Pictures of Fidelman Read online

  I hope that may be so, said the young man, although I doubt it.

  Listen before you doubt. Primus, although the sculpture is more or less invisible it is sculpture nevertheless. Because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. As for use or uselessness, rather think that that is Art which is made by the artist to be Art. Secundus, you must keep in mind that any sculpture is a form existing at a point radiating in all directions, therefore since it is dug into the Italian earth the sculpture vibrates overtones of Italy’s Art, history, politics, religion; even nature as one experiences it in this country. There is also a metaphysic in relation of down to up, and vice versa, but I won’t pursue that matter now. Suffice to say, my sculpture is not unrelated, though not necessarily purposefully, to its environment, whether seen or unseen. Tertius, in relation to the above, it is impossible to describe the range of choices, conscious or unconscious, that exist in the creation of a single sculptured hole. However, let it be understood that choice, as I use the word in this context, means artistic freedom, for I do not in advance choose the exact form and position of the hole; it chooses me. The essential thing is to maintain contact with it as it is being achieved. If the artist loses contact with his hole, than which there is none like it in the universe; then the hole will not respond and the sculpture will fail. Thus I mean to show you that constructs of a sculpture which appear to be merely holes are, in truth, in the hands of the artist, elements of a conceptual work of Art.

  You speak well, maestro, but I am dull-witted and find it difficult to comprehend such things. It would not surprise me that I forgot what you have so courteously explained before I arrive at the next piazza. May I not therefore have the ten lire back? I will be ever grateful to you.

  Tough titty if you can’t comprehend Art, Fidelman is said to have replied. Fuck off now.

  The youth left, sighing, without his ten lire, nor with bread for his babes.

  Not long after he had departed, as it grew dusk, the sculptor took down the banner of his exhibit and gathered his tools so that he might fill in the sculpture and leave for another city. As he was making these preparations a stranger appeared, wrapped in the folds of a heavy cloak, although winter still hid in its cave and the fields were ripe with grain. The stranger’s nether limbs, clothed in coarse black stockings, were short and bowed, and his half-concealed visage, iron eyes in a leather face, caused the flesh on Fidelman’s neck to prickle and thicken. But the stranger, averting his glance and speaking pleasantly, yet as though to his own hands, and in the accent of one from a foreign land, graciously prayed the sculptor for permission to view his sculpture, the effect of which he had heard was extraordinary. He explained he had been delayed on board ship and apologized for appearing so late in the day. Fidelman, having recovered somewhat from his surprise at the stranger’s odd garments and countenance, is said to have replied it made no difference that he had come late so long as he paid the admission fee.

  This the stranger did forthwith with a gold coin for which he neither asked nor received change. He glanced fleetingly at the sculpture and turned away as though dazzled, the which the sculptor is said to have wondered at.

  But instead of departing the exhibit now that he had viewed it, however hastily, the stranger tarried, his back to that place where the sculpture stood fixed in the earth, the red sun sinking at his shoulders. As though reflecting still upon that he had seen, he consumed an apple, the core of which he tossed over his left shoulder into one of the holes of the sculpture; an act that is said to have angered Fidelman although he refrained from complaint, it may be because he feared this stranger was an agent of the police, so it were better he said nothing.

  If you’ll excuse me, said the stranger at last, please explain to me what means these two holes that they have in them nothing but the dark inside?

  The meaning lies in what they are as they seem to be, and the dark you note within, although I did not plan it so or put it there, may be thought of as an attribute of the aesthetic, Fidelman is said to have replied.

  So what then did you put there?

  To wit, the sculpture.

  At that the stranger laughed, his laughter not unlike the bray of a goat. All I saw was nothing. To me, if you’ll pardon me, is a hole nothing. This I will prove to you. If you will look in the small hole there is now there an apple core. If not for this would be empty the hole. If empty would be there nothing.

  Emptiness is not nothing if it has form.

  Form, if you will excuse me my expression, is not what is the whole of Art.

  One might argue that, but neither is content if that’s what you intend to imply. Form may be and often is the content of Art.

  You don’t say?

  I do indeed.

  The stranger spat on both of his hands and rubbed them together, a disagreeable odor rising from them.

  In this case I will give you form.

  Since the stranger stood now scarce visible in the dark, the sculptor began to be in great fear, his legs, in truth, trembling.

