The Brushmaster       The Brushmaster Some said he was an angel from heaven fallen into an empty vessel. Some said he was simply the greatest artist to ever pick up a brush. All who met him agreed that the lives he touched would be changed forever. Those who saw his paintings, felt a profound presence which haunted their emotions. Those who read articles or heard rumors about him, knew him as the Brushmaster. They referred to him on the ward as the comatose Messiah. He had no name. He had nothing at all. Literally nothing. Even his own body had been abandoned. While it continued to breath, his mind had long ago parachuted to some uncharted oasis. The strands of his hair were parted by his caretaker. He was handsome, almost eloquent in the stately mystery of his nothingness. Rachel Chapel had fallen in love with this silent image of poetic introspection. He was the only man who had never let her down. When on night shift she spent long beautiful hours with him. This night however, her scream shattered the forced quiet of the ward. The Messiah was gone. On the street, not far from Bellevue, strange visions of a gaunt featured man with trailing white robe strode through the shadows. Seeing but not believing, a homeless man watched the naked angel. Like a bird flown it’s course the angel collapsed in a small alley. As he slept, the homeless man took the white cape. Shedding his own clothing and with hands outstretched he became the apparition haunting the abandoned alleys. The Messiah’s robe gone, prophetically he was completely naked. When the girl saw him for the first time, she gawked. Male nudity was not new to her. She was a student at the Visual Arts school. But this was no class. Seeing his frailty, she tried to rouse him. That having failed, she hefted him in a fireman’s carry up the stairs to her studio. Maybe it was the smell of the soup, or maybe the paint, but soon he awoke. Ever so gingerly he sipped the soup from the spoon. She was an Oriental beauty with a strange quiet about her. She was strong. Easily stronger than him. She smiled when her hand easily wrapped around his small wrist. In his eyes there was a steady concentration which was almost unsettling. Along with it though, was a complete acceptance. Soon he faded into a serene sleep. A contented smile indicated his happiness in his safe harbor. She too was pleased. This was no ordinary man. Fate had brought him into her life for some profound reason. Before long she taught him his first exercise. Tai Chi was accessible to his profound weakness. To her amazement, when he understood she wanted him to mimic her movements, he did this perfectly. Days passed in silent understanding that she nourished. Like a child watching his mother, he surveyed her every motion. When she worked on her painting, music and images flooded his feelings. Finally she asked, “What is your name?” He remembered the name on his wrist clearly, “John” he replied. Then he pointed to her painting. “Teach me this.” John was a natural. The brush, the Ti Che, the harmony of fluid motion shape and color all out of a profound stillness caressing the canvas created magic. He was a perfect learning machine. Once she demonstrated, he would integrate the knowledge and never forget. The qualitative change came when she gave him the books. He read them all, cover to cover, retaining everything. She willingly neglected her studies to be his midwife to greatness. He was a phenomena of artistic achievement exploding into mature expression right before her eyes. Several of her instructors noticed her piercing insights she offered in class. Friends knew she was gripped by some firm resolve they had never seen, in anyone. Her father, Master Lee Chin, Sense’ of the Brooklyn Deja of combat Karate, was deeply concerned. When he looked into the eyes of his little baby Kota, he saw a dragon. Kota returned with groceries and more art books. The art supplies from Pearl Paint were being delivered by Lester. He was a drop out art student who really knew his stuff about art supplies. He’d insisted on delivering the supplies himself. No one had placed such a knowledgeable order as this was, in a long time. Though a brilliant talent, he had never picked himself up from the conclusion that the art scene was a closed society of thieves who’s only interest was influence peddling. John was in a trance like state. Though he moved quickly with complete authority his eyes were for the most part riveted to his painting. Kota went about putting away the groceries and making dinner. She would pause regularly to watch him. He was relentless. It was as if art itself had consumed the creature fate had washed up on her shore. She tore herself away to let Lester in. While Lester wrestled with the boxes, she went back to finishing dinner. The stillness was only interrupted by John moving back and forth to the canvas. She could hear the paint caressed onto the canvas. When she turned back to Lester, he was wrapped in the vision of John at his work. