Piercing Vision

At 30 years of age, and alone for the first time since he’d met Léonie a decade earlier, Paul was at a loss with what to do. On one hand, he was free to pursue his artistic exploration (that had been the case when he was with both Léonie and Aimée), on the other hand, he had no one to love and support him. Fate had taken Léonie from him, and in a certain way Aimée also, but with the latter he had his part of responsibility in the destiny that had played out.

He had just been paid a high commission for the last portrait, so he was alright financially, at least for a little while, but wondered what he should do now. “Should I get back to work on my experiments, or should I concentrate on making money?” No one was there to give him any advice. It was the end of September, and the Salon d'Automne would be starting in a few days. He knew that Picasso and the other Cubists were exhibiting, as they had for the Salon des Indépendants earlier in the spring. Until now, Paul had never exhibited his new experiments for fear of being ridiculed, and he still wasn’t ready to, mostly because he still hadn’t reached the level of Lucas’s masterpiece. It would have to wait.

He went to see Aimée at the Place du Tertre and arranged for their divorce. It was a friendly divorce; neither had a dispute or anything to claim from the other, and as such it was very rapid. They promised to keep in touch and Aimée advised him to leave his experiments aside for the most part and concentrate on putting some money away as he had done before with portrait painting.

He decided not to take her advice for two reasons, one, his experiments were the only thing that gave him a sense of reason; a motivating force, and also, if he was careful, he could live easily off of what he had just earned for at least 8 months. He remembered a piece of wisdom from Picasso, who had said “The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.” He had to succeed.

He became absorbed in thought and speculation, “What is it that makes the genius boy’s work so much better than my approximations of it? For one, it’s the intricacy and detail, and another is an undefinable aspect which makes it full of emotion. What was it about Lucas that gave him that special ability? He had been a very strange boy, with a deficiency in speaking. Writing and drawing had been his only means of communication before I gave him the opportunity to paint. His mother Simone said that he had taught himself to read and write with the newspapers and books he found. Truly an extraordinary boy. Perhaps I’ll never match his work. I have to keep trying though. I need a new stimulus, something that will help me come close to Lucas’s peculiar state of mind. What about elevating my consciousness by taking hashish or some other plant? Picasso and Apollinaire used to use opium and hashish, even if Picasso has since abandoned those things. Several other French poets were hashishins, including Baudelaire, Rimbaud, and Verlaine, and their works are exceptional. Arthur Symons even wrote that their use of hashish led them to consciousness of an unseen reality. I don’t know. What I need is more convolution, opium or hashish probably won’t do the trick. But Symons wrote about another more potent substance, the mescaline, which apparently gives exquisitely enhanced visual sensitivity, yes, that could be worth a try. But where to get it?”  

After a stroll on the Champs de Mars, he stopped into a chemists’ in the neighborhood, the Phamacie de la Bourdonnais, to enquire about obtaining some mescaline. The chemist asked him what he needed it for, and he said that it was for experimental purposes. At the time, it was common for white bourgeois men, especially intellectuals, to do this kind of self-experimentation. Because Paul had all the respectability and look of a refined gentleman, the chemist told him that it could be obtained, but that it was not for just anyone, because of its effects, but also because of the price. It would cost 50 francs per dose of 500 mg. Paul agreed, paid 100 francs for a gram, and was told to come back the next day to collect the powder. The chemist told him that he should fast for 24 hours prior to ingesting the powder, which was to be diluted in water.

Once he had the white powder, he prepared for his experience all alone in his studio; He set up a blank canvas next to Lucas’s masterpiece and took the hallucinogen. The chemist had told him that it should take about an hour to take effect, so he prepared his palette while waiting.

He wasn’t at all prepared for the trip that he had embarked on. The intricate lines on the painted canvas started to move, to squirm around as if they were living. The whole composition seemed to be fluid. Images formed and disappeared just as quickly; images from his past, the faces of friends and enemies long unseen, of his masters, and of Léonie and Aimée. They came into view, each and every one of them, in all manners of emotional states. Lucas’s face appeared with his huge permanent smile, William Chase and Robert Henri spoke and urged him to continue, but Picasso taunted him, saying that he’d never achieve greatness. Matisse encouraged him and told him that if he did succeed, it would be post-mortem. Léonie, in sharp contrast to the specter he had seen when he was fantasizing sex with Madeleine in his nightmarish daydream, came to him this time as he had seen her in the last moments of her life, gasping for breath in his arms with a look of profound love, telling him to carry on, that he had to live for her, and mustn’t let himself fall into despair. Aimée wished him well and told him to lay off of the absinth and stay away from loose women.

