The Quantum Hour

“You got a cig, bro?” Bill asks walking by with his crew.

“Nah, man,” I reply, both of us aware of the lie and that he’d reached full-tilt. Starring at me blankly - he does this frequently and I never know what he’s thinking or seeing - he mutters something to his posse and bounces.

I enjoy detaching from parties – being apart of the group-consciousness and then having the power to cut the fuck out when you want is real power. This tends to happen, after my selling rush hour. It’s around the ‘quantum hour’, which lasts for longer than an hour and has little to do with quantum mechanics - other than everyone appears to be following their internal voice urging them to do something. For most it’s a hook up for the night, for some it’s sharing damaging experiences with a group of people they feel comfortable with, and for some just deep conversations. When you’re barriers are down, your body’s at peace and your mind is open, you’ll be surprised but this is perfect mixture for such conversations.

This is when I find a place to chill that’s above everyone else - literally! Tonight, I’m on the top floor of the squat overlooking the garden, fire and everyone mingling with smiles and gurns across their faces. I can’t recall precisely, but there was a point when I realised everyone was having the same conversations, and boredom and confusion about what to do sank in. I even reduced my drug-taking as I grasped I was having the same experience on £10 of drugs as on £200 worth.

Trying to capture movement of wayward people with nothing but a pens and a sketchbook is challenging. It’s a habit I developed - it feels great to observe and capture the madness.

“Hey Sam. You up here again?” Beth asks.

Beth, a beautiful, blue-eyed brunette, has always been considerate of my idiosyncrasies, walks over. You know that feeling when someone walks over to you and you get an immediate defensive feeling? Beth is the exact opposite. I have no idea why she likes speaking with me.

“You know me,” I reply smiling. My eyes darting from her blue eyes and back to my page in seconds.

“Move over,” she says, as we sit with our legs dangling safely over the edge.

I offer her what’s left of my cigarette and roll one up with some hash. That’s what I do when someone attempts to connect with me. Spark one up! Get them high and they’ll be on their way - no other reason why they’re sat next to me.

“That looks really good,” she says, her eyes appearing to get bigger and more azure, and she examines my sketch.

“It’s really just scribbles with some forms that really help it look ‘good’, ya know? You wouldn’t see it in a gallery.”

She turned her eyes from the page to meet my eyes staring down at everyone. I spark my joint and feel the release of tension in me. Nothing matters - you don’t matter.

“What do you see?” she asks.

“What d’you mean?”

“You’re always detached. What are you seeing or feeling?”

“No one’s ever asked that before,” I say, passing her the joint. “Those two girls by the campfire, they’re into each other but its born out of their own insecurities of their ‘attractiveness’ – it’ll pass. You see that guy over there, in the red cap with everyone around him? He’s entertaining because he feels sad inside; so he makes everyone laugh, just to forget himself - briefly. Under the stairs over there, those three crowded together - they’re lost. Barely drinking, so not here to escape reality. Hardly talking with anyone, so they’re not here to connect or make friends. They’re literally doing what they think they ‘should be doing’. They’d be better off watching a film and ordering pizza. Those kinds of people can get dragged in the wrong direction by charisma.”

I glance over at her and can see her mouth slightly ajar. Perhaps I revealed too much of myself - again!

“Escapism comes in many forms. Parties offer - unconsciously - a communal escape into another realm where we can just be who we think we are. Or watch those that are brave enough to dare.”

“Why d’you still come out then?” she asks.

“I’m just like them, to be honest, but I’m just aware.”

“It’s getting cold up here, you coming inside?” she asks.

“My cider will keep me warm until I finish this off. I’ll catch you in a bit,” I say, giving her the last few drags.

As I thought: the custom to ask to hangout more, but the preference to have the joint always wins. Man, I need to invest in some pens - a biro from Barclays and another from Santander isn’t cutting it.

“Up to no good, are we?” a voice says.

Looking below, I see my pal, Titus. He’s everything I want to be. He’s confident, charismatic, talkative, and intelligent - everything I’m not. We always like our opposites. He’s the first person you’ll notice in a room: tall, long blonde dreadlocks with green eyes, with plenty of people around him. He comes to you with an immediate closeness; I’m always distant.

“Looks sick, bro” he says.

“Hopefully, as the night gets wilder the piece will too,” I say, as we both laugh.

He’s focused on getting Rosa, who he’s been chasing for the night, but she hasn’t been falling for his usual repertoire. Although charming, I know the approach well: be open and emotionally vulnerable about yourself and using that to get into a conversation about life and the psychology of Self, which ends up being a door to show off your intellect, humour and depth. And through their responses you get to know how they see the world and you, which gets you closer emotionally and before they know it, you’re in a mini-romance flying through an array of childhood and adult experiences that bind your connection until you’re fucking.