  Who are you? Fidelman is said finally to have demanded.

  I am also that youth that he is now dead in the Bay of Naples, that you would not give him back his poor ten lire so he could buy bread for his babies.

  Are you not the devil? the sculptor is said to have cried out.

  I am also him.

  Quid ego feci?

  This I will tell you. You have not yet learned what is the difference between something and nothing.

  Bending for the shovel, the stranger smote the horrified Fidelman with its blade a resounding blow on the head, the sculptor toppling as though dead into the larger of the two holes he himself had dug. He-who-Fidelman-did-not-know then proceeded to shovel in earth until the sculpture and its creator were extinguished.

  So it’s a grave, the stranger is said to have muttered. So now we got form but we also got content.

  Collage. The Flayed Ox. Rembrandt. Hanging Fowl. Soutine. Young Man with Death’s Head. Van Leyden. Funeral at Ornans. Courbet. Bishop Eaten by Worms. Murillo. Last Supper, Last Judgment, Last Inning.

  I paint with my prick. Renoir. I paint with my ulcer. Soutine. I paint with my paint. Fidelman.

  One can study nature, dissect and analyze and balance it without making paintings. Bonnard.

  Gouache. Unemployed Musician. Fiddleman.

  Painting is nothing more than the art of expressing the invisible through the visible. Fromentin. Indefinite Divisibility. Tanguy. Definite Invisibility. Fidelman.

  I’m making the last paintings which anyone can make. Reinhardt. I’ve made them. I like my paintings because anyone can do them. Warhol. Me too.

  Erased de Kooning Drawing. Rauschenberg. Erased Rauschenberg. de Kooning. Lithograph. Eraser. Fidelman.

  Modigliani climbs and falls. He tries to scale a brick wall with bleeding fingers, his eyes lit crystals of heroin, whisky, pain. He climbs and falls in silence.

  My God, what’s all that climbing and falling for?

  For art, you cretin.

  Thunder and lightning.

  Portrait of an Old Jew Seated. Rembrandt. Portrait of an Old Jew in an Armchair. Rembrandt. It beats walking.

  Then I dreamt that I woke suddenly, with an unspeakable shock, to the consciousness that someone was lying in bed beside me. I put my hand out and touched the soft naked shoulder of a woman; and a cold gentle little woman’s voice said: I have not been in bed for a hundred years. Raverat. The Rat Killer. Rembrandt.

  Elle m’a mordu aux couilles. Modigliani.

  Mosaic. Piazza Amerina, Sicily. IVth Cent. A.D. All that remains after so long a time.

  Susskind preacheth up on the mountain, a piece of green palm branch behind his head. (He has no halo, here the mosaic is broken.) Three small cactus plants groweth at his bare feet./ Tell the truth. Dont cheat. If its easy it dont mean its good. Be kind, specially to those that they got less than you. I want for everybody justice. Must also be charity. If you feel good give charity. If you
feel bad give charity. Must also be mercy. Be nice, dont fight. Children, how can we live without mercy? If you have no mercy for me I shall not live. Love, mercy, charity. Its not so easy believe me.

  At the bottom of the brown hill they stand there by the huge lichenous rock that riseth above them on the top of which is a broad tree with a twisted trunk./ Ah, Master, my eyes watereth. Thou speakest true. I love thy words. I love thee more than thy words. If I could paint thee with my paints, then would my heart soar to the Gates of Heaven. I will be forever thy disciple, no ifs or buts./ This is already iffed. If you will follow me, follow. If you will follow must be for Who I Am. Also please, no paints or paintings. Remember the Law, what it says. No graven images, which is profanation and idolatry. Nobody can paint Who I Am. Not on papyrus, or make me into an idol of wood, or stone, not even in the sand. Dont try, its a sin. Here is a parable: And the Lord called unto Moses and spoke to him, Moses, come thou on this mountain and I will show Myself so thou mayst see Me, and none but thee; and Moses answered: Lord, if I see Thee, then wilt Thou become as a graven image on mine eye and I be blind. Then spake the Lord, saying, Thou art my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased, and for this there is no Promised Land./ Whats the parable of that? Its more a paradox, Id say./ If you dont know its not for you./ Tell me, Master, art thou the Living God? Art thou at least the Son of God?/ So we will see, its not impossible./ Art thou the Redeemer?/ This could be also, Im not sure myself. Depends what happens./ Is thy fate ordained?/ I act like I Am. Who knows my fate? All I know is somebody will betray me. Dont ask how I know, I know. You dont but I do. This is the difference./ It is not I, Master, I will never betray thee. Cast me out now if thou believest I speak not the TRUTH./ What happens will happen. So give up your paints and your brushes and follow me where I go, and we will see what we will see. This we will see./ Master, tis as good as done.

