The Artist & the Alchemist, Kevin C. Smith

Feb 20th, 2008 | By | Category: Prose

They were saying that I’d lost my edge. After ten years the angst and dread that had infused my early paintings and established my, rather tenuous, notoriety in the art world had largely dissipated. Not wanting to repeat myself after my early success I, naturally, sought other more mature modes of expression and arrived at . . . well, I was still trying to work that out. I had explored a few different avenues but wasn’t entirely satisfied with the quality of work they led to and had subsequently kept a relatively low profile for a number of years. In that time I was gradually overcome with second thoughts about my supposed change of direction and had become ever more desperate to salvage what was left of my career. If I had been stubbornly single-minded and insisted on painting anguished portraits in varying shades of black long after it had ceased being fashionable, the rest of the art world would have eventually caught back up to me. I would have been the bearer of a singular vision undeterred by fluctuations of taste in the fickle art world. There is something to be said for tenacity after all. But it was too late for that now. I could have, alternately, blazed a trail for the next great movement guiding the way for lesser lights to follow. Ability becomes overshadowed by instinct. An arrangement that sounded rather appealing to my lackluster work ethic. Unfortunately, the reviews for my last few shows featured the word ‘misstep’ enough times to ruin that strategy. I now found myself confronted by the most difficult situation an artist can face – resurrecting a fading career – and I had noidea how I would do it.

Fortunately, my life wasn’t all dread and despair. A big reason for my stalled output was the extra time I was spending time with my family. Lincoln had been born six months earlier and I found his and, his mother, Julia’s company much more engaging than that of a blank canvas. It was also his presence that drove me out of my makeshift workspace in our loft and into something a bit more professional. Julia was worried that little Link would eventually find his way into my paints and even making the switch from my trusty brand to something labeled ‘non-toxic’ wasn’t enough to convince her to let me keep working from home. Plus her mother, on one of her rare visits, had characterized my working conditions as ‘stinky’ and convinced Julia that she lost her objectivity after becoming acclimated to the smell years ago. I was prepared to rent my own studio space when Paul offered to share his lab space with me for a fraction of the cost. Paul worked as a chemist for a pharmaceutical company and dedicated a large room in his house to his own after hours experimenting. Back in college this dabbling was reserved for recreational pursuits which he would then sell to friends and acquaintances. If he was able to devise novel concoctions they would command premium prices. Nowadays, though, he was focused on drugs with more marketable (and legal) applications. As a provision of his employment, he had signed a form giving his employer ownership of anything he created at his job. He entertained the idea that something he invented in his own lab would make that job obsolete.

The day I moved my easel and canvases in, I was struck by the sheer quantity of paraphernalia that he had accumulated in his spare room. Test tubes and beakers jostled for space with measuring spoons and scales. Vials and droppers, some empty, some full, were lined up and meticulously labeled. Boxes of latex gloves, surgeons’ masks, and plastic bags were stacked systematically on the shelves. Unidentified tools and substances were still encased in their protective wrappers. What made this sight all the more jarring, though, was that this workspace was not housed in a sterile, white laboratory. It was incongruously situated in a spare bedroom in an ageing Victorian house. His workspace was not the cold, black countertop of our high school lab but a gouged and sagging wooden kitchen table. Tupperware containers mixed with the vessels designed for more scientific purposes. An improvised hood was fashioned with an old box fan aimed at the window. A mini-fridge held concoctions which might not have survived the trip downstairs to the kitchen in time. I could only guess what the hotplate and hair dryer were used for. The apparent effort that all of this must have taken stood in stark contrast to the rest of his house which was as disorganized and shambolic as the apartment we shared after graduation. There was still a lingering odor of cat urine and dirty laundry which was a subject I usually found a little too sensitive to broach. I had often wondered why he couldn’t dedicate some of his lab time developing a homemade air freshener.

The distinct impression that I got after surveying his set up was that he was indeed quite serious. This had progressed very much beyond the phase in college where Paul liked to tote around what became known as the ‘go bag’ stocked with tiny vials of what he claimed were various pure substances. Speculation surrounded exactly what he did with them, which was most likely nothing, beyond trying to impress his fellow, rather naïve, college students. I wondered just what he had created in that spare room of his.
With all the evident work that had gone on there it had to have been something of note. For what it was worth he had never tried to impress me with all the fancy contraptions he had stowed away up there leading me to believe that for once in his life this was not all for show.