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Lester was seeing the artist he had always hoped he’d be. Kota understood. As always directing John’s attention to his meal took a little doing. She had learned to lead him from the room with the painting so his glance would not start the motor of responsive creativity all over again. John waited for her to make eye contact. When she did, the flow ran it’s course until, as always, she became calm. She assumed this was somehow connected with his condition. John was a clean slate. Who and what he had been, was as if in a past life. All he knew was that he was “John,” and he was a Brushmaster. When Lester returned John immediately noticed the paint on his hands. He grasped Lester’s hands looking at them intently. With an almost imperceptible smile he tilted his head, waiting. Lester was slow to look John in the eye. Like a fisherman finding a gull tangled in a line, John patiently sorted through Lester’s confused emotion until all the coils were undone. As soon as Lester was finished with his meal, John took him back into the studio. Lester had cleaned the brushes and pallet knives. John was pleased. Squeezing out several colors the artist expertly cut and blended the pigment. He handed Lester the pallet knife. “Mix this.” Lester cut the same proportions mixing a color almost identical to John’s. They both smiled. Kota finished the cleaning up, leaving the new books by John’s sleeping area. She put a pillow and blanket on the cot for Lester. They would work till exhaustion. Master Lee Chin had finished his last class. He was alone with his daughter. She spoke. “ My life has always been respectful of your wishes. John is not my boyfriend, he is my teacher. I must follow this path.” Master Chin clenched his fist. As he might do with a student, he struck the heavy bag to emphasize his displeasure. “You will obey your father!” “Daddy this is America!” The tears welled in Kota’s eyes. “Hi!” She snapped to attention. An instant later she exploded across the room front flipping, cart-wheeling and sending equipment flying in all directions. She came to a combat stance in front of her father. “I was your best pupil! Yet I kept a woman’s place. To please you! Now I have heard the call. I must go.” It was true, she was his best student and had always been obedient. Slowly he lifted his scowl, “Ah-meree- ca! … Bring your master of art.” The tea ceremony was a bubble of acceptance with safeguards. Master Chin did not know what else John might or might not be, but most certainly he was the father of the dragon which now dwelled within his daughter. The question was whether this dragon was a destroyer, or a bringer of wisdom into the secrets of existence. Kota had to show John the ceremony only once. Master Chin was impressed with John’s perfection. “Where do you come from?” Inquired the father. “I do not know.” John replied. “Where are you going?” “I do not know. I only know that I am here to discover the gift of being. For me, this gift is opened with the discipline of the brush.” Master Chin was again impressed by so centered a presence. It was odd however that so much power could reside in one so frail. A dragon’s breath from a sparrow. The father produced rice paper ink and brush. John smiled faintly. The Master, knowing he was giving power to John executed his best strokes. It was a bird on a branch with one leaf. He offered John the tablet. As if time had repeated itself John executed the same picture. Even the way he picked up the brush and the three almost imperceptible flaws were repeated. Master Chin studied the pictures for a long time. The father bowed and thanked John for coming to share tea. Money, space and materials had become a problem. John was talking about a masterwork. Apparently his paintings were studies leading up to something more ambitious. He had spoken of a woman in the stars. A recurring dream where an ethereal mother of creation kept returning to him. He wanted to paint this vision on a larger than life size scale. Students, artists and finally dilettantes were appearing to hear his reflections on art. Veronica was short on talent but loved art. She did not need to be convinced of John’s greatness. “Oh yes my dear! He absolutely must have all he needs.” Veronica rose to the occasion. She became the fabled patroness. Her joy in the lady bountiful role generated excitement among the wealthy class. Without ever having a show, magazine article, or art dealer, John became legendary. The anticipation of the completion of his masterwork was incredible. Ironically John was totally unaware of anything but the painting. His dream had become