After the parade of faces, his vision zoomed in closer and closer, magnifying the thin delicate lines until they seemed like enormous brushstrokes on the surface of the canvas. It was here and then that he made an important discovery; for each line of paint, underneath it was paint of its complementary color which was not apparent when normally observing the painting. The complementary colors were covered each time except for a hair width which showed when magnified; for each blue there was a corresponding orange, for each green a corresponding red, for each purple its yellow, and vice versa. This was what gave the painting its vibrant effect. “But how did he know about complementary colors? He could have only discovered it in the short two-month period that he started painting! And how in Sam Hill did he succeed in making the under layer’s uncovered paint so thin? It’s a superhuman accomplishment! I’ll never be able to do this.” He discovered that he could zoom in and out at will, much like a microscope. He had never used one before, but imagined that this must be what is like.

Having discovered this temporary super power brought about by the mescaline, he went to work on the white canvas that he had prepared, zooming in and out and trying to replicate the intense effect of Lucas’s work. He couldn’t paint over the colors as Lucas had done because the paint wasn’t dry, or the colors would all blend into different tones of brown, so he tried another method, using his smallest brush, he carefully outlined each brushstroke with a very thin line of its complementary color. He worked for 12 hours non-stop under the influence of the drug, not feeling hunger or fatigue. He did have an enormous thirst, and drank water constantly, having to relieve himself frequently. It had been early evening when he had started, and the sun was rising when he finally stopped working. He looked at what he had accomplished with a satisfying sense of fulfilment; he was quite pleased with the result and sure that he had at last attained his goal. He went to sleep serene and contented and when he woke it was the middle of the night again.

Anxious to see if he had not just imagined everything, he went to the studio and turned on the light. What he saw threw him into a fit. His vision, while it might have been piercing and magnified, had also been hallucinatory. His canvas looked nothing like the oeuvre he was aiming for, in short, it was horrifyingly ugly. He took a turpentine soaked rag and wiped off all the paint in disgust. “I have to keep trying. Perhaps I shouldn’t work while I’m on the mescaline, but just use it for its piercing vision when I’ve already done the painting? I know one of the secrets now and I can apply it.” He went and bought the most powerful magnifying glass that he could find; he found it at the same chemists’ where he had obtained the drug, a Bausch & Lomb loupe with a tripod stand that magnified by 30x, and it only cost him 4 francs. “I know it won’t be as powerful a magnification as I experienced, but it will have to do. And again, the secret of the colors is only one aspect of Lucas’s work! There’s its unexplainable expression of deep emotion, and perhaps only a person with no other means of communication could create that feeling. What can I do to come close to it? I’ll need to paint while in an extreme emotional state, but how can I induce it? Mescaline certainly isn’t the answer, and neither is absinth. Of course! The metro!” It had been eight years since the metro fire, and even now, each time he passed by one of the station entrances he got the shivers. “But am I strong enough to stand it? I have to be. It’s something I have to force myself to face anyway.”

Paul didn’t waste any time, he headed straight for Anvers, the nearest Metro station. The closer he came, the faster his heart beat, pearls of sweat started to form on his brow, his body started to tremble, and his knees began to wobble. The large Art Nouveau entrance sign came into view, and the bustling of people going in and out, none of them with any apprehension. For everyone else there was nothing to fear. Reliving those dreadful moments, he could feel Léonie’s weight in his arms as he carried her, smell the billowing smoke, and hear the distressing screams that not another soul could perceive, and by sheer force of his will he drew ever nearer to the object of his anguish.

In front of him were the open jaws of a dragon, and to go down into it would be like descending into Hell. “I don’t need to go down into that pit, I’ve already achieved the effect I wanted, if it will last long enough.” He pulled himself together, trying to hold on to the intense emotion that the experience gave him until he could get in front of his canvas. The palette was already prepared, all he had to do was start dipping the brushes and applying the colors to the white surface, all the while concentrating on not losing the sensation he had when approaching the metro station. He worked feverishly for hours, always thinking of the day of the fire, something he had always avoided. All of the love he had felt for Léonie, all of the horror of that last hour together, and all of the grief he had known upon losing her combined to give the work a veritable spirit of its own. He stood back in admiration. It was not finished; he would have to wait a full day for the paint to be dry to the touch before attempting the second phase, or the effect would be ruined. He decided to go out and celebrate his success, but not a word to anyone.