‘Safrole.’

I spun around and saw Paul standing in the doorway. I had absent mindedly picked up a small glass jar filled with a yellowish liquid.

‘That’s safrole in your hand in case you were wondering.’

I couldn’t be sure how long he had been standing there but it was long enough to comfortably lean his weight against the doorjamb and casually cross his arms.

‘Oh,’ I said. I hadn’t, in fact, been wondering and as such wasn’t really sure how to respond. ‘Well . . . what do you do with it?’

He strode to the countertop and unhesitatingly pulled a plastic bottle out from amongst many nearly indistinguishable to the untrained eye. ‘Here’s what you don’t do with it.’

The bottle was half full with the sort of capsules familiar to anyone who’s ever had a headache. Eyeing them up, I enquired, ‘What do they do?’

‘You know what Ecstasy does right?’ he asked? ‘Of course you do,’ he answered before I could even open my mouth. ‘Sort of the opposite of that.’

What? Makes you feel really bad?’ The idea was so ludicrous I had to suppress a little chuckle.

‘Don’t laugh. I felt like shit for a few hours. I just had to remind myself that it would eventually wear off.’ He was visibly shaken just recalling the experience.

‘Jeez man. Maybe you should be more careful with this stuff.’ I offered.

‘Thanks for your concern.’

Despite the self-administered pharmacological explorations, Paul, for all outward appearances, was quite fit and overall well-adjusted. He was of average height and build save for perhaps a bit of a paunch where he was once effortlessly slim. His hair was beginning to recede at the temples but he kept it long enough to be constantly pushing it back before it would inevitably fall to the sides and he would once again tame it. His skin was starting to show the permanent effects of having spent his youth in the sun- something which was a rarity in his profession.

‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ I prodded, suddenly aware of the time of day.

‘Ralphie needs his midday walk, you know? You expect me to keep him cooped up in here all day?’ Then, perhaps suspecting me of ulterior motives he insisted, ‘I’m not going to bother you while you’re painting. I just thought, you know, first day and all, I’d help you get acclimated. Make sure you’ve got everything you need. That’s all.’

‘Yeah. No, that’s cool.’

After a pause, Paul finally broke the silence. ‘Alright. Well, nature calls.’ With that he turned and descended the stairs to retrieve his year old corgi/German Shepard mix.

***

I had been settled into Paul’s extra room for a week and the change in scenery had had no discernable effect on my productivity. The fact that I spent nearly all of my time staring at a canvas largely rendered a ‘change of scenery’ pointless anyway. My only success to date was the emptying of numerous tubes of black paint and ending up with endless variations of dull abstractions which made me feel absolutely nothing. Furthermore, standing in Paul’s makeshift laboratory gave my heartfelt artistic endeavor a clinical feel which seemed at odds with the process of creation. It was the difference between passionate lovemaking on a king size bed and donating sperm into a plastic cup. My general ennui and lack of direction wasn’t, however, the sort of emotion that could be channeled into engaging works of art. Nor was it the sort of existential angst and quest for meaning that had informed my earlier works. If anything it was precisely the opposite – it was the easing into middle age and middling success that produced the worst sort of complacency. Deep down I was a genuinely happy person with a loving family and an undemanding career and as a result I had extinguished any artistic ambitions.

Desperate for direction and pathetically bored, I searched my newfound environs for some trace of inspiration. I scanned the crowded countertops and gradually became numb to the seemingly endless parade of beakers, test tubes, and Bunsen burners eventually deciding that they would not be sufficiently engaging subjects. After aimlessly staring into space for an indeterminate amount of time, my eyes finally settled on it. The slim vial of pills that Paul had warned me about – the anti-Ecstasy – suddenly seemed to be the solution to all of my problems. If I could take a pill which would make me violently unhappy with my life I was certain that I could harness that energy and channel it into the production of some powerful art.