more real as time passed. The woman in the stars appeared to be viewing him as if he were in another dimension. There was an aura of melancholia about her. As if though she loved him, she could never reach him. He felt that if he could open a door between them, their respective worlds might unite. New helpers had volunteered their services. John would accept only those who were capable of dropping all else in their life and commit to the painting. David was very talented and aggressive. Overly confident, his glib regard of his talents put off other artists. Alice on the other hand had low self esteem. Physical beauty weighted toward sexual attractiveness made both woman and men relate first to the object. Leonard was a romantic who followed a star. This star was now John. Lester had left his job at the art supply store. It was all so simple. Art was apart from all else. If he wanted money and fame he would have to enter the marketing game and all that might go along with it. But art itself was unattached to these things. Lester was gravitating to the conclusion that only he could be responsible for the quality of his life. John trusted Lester to shoulder part of the responsibility in making the art. The confidence that came with this carried over into the rest of Lester’s life. Just about the time the great work had seriously started, Veronica had rented a loft on west Broadway. John’s earlier works were on display. The response was unpredicted. Without any advertisement droves of devotees flocked to see what was described as a phenomena of transcendent perception. Fame was catching up with John. Leonard was willing to make any sacrifice to become a great artist. John was trying to demonstrate that the path to the state of grace each artist seeks, was made in small increments. Only after many uncounted increments massed did the gestalt of holistic vision occur. What Leonard didn’t understand he took on faith. It was frustrating though, as each time John picked up a brush, dramatic sweeping progress made it look like everything was just falling into place. Kota was a virgin. She had only dreams of sensual love. There was no punishment which could bridal her desire, but the possibility that she might misjudge a lover and so be exposed to disrespect … this was a wall larger than her longing for love. She found solice in a dream with John. Alice on the other hand had been fondled, seduced, raped, discarded, desired and disgusted. She had no romantic fantasies. Her attractiveness was the rack her life had been stretched across since she was twelve. It was her downfall and a power she could not resist. She found in John a man who realized her creative spirit was her beauty. All the prep work was finished. Primed and sized to satisfaction, John picked up the brush. They exchanged glances as he stepped up to the canvas. His first stroke outlined the head, hair, shoulder and upper back. Each of the following strokes defined the woman tilted forward reaching toward the viewer. Somehow the crew had learned when to silently wait. They did not know where they were going, but had total faith in their pathfinder. This is how they came to regard him. A pioneer blazing a trail into the frontier of a creative knowledge. They were being fed a spiritual diet of perception, introspection and real solutions, not only for art but for life. He stepped back from the work periodically. There was nothing hurried or frantic. All his motions were measured. He maintained the composure of the long distance runner. Before long the image was drawn in. The crew got their assigned tasks. They went about their work. Veronica was buzzing. She was deliciously happy. Everyone was coming to her for news about this great artist. The rumors were that viewers were hearing voices, seeing visions. The paintings were speaking to people. All who experienced this, heard something different. All heard some personal statement which could have only been directed to them personally. Some claimed they had seen the painting moving. Psychics appeared with plans to test the paintings for supernatural attributes. It was all taking on a carnival atmosphere, all of which Veronica completely enjoyed. She herself discovered in his paintings corridors into the stylistic expression her own work lacked. Whenever she looked at them, she discovered something new. Sometimes she forgot where she was. It was as if the paintings were her home. Writing like any profession, puts the bread on the table. However those who are appointed to bring special critical views in celebration or disdain of artists work are expected to carry the mantle of credible values. Most critics try to live up to these standards. Bill Nash was speechless. “No media package? … No Bio.? … No artist’s statement ? … What the hell is going on here!” Bill was pissed