Blue Horse Tears

I was 23 and living above a carpet refurbisher in a rundown studio when I won the portrait contest. Marcy walked through my open door while I was blowing smoke at one the dirty windows. “Letter for you” she said, handing it to me. I observed the insignia in the top right corner of the envelope, an imperial array of royal lines surrounding the decapitated head of an elk. The letter itself was succinct and grand. It informed me that I’d been honored to join the important lineage of those admitted by the National Institute of Visual Culture as recipients of the Tri-Annual Outstanding Achievement in Figuration award. I looked at it for a few minutes. My painting hadn’t even been that good. I had made it as a joke, a satirically serious self-portrait which combined bits of Rembrandt, Klimt and Katz; the painters I hated most. It had nothing to do with my actual work which comprised of my piecing together cuttings of romantic poetry, computer manuals, and pieces of broken glass as my own daily newspaper which I delivered in the night to the steps of random residential houses. Nobody really cared about my actual work, myself included, but the portrait had been a joke. So long I had tried and failed to make something genuinely beautiful and now the ugliest and most contrived of my pieces had become cause for recognition. Marcy called from the next room asking why I never make more coffee when I’ve taken the last of it. The letter told me that there was no need to recollect the painting as the Institute would be adding it to their permanent private collection and enclosed was my cheque for the prize money. It thanked me for my participation. Out the window, across the concrete pavilion a truck was making an early morning delivery to the Medical Supply Outlet. In the next room Marcy turned on the radio which announced that the day was going to be overcast and that somewhere a baseball game had been won. I decided to take a trip.

Marcy and Vincent were happy to look after my stuff for awhile, or happy to temporarily have an additional room for their own studio runoff. They were impressed with my winning the contest but not as impressed as when later that evening during my small farewell party, I was the one of us three who could fit the most bottle caps in my mouth. I hadn’t slept when I left the next morning and when I deposited the cheque at the bank I was self-conscious of still smelling like beer. The teller was a neatly dressed woman in her thirties with a tight smile. She raised her eyes when she saw the cheque for $20,000, glancing conspicuously at my rugby jersey with it’s torn collar and my black jeans smeared with gesso. She betrayed nothing more as she asked if there was anything else she could do for me and there was not. I took a cab to the airport, enjoyed the bright white waiting area for an hour and I got on my plane. My only luggage was a small green camping bag in which I had thoughtlessly stuffed some clothes, some pens, a little black notebook and a toothbrush. The trip was nice, the cabin mostly empty, and the view from the window like a tranquilizer. I slept. When I woke up we were there.

The city smelled like grass and the people walked around in expensive looking scarves and elegant, colorful shoes. I didn’t speak the language and so I avoided trying to get a car, opting instead for a long walk. I passed large antique buildings buoyed by giant pale pillars. I gazed into shop windows displaying jewellery and cured meats. As I burrowed further into the depths of the place the verdant smells of the outskirts were replaced with tangy perfumes and sugary propositions. My decrepit grey boots looked strange against the shimmering pink stone of the walkways; they were more suited for cold muddy gravel, as perhaps was I. Weariness found me. My eyes began to sting against the dull afternoon light. I walked a little further and found a hotel, a thin tall building squeezed between a chocolatier and a hardware store. The lobby contained many large brown chairs scattered irrationally and when I gave the desk clerk my card he nodded glumly. He gave me a long look. In accented Enlglish he said “You get the special room. Beautiful room with beautiful things”.

And it was. The room was very small and densely packed with luxury objects. There was a tiny bed covered in lush green blankets and pillows, the floor was freshly painted white. The walls held an excited pattern of swirling flowers in some spots indecipherable behind smoke stains. Near the door a painting hung depicting a blue laughing horse, tears streaming across its cheeks. There were deep pink vases beside golden bowls filled with ceramic fruit atop skinny tables etched in ornate carving. My eyes were exhausted by it all. I lay down.

I was still lying on the bed staring at the ceiling a few hours later when I felt a violent thud against the wall. I leaned up in surprise. The wall thudded again and then a series of dull banging sounds followed. On impulse I knocked on the wall and called out “Are you okay in there?” There was a minute of silence before I heard steps walking across the neighbouring room. A door opened and closed and then there was a knock on mine. I sat in a moment of frozen hesitation before getting up to open the door. A large woman stood there. I looked up at her, she towered even past the door frame. She smiled down at me. I stepped back into my room and she followed wordlessly, ducking as she entered.