When the effects had worn off, though, I could return to my happy, well-adjusted family life with no lingering effects. It would be my own Van Gogh in a bottle. Controlled self-loathing, dread, and misery at my fingertips but with the added bonus of an off switch. Perhaps this was what Pollock had sought in alcohol, Modigliani in opium, Basquiat in heroin but due to limitations of pharmacology their indulgences consumed them, ruined their personal lives, and led to their early deaths. Not so with my little friend. I would be free to invoke my near insanity at any time I chose fully aware of when the effect would cease.

I checked the time – mid-morning – Julia wouldn’t be expecting me until late afternoon and Paul wouldn’t be home until evening. If Paul’s recollection of the drug’s effects lasting for a few hours was accurate, I’d have ample time for my experiment. I quickly examined one of the pills before I swallowed it. It was an undistinguished capsule, half translucent red, half clear. It contained a variety of multicolored powders swirled together in what resembled an abused craft project of colored sand at one time meticulously arranged in a glass jar. I downed the pill and contemplated what to do next. I wasn’t sure if I should have my brush in hand as the effect began to be felt or if I should wait until it had completely taken hold before attempting to work. As I was mostly staring at a blank canvas anyway the difference between the two approaches seemed negligible. I’m not sure how long I had been standing at my easel aimlessly dabbing paint in random locations when it happened. First came the sweating. When I initially felt the room get a little hotter I opened the window not thinking much of it. Within minutes, though, I was wiping sheets of sweat from my brow and my t-shirt was soaked through. Even more quickly I was beset with the most intense nausea I had ever experienced. I was so certain I would vomit and equally certain that I would be nowhere near a bathroom that I had chosen a spot that would at least not contaminate any of Paul’s equipment. Just as suddenly, though, the feeling lifted and despite my body reclaiming its equilibrium I can’t say the same was true of my mind. I couldn’t shake the feeling of a dark cloud hanging over my psyche which colored everything I saw. If you had asked me to explain it at the time I wouldn’t have been able to articulate any reasons for my intense unhappiness. I simply knew, unequivocally, that everything was bad.

I found myself attacking the canvas as if it had been responsible for all of my failures in life. My failure to follow up on a promising career. My failure to have much of anything to show for myself for over three decades on this planet. My failure to make anyone’s life more pleasant through my actions while simultaneously chastising people for not reaching out to me. I was undoubtedly a failure as a human being and I didn’t see the canvas as a way to change that but simply as a focal point for my self-loathing rage.

It took an amazing amount of effort to stay focused on my painting. I was locked in a battle with myself to funnel barely suppressed violent feelings of failure and inadequacy through my brush and onto the canvas. I feared what I would have done if I hadn’t had this conduit available. I felt like a man possessed as I slashed and tore at the canvas with my brush. My body felt like it was convulsing and, though I had been prone to bouts of melancholy at times in my life, if always falling short of true depression, it had never felt anything remotely like this. It, oftentimes, felt less like painting and more like trying to single handedly control a fire hose set to full blast. I had wondered if Paul’s experience under the drug was at all similar to mine. He had mentioned that he had to remind himself that the feeling would eventually stop – he was obviously aware of the fact that the depression was not his normal state – but without a place to focus the energy, however negative, I’d imagined that it would have been nearly unbearable.

After I had filled the canvas I hastily tossed it to the floor and began on a second. Despite having had trouble filling a single canvas a day earlier, with my newfound pharmaceutical inspiration, one canvas simply couldn’t contain the multitude of ideas that I was suddenly confronted with. I do remember grabbing a third canvas after running out of space on the second but eventually time seemed to lose all meaning. I felt like I had been painting all day, in fact, I couldn’t remember ever not painting, yet at the same time I had so much energy that it seemed as if I had just started minutes earlier. It was as if nothing existed outside of my body and the paintings that I was creating. I had never heard of Julia, little Link, or Paul.

And then, in an instant, reality began to return. Suddenly I realized that I had lost all track of time and, glancing at my watch, realized that Julia would be home in soon. I had been painting for hours, was shirtless and dripping with sweat, and a small pile of paintings were gathered at my feet.