off. “Son’s of bitches are fucking with the wrong guy.” In a rage he glared at the paintings. “ I’ll show them the God dam power of the press.” He fumed to himself. “You’ll show them.” … “God damn right! He looked around. No one was there. He could have sworn he had heard a woman speak. He turned back to the painting in front of him. “The bastard can sling paint.” He thought. Too bad I have to ax the little prig to teach him a little respect. … “To bad you can’t tell the truth.” He wheeled around. “This is spooky.” He thought. No one was there. Shaking it off he started looking at the work with the sincerity which had made him famous. “kiss my ass.” He thought. “This guy is really great.” A little confused and light headed, but feeling really good, Bill Nash left the gallery. For the first time in his life he had absolutely nothing to say. Selling art was a question of knowing your clientele. Basel Smythe was an expert. As he studied the paintings the palpable sensation of money tumbling out of them slowed. He’d never really experienced the aficionado’s genuine radiant regard for greatness. He’d never really had considered himself as a beneficiary of art itself. Suddenly he understood. He’d been a waiter coming and going with sumptuous meals and never sat down to dinner. Leonard’s last class at Cooper Union was devoted to the meaning of art. Teaching included a moral obligation which was confused by strategies of success. He attracted students who were committed to fine art. But they had no idea what that might be. They did know that there was a pitiable hollow sound to cliché art caught in the crunch of politics, media, and money. They came to Leonard for a mythology of artistic truth. They were willing to pay with a discipline which would rule their lives. If they were willing to live their philosophies, Leonard felt there was a healthy future for a counter cultural recognition of art as life process. David was part of the rising star, self produced, media ready, go go-getters who thrived in the industry of professional art. The crew gig with John took a little stepping down for his ego. But underneath his embrace of showmanship and ballyhoo, David believed in profound art. He also believed that he must earn the foremost position in his field. He knew he had to do this with the attainment of knowledge. David was not an art dandy. He was a shark. His killer instinct was directed onto the canvas. His embrace of the fluff and pseudo realms was just light entertainment. Alice knew most of the touted king pins of the art world. One of the benefits of her beauty was the constant opening of doors. She had no illusions of how they regarded her. They never dreamed that within her desirable package was the savage heart of an artist. She had purposefully remained quiet about her skills in painting. She knew better than to swim against the tide of appearances. The recognition that John had extended to her was a gigantic affirmation of her identity and self worth. She understood his work. He was the perfect artist. He had no style. All his skills were devoted to the work. He was a clear window. He did not love himself. He loved what he saw. And so she loved him. Lester had always been an outsider. No doors were ever opened for him. In his rejection and the accompanying rage, he’d destroyed himself rather than becoming the thing he hated. Now John showed him the effortless solution of finding recognition in the act of creation. The simple discovery of beauty was so absorbing and rewarding that his anger was only a shadow of his own misunderstanding. Lester was serene in his joy of fulfillment. His hand eye, mind and heart had finally resolved into one being. John woke from his dream not knowing if he was in fact fully awake. The woman in the stars was radiant. He heard music growing louder. Light pulsed from the picture. She stepped out into his world. Glittering fragments of light cascaded from her limbs. Her every movement was a dance. She moved around the room like a butterfly. As she passed by each sleeping crew member, she enfolded them in her translucent arms giving them a kiss. As her luminescence surrounded them, they would smile. When she got to John she said, “ I’ll be with you in your dreams.” She whisked away involving herself in a dance before receding back into the painting. Kota was in that weightless place between consciousness and sleep. She did not know if she had come in or out. She did remember the woman in the stars bending over her, whispering, “You shall have your wish. You and John shall be one.” As the painting progressed, it’s gravitational density increased. The pull it was exerting on John and the crew was growing stronger. Everyone knew it. Veronica also felt the pressure mounting. Everyone was under tremendous stress of one kind or another. The invasive