nurtured skill and who is forever treading the same paths or stopping at the same door, an ox drawing a cart on its daily rounds, yet before, when I approached this window, I used to enjoy watching the sky and the river as Giotto, Rembrandt or Cézanne might have done. For me differences were unimportant. When a cloud slowly passed, there was no difference, and when I later held my brush to the unfinished canvas anything could have happened, even the discovery of a genius entirely my own. My peace of mind was assured; all that could happen now was more peace or, who knows, the excitement of a masterpiece. Not this gentle but determined rancor, not this burrowing inside a statue, not this sharp and persistent gnawing, like a dog biting its leash while looking anxiously around, fearful that whoever tied it up may suddenly reappear.
    It would be pointless to gather more details about S.’s general appearance. The two portraits are there and they reveal as much as is necessary for what matters least of all. In other words, they do not tell me enough but satisfy those who care only about appearances. My task is now something else: to discover everything I can about S.’s life and put it in writing, to differentiate between inner truth and outer skin, between substance and shell, between the manicured nail and the clippings from the same nail, between the pale blue pupil and the dry matter which that glance in the mirror each morning reveals in the corner of my eye. To separate, divide, confront and understand. To perceive. Precisely what I could never attain while painting.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    I F REVEALING A man’s profession tells us something we ought to know about him, and if running a business empire is a job in addition to all the advantages such a role implies, then I hereby affirm that S. is managing director of the Senatus Populusque Romanus. What is the Senatus Populusque Romanus? As used here, it is a disguise and another example of my penchant for anachronisms (the best history of mankind would be the one which gathers up all the ears of grain from the ground in one fell swoop and then raises the different phases of time to the heavens or to our eyes, ripe grains all of them, yet still far from being bread). I am not, however, disguising everything, because SPQR are the actual initials of the firm where S. is in control. I am associating the Senate and the Roman people with capitalism and confirm that, at heart, there is only one senate and few differences in the people. I have another reason, a somewhat muddled reason, perhaps simply a tortuous expedient for not writing out the names in full: in my profession (which is that of painting) we start by applying the colors just as they come in the tubes and which bear names that appear to have been established forever and ever. But once mixed on the palette or canvas, the slightest overlapping modifies them, or the light, and a color is still what it was as well as being the color next to it and a combination of the two, and any new color or colors that result enter into the