The Cabaret Aristique du Lapin Agile was just a short walk from his studio. He dressed in his finest suit and took 100 francs with him, considerably more than he needed, but having the money in his pocket made him feel affluent. Everyone who lived nearby knew him; it had been 7 years since he had moved into the neighborhood with Aimée, and they had all seen him in both wealth and want, so it was only for his own ego, after all, he had a reason to paint the town red, and green, and all the colors in-between!

He had rarely visited the Cabarets, mostly because neither of his former wives wanted to, but at present he was single and felt like having some companionship. The place was crowded with people of different social classes who mingled without any restraint. Several acquaintances waved at him or shouted “Bonsoir” over the hubbub. There was a stage for performers, a central dancing floor, and tables all around it. It was early and the show hadn’t started yet, so he looked for an empty table. He didn’t see any, but did spot a chair at a table where there was a dark-haired young woman sitting alone. He couldn’t see her face because her back was to him, but he decided to give it a go. First he had to see her face, so he moved around to an angle that would give him a good look. He was taken aback for just a minute, because he hadn’t seen her for over seven years. It was Picasso’s model Madeleine that Pablo had forced to have an abortion. Paul had always wondered if the aborted child had been his own. It seemed as though she hadn’t aged at all. When they had met Paul was in his prime, and now his hairline had started to decline and he had a few wrinkles on his forehead. He was still young though, and the sight of her brought back delicious memories. As he started to walk towards her table, she looked up and recognized him immediately.

“Paul! Nice to see you, it’s been a long time!”

“Good evening Madeleine, nice to see you too, yes, it has been a while. Is this seat taken?”

Her smile was as inviting as it had been the first and only time they had spent time together, “It was, but please, have a seat, now it’s yours.” Then to the waiter, “Garçon!”

The waiter arrived and took his order, the same as hers, absinth. After many glasses and almost as many dances, they left for Paul’s studio. All the necessary questions had been answered. They were both free of any commitments, so anything else was “de trop”. They had hit it off like thunder on their first encounter, and this second one was no different.

In the morning as they lay in bed Paul asked her to move in with him, and she accepted gladly, she had just come back to Paris and was staying in a cheap hotel. “Do you want me to model for you?”  she asked, “Posing nude is my specialty.”

“I don’t paint nudes, I haven’t since art school anyway.”

“Why not? What do you paint, landscapes and still lifes? That’s all very boring!”

“I make my living by doing portraits on commission for rich people, and I experiment on my own.”

“Pablo experiments a lot too, I think he’s taken it too far. He doesn’t do commissioned portraits. Can I see your paintings?”

Paul was about to say no, but he realized that he had just asked her to share his apartment, so she would see him working anyway. “Of course, but I have to warn you that it’s probably like nothing you’ve seen before. You might think it looks like a child’s scribbles.”

“I don’t care, it doesn’t really matter to me, I just need a man.”

Paul thought about her abortion, but decided not to mention it. He also thought of his hallucination and Aimée’s advice. “I hope you don’t need more than one, I’m a bit like Pablo in that manner, I get jealous easily. If we’re going to live together, I will not have you running around, you’ll have to be satisfied with me.”

Her face went into a frown, “What kind of woman do you think I am? I don’t go to bed with just any man. I really liked you from the first time I saw you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest that you’re a trollop. I believe you. I wouldn’t have asked you to live with me if I thought you were shameless.”

She changed the subject gaily, “Let’s go have a look at your work, I’m dying of curiosity!”

Paul’s work from the evening before was still on the easel. “It’s not finished yet.”

“It looks absolutely frightful! It scares me!”

“It should, I did it after going to Anvers, I went right up to the entrance but I couldn’t go down.”

“Oh, yes, I remember, you never take the metro because your wife died there the day of the fire!”

“I tried to capture the emotion, and I think I did a good job. The next one I’ll try to capture the emotion you give me and if it works I’m sure you’ll like it!”

“Can I see the one that’s covered?”

Paul hesitated a minute and ceded. Like most people, she only saw what looked like a child’s scribbling, but she did say that it was also full of emotion.