character of people wanting to meet or see John and the crew had gotten to the point where Kota had recruited guards from her father’s school. Unaware or unruffled, John continued his work. Outside the gallery reporters, photographers, buyers, psychics, media and a calamity of well meaning visitors, made up what could only be described as a rabble. They blocked the corridors and made running the gallery impossible. In desperation, Veronica closed the doors. She appointed a public relations spokes person to ride heard over the whole mess. Inside she was soothed by the art. It was really so terribly sad that people couldn’t simply enjoy these beautiful works. Why did beauty have to be redefined? The art was doing it’s work. In a few minutes she was happy just to be there. She felt privileged to know John. John had found a back stairwell leading to the roof. The night offered the timelessness of serenity. In addition to the opportunity to be alone, there were the stars. They transported him to a place of limitless imagining. This night would be the last. The painting only needed a few finishing touches. It was in fact completed. He felt connected. For the first time, questions about his past, were meaningless. He felt at rest. Everything was so perfect. John slept under the stars all night. The sun was up. He took the time to complete his Tai Chi stretch routine. Now it was time for the end. The last motions of the brush which would bring the woman in the stars to life. As he headed down the stairwell the light grew dim behind him. Ahead there were noises coming from his corridor. Once through the door, he was crushed by a shoving mob. An oriental man was shouting, “Out! All out!” Police were grabbing people who would not go. The oriental man continued, “there is a great master at work here. Do you have no respect?’ A cop grabbed John roughly, “When I say move you move buster.” The elevator door closed. Like the door, part of John seemed to close. He felt the woman in the stars slip away. When the doors opened, a world of confusion, noise and pushing surrounded him. The next thing John knew he was out of the building. Perplexed he took a deep breath. He wondered which way to go. As John stepped across the street, the cabdriver veered to the left, and disappeared down a side street. A gentle hand helped him onto the sidewalk. The man looked casual and could be any of the street people but his corduroy jacket was just a touch to elegant. He had a genuine smile. “Are you from out of town?” John gestured to the building, “I am from over there.” The man shook his head. “Did they throw you out?” John was surprised. “Yes. How did you know?” The man looked at John knowingly, “Doesn’t that just beat everything? They threw you out of your own building. All because they’ve found a sacrificial lamb.” John was intrigued. “Sacrificial Lamb?” The man ferried John over to a corner. Pointing to John’s building he said. “ Up there, their getting ready to steal a man’s soul. They’ve found an artist and they’re going to put the spotlight on him.” John looked back at the man. The man went on. “ The truth is in the shadows. Like right here behind this corner where we are. Up there … they’re going to put the spotlight on him and take away his shadows. Without the truth, he’ll die.” John now regarded this man as he did Kota’s father. The man felt the change in John’s attitude. “What is it with you? You know what I’m talking about don’t you?” John nodded. “I know the truth is in the shadows.” “You better believe it.” The man went on. “They put the light on me once, and nearly killed me.” He shook his head knowingly. “But I escaped. That’s your reward, … learning the difference between reality and fame.” He looked into John’s eyes. “Do I know you? I have the feeling that we’ve met before.” “No.” said John. “I know you are a master of some art. That is how I know you.” “Oh,” the man smiled, “You’ve heard my music.” “No.” John replied, “I haven’t heard your music.” The man looked puzzled. “What the hell, we’ve met now. Come with me. I’m on my way to a rehearsal” He showed John his fingers. They were covered by calluses at the tip. “The guitar can open a door to a whole other world. You should learn to play.” As they disappeared down the street John examined his finger tips. “How long do you think it would take for me to learn?” John’s story was over. But his legend continued. Kota, sitting at tea with her father was silent. Her father spoke. “I am sorry you have lost your master.” He touched her hand. “No father, he is here. . . . Give me your brush.” With every exact movement of her father’s brush work, he’d shared with John, including the almost imperceptible three flawed strokes, she created his picture of branch, leaf and bird. End of story. © 2004 Glen River Publications ~ all rights reserved