  Fidelman droppeth into the Dead Sea all his paints and brushes, except one. These dissolve in the salted sea. (A piece of the blue sea is faded.)

  (In this picture) As Susskind preacheth to the multitude, on the shore of the green sea of Galilee where sail the little ships of the fisher men, as even the red fishes and the white fishes come to listen at the marge of the water, the black goats stand still on the hills, the painter, who hideth behind a palm tree, sketcheth with a coal on papyrus the face and figure of the Master./ If I could do a portrait of him as he is in this life I will be remembered forever in human history. Nobody can call that betrayal, I dont think, for its for the good of us all./ My child, why do you do that which I forbade you? Dont think I cant see you, I can. I wish I couldnt see what I see, but I can.

  The painter kneeleth on his knees. (A few tesserae are missing from his face, including one of the eye, and a few black stones from his beard.)/ Master, forgive me. All I meant to do was preserve thy likeness for a future time. I guess it gotteth to be too much for me, the thought that I might. Forgive, forgive in thy mercy. Ill burn everything, I promise, papyrus, charcoal, a roll of canvas I have hid in my hut, also this last paint brush although a favorite of mine./ Listen to me, there are two horses, one brown, the other black. The brown obeys his master, the black does not. Which is the better horse?/ Both are the same./ How is this so?/ One obeys and the other does not, but they are both thoroughbreds./ You have an easy tongue. If I cant change you I must suffer my fate. This is a fact./ Master, have no further worries on that score, I am a changed man down to my toe nails, I give thee my word.

  Fidelman speaketh to himself in a solitary place in Capernaum./ This talent it is death to hide lodged in me useless. How am I ever going to make a living or win my spurs? How can I compete in this world if both my hands are tied and my eyes blindfolded? Whats so moral about that? How is a man meant to fulfill himself if he isnt allowed to paint? Its graven image versus grave damages to myself and talent. Which harms the most there is no doubt. One can take just so much./ He gnasheth his teeth. He waileth to the sky. He teareth his cheeks and pulleth out the hairs of his head and beard. He butteth his skull against the crumbling brick wall. On this spot the wall is stained red with blood./ Satan saith Ha Ha.

  As Susskind sat at meat he spoke thus. Verily I say, one of you who eats now at this table will betray me, dont ask who./ His followers blusheth. Their faces are in shades of pink. No one blusheth not. Fidelman blusheth red./ But if he knows, it cant be all that wrong to do it. What I mean is Im not doing it in any sneaky way, that is, for after all he knows./ He that has betrayed me once will betray me twice. He will betray me thrice./ Fidelman counteth on his fingers.

  He is now in the abode of the high priest Caiaphas./ (Here the mosaic is almost all destroyed. Only the painter’s short-fingered hand survives.) Fidelmans heavy hand is filled with thirty-nine pieces of silver.

  The painter runneth out to buy paints, brushes, canvas.

  On the Mount of Olives appeareth the painter amid a multitude with swords, staves, and lengths of lead pipe. Also come the chief priest, the chief of police, scribes, elders, the guards with dogs, the onlookers to look on. Fidelman goeth to the master and kisseth him full on the lips./ Twice, saith Susskind./ He wept.

  He hath on his head a crown of rusty chain links. A guard smiteth his head and spitteth on his eye. In mockery they worship Susskind./ Its a hard life, he saith./ He draggeth the beam of the cross up a hill. Fidelman watcheth from behind a mask.

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  Fidelman painteth three canvases. The Crucifixion he painteth red on red. The Descent from the Cross he painteth white on white. For the Resurrection, on Easter morning, he leaveth the canvas blank.

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  Je vous emmerde. Modigliani.