***

I was in a decidedly good mood the next morning. I had woken early, changed Link’s diaper, fed him a runny mixture of cereal and thawed breast milk, and rolled around on the floor with him for a bit all before Julia woke. When she did get out of bed she had a lavish breakfast and fresh pot of coffee waiting for her. She was still basking in my newfound energy and sunny disposition when Paul strode in unannounced with Ralphie in tow.

‘Holy shit.’

‘Children, Paul. Children,’ I chided him through a mouthful of bacon.

‘Sorry man. But I checked out those paintings you did last night – I know, I know, I said I wasn’t going to look, your performance anxiety and all that – but man that’s soon good shit.’

‘Ca ca, poo poo, doodee.’

‘Yeah man, that’s good doodee. I just wanted to tell you. You know, if you want to pay me in art I’d definitely consider that. I really like the one of the guy with the sausage coming out of his head – or whatever that is.’ Ralphie was now sniffing Link’s face which is usually the point at which Julia gets particularly nervous.

‘I’ll give that some serious consideration.’

‘I mean, honestly, I didn’t think you were going to paint much of anything -‘

Despite Paul’s tugging on his leash, Ralphie was now lapping at Link’s face and his expression indicated that he was veering between uncontained excitement and life threatening horror.

‘Hey, thanks.’ In a last ditch effort to save her son from a perceived mauling Julia tossed a piece of bacon towards the door to which Ralphie started scurrying before it had left her hand. In his haste he knocked over the pile of toys which I had neatly stacked during my cleaning jag that morning.

‘Alright, I can take a hint.’ Paul let Ralphie’s leash lead his way to the door.

***

When I returned the laboratory-cum-studio I immediately took one of the pills from the vial and swallowed it without a moment’s hesitation. I took a deep breath and, while I waited for my inspiration to kick in, dabbed aimlessly at the canvas. Finally, I did feel a sensation not unlike what I had felt after ingesting my first dose of the unnamed drug but, worryingly, the effect was not as strong nor as immediate as the first time I had taken it. For a moment I thought that perhaps Paul’s shoddy workmanship had resulted in a pill that was not as effective as the rest in the batch. To compensate for this I quickly downed another capsule and waited for the feeling to heighten. I was largely indifferent to the work I had produced to that point and felt vaguely uninspired but after a short wait I was reinvigorated and felt that I was matching the standards I had set in my previous session.

While deeply immersed in the act of violently attacking canvases with machine gun-like bursts of paint, my concentration was shattered by the ringing of my phone. I normally turned off my cell phone when working but today, in my haste, this simple act had slipped my mind altogether. Initially, I chose to ignore it. I tried to resume painting and ignore the incessant ringing. I would check the log later to see if I recognized the number. After a brief period of inactivity following the first volley of rings, however, the ringer burst into action once more. Realizing through my haze of pharmacology and flurry of uncontrolled creativity that this could only mean that Julia was calling and furthermore that something relatively bad had happened, I deigned to answer the phone. After a deep breath and a mental admonishment to focus on the phone conversation and nothing else, I pushed the ‘TALK’ button.

‘Hello,’ I muttered trying to sound composed.

‘Colin I think I’ve blown a fuse,’ Julia spluttered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean a fuse. That thing that makes the lights work.

Extracting myself from the world of semi-abstract art and forcing myself back into domestic mode (and realizing that she was speaking literally and not figuratively), after a brief pause, I managed to utter, ‘The vacuum cleaner. . . did you have the vacuum cleaner going with the TV and the CD player. . .’

‘Yeah, I know I know. . .’

‘. . . and the coffee maker. . . ‘

‘. . . yeah Colin, I know. But Link was fussy and the music wasn’t helping and the floor was filthy and he likes the vacuum cleaner, you know, it soothes him.’

‘You need to replace the plug,’ I admonished.

‘Colin, I don’t know what a plug looks like. Can you do it? I hate to ask you but even if I could do it I don’t want to take Link down there. . .’

‘Yeah, I’ll do it.’

‘. . . it’s cold and damp. . .’

‘I said I’d do it.’