Her head nearly reached the ceiling. She wore a tiny fur coat which fell no lower than her ribs over a tight black shirt so small that it exposed her belly. Her lips were big and red, her hair was black as ink. Between her black shirt and her black tights she showcased a very impressive stomach, a 6 pack whose definition clarified with each of her breaths. “Hi” I said and she smiled. I noticed then that she had headphones around her ears emitting distant sounds of music. She took them from her head and placed them on one of the tables, along with the cassette player to which they were attached. She turned the volume higher and the music became a little more audible. She closed her eyes and started a ramshackle dance.

Her feet hit the floor heavily and with every connection she blotted out the cassette. She kicked her legs wildly and spun around in the room, occasionally hitting a wall or the bedframe. Worried I might be injured I retreated to the bed and watched. She let her fur coat fall from her frame and her massive shoulders and arms were exposed. Beads of sweat appeared as her rock-like biceps strained. She would pause to strike a dramatic pose and the tiny music would reappear only to be once again silenced by her heroic gesticulations. Her movements intensified. My head became light as I watched, her arms spun through the air while her feet clamoured like a miasma. I felt myself begin to drift. Objects tipped over, sounds of smashing began to colour my periphery but my attention remained on her. It went on like this. She never slowed and sweat collected on the ground beneath her. In fact her whole body was dripping wet, her tight clothing clung across her giant body only moreso. When the cassette finally finished she stood, her chest heaving steadily and her wild eyes trained on me. I didn’t know what to do but she looked at me expectantly and so I softly clapped. She smiled widely and bowed. I was dizzy. I was tired as though I’d moved along with her every step. She approached the bed and I shuffled over in quiet awe.

The bed was meant for one and so we lay very close. As we pressed against one another she wrapped her enormous arm around me, bringing me nearer. My head rested on her inner shoulder. It was like a hard cushion and my forehead became wet from her skin. She smiled beatifically and drew a soft finger down my forehead. After a few minutes I glanced up and saw that her eyes were closed. I lay awake in her grasp. Lightheaded still, I was filled with a profound comfort. I tried to observe the feeling so I could hold it in me forever but I was so tired. I gave in to sleep, my body raising and lowering with her giantess breath.

Busy sounds of the city’s routine woke me. I was alone. I rubbed my eyes and surveyed the room. It was a cacophony of destruction. The ground was stained with dark marks of dancing feet and everywhere there lay shards of ceramic and wood. The painting sat broken on the ground, the canvas ripped through the center by an errant dagger of frame. I had barely taken it in when I heard a knocking. Excitement and longing filled me, my heart bled out from my chest and I hurried over, cutting my left foot on some jagged debris. When I opened the door I was met only by the concierge. In his hands he held a tray with a glass of orange juice, a cup of coffee and a newspaper. “For you” he said before freezing and peering over my shoulder. He glared and pressed past me inside. A shocked and outraged cry erupted from his lips as he observed the damage done. I stared blankly having only just born witness to the destruction myself. He held the tray by both hands as he swung around furiously, impressively keeping the station of its contents in place unspilled. He cursed me with words I couldn’t understand and when he stormed off I wished he had left the coffee.

I tried to sneak out the back of the hotel but got lost, wandering down a stairwell that led to a basement which led to another stairwell which led to a door. I opened it and found myself across the room from the front desk, the clerk staring attentively in my direction. In the end I was unable to explain what had happened, unable to calm the man. I only barely prevented him from calling the police. I signed the bill which included an itemized report of everything valuable that had been destroyed. As I wrote my signature beneath a number that nearly outweighed my portraiture winnings I could only think to myself easy come, easy go. I had enough for the ticket home and maybe some breakfast beforehand. Marcy would enjoy the story. Vincent would tell me I got what I deserved. Maybe he would be right.

My plane left later in the night and so I spent some time in the park sketching the birds in my notebook. I wasn’t thinking about much, I was preoccupied with what felt like a broken heart. I sullenly traced the lines of wings and feathers and beaks as the day drained into evening. My lines began to take different shapes. I drew lips, hair, arms, a fur coat. A form emerged. The page filled with movement. I moved the pen and discovered muscles, violence, dancing and sweat. I found myself unable to stop drawing. The lights in the park turned on as night descended. I was in danger of missing my plane. A young girl sat down next to me and with a child’s immunity from inhibition, gazed at the page. “She’s beautiful” the girl said. I stopped drawing and looked at the image. It was true.