  Oil on wood. Bottle fucking guitar? Bull impaled on pole? One-eyed carp stuffed in staring green bottle? Clown spooning dog dung out of sawdust? Staircase ascending a nude? Black-stockinged whore reading pornographic book by lamplight? Still life: three apple cores plus one long gray hair? Boy pissing on old man’s shoe? The blue disease? Balding woman dyeing her hair? Buggers of Calais? Blood oozing from ceiling on foggy night?

  Rembrandt was the first great master whose sitters sometimes dreaded seeing their portraits. Malraux. I is another. Rimbaud.

  1. Watercolor. Tree growing in all directions. Nothing namable taxonomically speaking, like weeping willow with stiff spotted leaves, some rotted brown-green. Otherwise stylized apple-green-to-gold leaves. Not maple or sycamore same though resembling both, enlarged, painted to cover whole tree from roots to topmost spotted leaf. The leaves are the tree. Branches like black veins, thins to thicks, visible behind or through leaves. No birds in tree, not rook or raven. Impression is of mystery. Nothing more is seen at first but if viewer keeps looking tree is cleverly a human face. Leaves and branches delineate strained features, also lonely hollow anguished eyes. What is this horror I am or represent? Painter can think of none, for portrait is of a child and he remembers happy childhood, or so it seems. Exactly what face has done, or where has been, or knows, or wants to know, or is or isn’t experiencing, isn’t visible, nor can be explained as tone, memory, feeling; or something that happened in later life that painter can’t recall. Maybe it never happened. It’s as though this face is hiding in a tree or pretending to be one while waiting for something to happen in life and that something when it happened was nothing. Nothing much. 2. Triptych. Woodcut. It’s about forbidden love. In the first black-and-white panel this guy is taking his sister in her black-and-white bathrobe. She squirms but loves it. Can be done in white-and-black for contrast. Man Seducing Sister or Vice Versa. The second panel is about the shame of the first, where he takes to masturbating in the cellar. It’s dark so you can’t see much of his face but there’s just enough light to see
what he’s up to. Man Spilling Seed on Damp Cellar Floor. Then here in this third panel, two men doing it, each with his three-fingered hand on the other’s maulstick. This can be inked darkly because they wouldn’t want to be seen. 3. Then having prepared it for painting he began to think what he would paint upon it that would frighten everyone that saw it, having the effect of the head of Medusa. So he brought for that purpose to his room, which no one entered but himself, lizards, grasshoppers, serpents, butterflies, locusts, bats, and other strange animals of the kind, and from them all he produced a great animal so horrible and fearful that it seemed to poison the air with its fiery breath. This he represented coming out of some dark rocks with venom issuing from its open jaws, fire from its eyes, and smoke from its nostrils, a monstrous and horrible thing indeed. Lives of the Painters: Leonardo. 4. Figure; wood, string, and found objects. Picasso.

  Incisore. The cylinder, the sphere, the cone. Cé-zanne. The impact of an acute angle of a triangle on a circle promises an effect no less powerful than the finger of God touching the finger of Adam in Michelangelo. Kandinsky.

  Fidelman, etcher, left a single engraving of the series called A Painter’s Progress. Originally there were six copper plates, drypoint, all with their prints destroyed, how or why is not known. Only a single imperfect artist’s proof entitled “The Cave” survives. This etching represents a painter at work, resemblance to whom may easily be guessed. Each night, according to a tattered diary he had kept for a while, he entered the cave in question through a cellar he had the key to, when all the lights in the old clapboard house, several boards missing, were out, curtains thickly drawn over each narrow window. The painter in the etching worked all night, night after night, inch by slow inch covering the rough limestone surface of the voluminous cave at the end of a labyrinth under the cellar, with intricate designs of geometric figures; and he left before dawn, his coming and going unknown to his sister, who lived in the house alone. The walls and part of the roof of the huge cave that he had been decorating for years and years and estimated at least two more to go before his labors were ended, were painted in an extraordinary tapestry of simple figures in black, salmon, gold-yellow, sea-green and apricot, although the colors cannot of course be discerned in the three-toned engraving—a rich design of circles and triangles, discrete or interlocking, of salmon triangles encompassed within apricot circles, and sea-green circles within pale gold-yellow triangles, blown like masses of autumn leaves over the firmament of the cave.