‘Thanks Colin. Link, get that out of your mouth! I’ll see you in a bit.’
***

The walk home was uneventful but I couldn’t shake a nagging suspicion that everyone I saw knew that I was under the influence of a mind altering drug. Old ladies seemed to be giving me disapproving looks, teenagers thought my behavior was embarrassing for someone of my age, little children were frightened. I tried to think happy thoughts and put a spring in my step but it felt wholly disingenuous. My failure at upholding this charade only darkened my mood further. At least when I got home I would be hidden from the disparaging eyes of total strangers.

As I closed the door behind me I was expecting an assault from Julia’s probing gaze which never came. She was too preoccupied with keeping Link from eating dust bunnies. This was probably just as well since I was wearing one sweatshirt too many to be appropriate for the mild spring day.

After announcing my intention, largely to the floor directly in front of my feet, to enter the basement and replace a fuse, I made my way downstairs without making eye contact with any member of my family. Julia barely acknowledged my presence. This fact gave me a great sense of relief while simultaneously heightening my feeling of worthlessness. Downstairs the air seemed even colder than in the chilly foyer. The antiquated fusebox was as difficult as ever and it took a concerted effort to pry the spent fuse from its socket. Examining its lifeless body in my hand I felt a pang of sympathy for its plight. The poor sapped fuse was dulled, discolored, and, despite having been hidden behind a flimsy metal door for the extent of its life, dirty. I was prepared to toss the old fuse into the garbage can but just couldn’t bring myself to do it. My eyes were welling up with tears as I closed my hand around the useless plug and made my way upstairs.

As soon as I emerged from the cellar Julia enlisted my help in changing Link’s diaper.

‘Colin, can you hand me a wipe? They’re on the coffee table.’

As I passed the plastic box to her she continued to narrate the events of the day while remaining firmly fixed on the task at hand.

‘I painted my nails ’cause I thought he would be asleep by now. They’re still a little wet. Oh, Lincoln, why couldn’t you have pooped in a half an hour?’

She took the box from me, careful not to touch it with her fingertips. Still having the plug fuse in my hand and not a full grip on the box, it fell to the floor between the two of us.

‘Oh shit,’ she cried, eyes darting to her nails.

‘Sorry,’ I muttered stooping to pick up the box.

Noticing my still clenched hand, she asked ‘What have you got there?’ I tried to respond but nothing emerged save a sad little whimper.

‘Are you crying?’

All that I could manage was to open my hand and display to her, cradled
in my palm like dead bird, the burned out fuse.

***

I stayed away from the studio the following day in an effort to convince Julia that I wasn’t completely losing it. I had explained to her that it must have been the stress of seriously resuming my painting that led me to become extremely emotional. She seemed to buy it and also welcomed the extra help I was provided her with caring for Link while I was home. My mission didn’t, however, turn out to be wholly successful. I started to notice mild mood swings which I attempted to explain away as merely the byproduct of trying so hard to seem upbeat and normal. Perhaps in my efforts not to mourn dead fuses I had done such a good job that I was now getting excited about things like Link’s plush little crib toys. I can say in my defense, though, that they were incredibly soft and inviting.

The next day in the studio, I was so happy to pop a pill and start painting that I hardly noticed that the supply was dwindling. Nevertheless, I took a few more and got to work. Once again, I quickly lost track of time altogether. Judging by the amount of paintings I had completed and the amount of sweat soaking my shirt I surmised it was getting late in the day. It was then that I heard his voice behind me.

‘Still here?’

‘Why do you keep doing that?’ I shouted as I spun around. I took it that some anger showed on my face by the defensive posture Paul assumed.

‘Hey man,’ he proffered, palms forward in a sign of submission, ‘it’s six o’clock. I didn’t expect you to be here, that’s all.’

‘Oh shit.’ I picked up my watch that I always took off when I painted. ‘I gotta get home.’

Hastily gathering up my brushes to be washed, Paul interjected ‘Take your time. I wanted to talk to you about something.’

‘Yeah? What?’ I was still feeling a bit agitated though from the interruption, the drugs, or my losing track of time it was hard to tell.

‘Don’t be angry at me,’ Paul pleaded. I must have been glaring at him. ‘Well, no angrier than you are already.’

I stopped swishing the brushes in the water. Paul hesitated. Finally, hesitantly he began, ‘I ran into Rachel the other day . . . and we started talking about you . . . I told her you had some new stuff . . .’