I roll one up - I make a big one so he feels it quickly and leaves me alone.

“Do you think we’re running away or towards something?” he asks.

“Same shit, right? Avoiding ourselves - just about how you see the glass.”

“Does the human animal work better running to or from something? When you think about titans of industry, is it pure ego, or what? We’re all here livin’ the Death drive, right? Every sip and toke is a little dance with the devil. Do people clock what they’re doin’?”

This is typical Titus: riffing a theory of everyone else, born from an awareness of his own behaviour and motivations.

“Man, I think most people are asleep, or like how Murakami said, ‘all waiting for the end to come’. The thing that most people don’t grasp is you got one shot. Our perception of time is the greatest illusion,” I reply.

“What you wanna do then, man? You’re the only guy I see around here doing his own thing - no matter how much it fucks people off,” he says laughing.

“That’s their problem, innit? I’m still trying to figure out my place, or how to do…how to be an artist. Deep down inside, whenever I’m picking up, selling or getting high, I know that’s what I’m avoiding. I swear, man, I can make a dent. I just don’t know how the fuck to do it. I don’t want to do anything else.”

“That’s deep! You think everyone feels like that about their passion?” he asks, passing the joint back.

“I don’t think most people talk to themselves on that level – or are even concerned with knowing themselves like that. I just know that emotions are powerful. But most people will spend their entire lives covering up emotions that are crying out to be heard.”

“Feel you, man,” he says. “Time to work the charms - in a bit.”

I love conversations with Titus, but they always leave me feeling more alone - perhaps revealing the truth? Oh shit! I can feel the downward spiral. That’s the tricky thing when you’re high and alone: you have to control your thoughts. I refocus on sketching. The cold starts to seep into my bones a little, so I make my way towards the fire.

“You want a line?” a guy asks.

“I’m cool for now,” I say making some space to continue sketching.

“Is that yours?” I say pointing to a small black notebook on the floor just behind him.

“Huh? Yes! What are you doing?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say laughing. “Trying to capture the madness of this night - of every night, everywhere. The perennial search for meaning.”

He walks over and looks at my sketch. “Wild! Is this what you do?”

“Yeah, I’m… I’m an artist.”

“Well, you can definitely draw. But an artist does more than that,” he says as he reaches into his wallet and passes me his card. Derek Fontaine, Gallery Director.

“Come to the gallery tomorrow, we can have lunch and go from there,” he says confidently as he walks off.

“Thanks!” I say.

Startled in disbelief I roll one up, adding some K to calm the nerves. My hands shake with excitement and fear. You are not ready. The voice inside my head tells me - you cannot do this. He’s joking.

____________________________________________________

My alarm goes off and I get my shit together – packing my sketchbooks. Feeling stoned-over and in need of some coffee, I head to the Underground. It’s packed full of people looking to explore the latest products that have been churned out to fill that void inside them. They say everyone has a whole inside them in the shape of God - I wonder about that; I guess art attempts to do that, too.

I get out at Tottenham Court Road, making way to the gallery – grabbing some Starbucks and listening to Bonobo.

“Hey Derek,” I say walking into the gallery.

As he takes me to the back I notice his kids engrossed in a film.

“What you watching guys?” “Charlie Chaplin!”

“Show me what you got. Chicken and avocado - enjoy,” he says.

I sit down and hand him my sketchbooks filled with fear.

“These are great. Have you worked on anything bigger? Can you work bigger? I think you’ll be good at scale,” he says, confidently.

“I reckon I can. I just don’t have a space,” I reply.

He stops talking for what feels like eternity. He flicks through pages of my sketchbook, pausing occasionally, looking up at me and back to my art. All I can hear is the Chaplin movie. I can feel the pit of my stomach starting to get tighter - I devour the sandwich. I notice the books on his shelf. Freud. Basquiat. Polka.

“I know a few people who will really like your work and will buy it. I’m going to set you up with a studio and some materials. The outlay will be deducted from your sales. You have two months! I’m giving you a £20 thousand retainer. That will cover a large studio’s rent, some living expenses and materials – and should keep you in stock. You have to go big. Okay?” he says.

“Uh. Sure. I can do that,” I say lost for words.

“Right, come back here at 4 and we can get you set up. Good to meet you, Sam,” he says.

“I don’t really know what to say, Derek,” I say, meekly. “Thank you. I won’t let you down,” I say as we shake hands, I notice the firmness of his grasp and he looks me straight in my eye - past my retina. He sees the real me.

I walk to McDs in shock, rolling one simultaneously. I want to tell my friends – but no one’s awake yet. You cannot do this. You will fail. The voice never leaves.