‘What!’ I nearly tipped the jar of dirty water as I violently pulled the handful of brushes out. ‘Paul, what the fuck do think you’re doing?!’

‘Listen, listen. She wants to come by and take a look at it. I told her it was really good. It is really good. Return to form and all that.’

I sat on the stool with my head between my hands gathering the strength to make a sensible statement. ‘Paul,’ I said, ‘I thought that was part of our deal. If I was going to paint here that you would stay out of my work and I would stay out of yours.’

‘I know, I know,’ he broke in pleadingly. ‘But I’m just trying to help that’s all. And I think I did. I mean she wants to see your stuff! She’s actually going to leave her precious little gallery and come here. That’s how bad she wants to see it.’

As my head began to clear and my anger dissipated, Paul’s words did begin to make a lot of sense. My favorite scenario, after all, was to have Rachel Sommers come crawling back to me and beg me to let her show my work once again and not vice versa. And maybe that’s essentially what had happened after all. It was possible that Paul did simply run into her and my name casually came up in conversation. Of course, it was also possible that Paul specifically called her with the intention of having her take me back knowing that I would never do it myself. However it transpired though, I was becoming more and more receptive to the idea of returning to the gallery which made me in the first place.

***

Upon entering the studio the following day, I began work immediately. My spirits were very high which I liked to think was a direct result of the possibility of reconciling with Rachel and the quality of the work I had been producing. I was in such a good mood that I forgot all about the pills that I had routinely been ingesting as part of my morning routine. Setting the brushes and palette down, I walked over to the counter where the vial was kept inconspicuously nestled amongst a collection of other similarly nondescript vials. When I rescued it from the teeming mass of transparent plastics cylinders it I was shocked to find it empty. How I could not have realized this fact the previous day when I took the last of the pills I didn’t know. I stood there weighing my options expecting a wave of dread to overtake my body. Strangely, just the opposite happened as a rush of euphoria came over me. Was this a tangible sense of relief from facing the prospect of not being dependent on the drugs any longer? Regardless, I weighed my options and decided it would be in the best interest of my revived art career and continued sanity to search Paul’s workspace in the hopes that he had produced another batch of pills that he had failed to mention to me. Perhaps he had even produced a similar batch in an attempt to improve the formulation. Even a comparable drug would be better than nothing. Rifling through his endless supplies of pills – in vials, baggies, bowls, loosely scattered across the countertop – for something that even looked like the pills I had become so familiar with over the course of the past few weeks I became more frantic with every failed attempt to find the elusive pills. I had to have known that this day would eventually come. One vial of pills that would never be replicated would eventually run out. It was a scenario that I simply put out of my mind and tried to ignore away.

I remember working myself into a frenzy as I trashed Paul’s laboratory. I remember feeling ridiculously good despite the direness of the situation. I remember removing my t-shirt which was soaked with sweat and my desperate ransacking gradually becoming more of a celebratory dance. I remember abandoning my chaotic searching eventually giving way to a joyous dervish. I remember feeling better than I’d felt in a long time. I do not, however, remember the paintings.

When Paul and Rachel finally arrived to survey my work – the work that Paul had touted as a return to form – they found me lying on the hardwood floor, half naked and curled into a fetal position. I was wet with perspiration yet huddled in front of the radiator. My teeth were chattering and I was uncommunicative. The paintings I had done earlier that day were everywhere. They were propped on the floor lining the walls, they were strewn haphazardly over Paul’s laboratory equipment, and sitting atop mounds of pill bottles. Some were painted on unstretched canvas, some were painted over other paintings from earlier, and at least one was rendered directly on the wall. The scenes they depicted quickly revealed their overarching theme. They depicted rainbows and bunny rabbits, ice cream cones and balloons, sunbeams and flowers. There was included not only a unicorn but a Pegasus as well and, in a perhaps a final act of career suicide, more than one cartoon character that was protected under international copyright. All of these were rendered with colors which I was not previously aware were represented on my palette, blinding in their brightness.

From what I heard, Rachel was intrigued.

————

What can be said about Ken C. Smith that everyone around the world has said at least once already? “That guy rocks,” they cry, but when it’s translated into different languages it doesn’t sound so good.

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