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the archetype of the artist<

Aggie O’Shay


��A predisposition. An ability to sweat. An event.
��Her equilibrium and sense of spatial relationships were such that the fifteen year old gymnast could - and frequently did - dance across the balance beam with her eyes closed. She practiced four hours daily.
��An important competition. An ear infection, ignored. A step too far. An awkward dismount. Mats insufficiently padded, incorrectly placed.
��Two broken hips. A long convalescence. A chunk of modeling clay.

��It is the archetype of the artist.
They were called the Muses, long ago, those Goddesses who sing through time and space, who may sing at times through frail human vessels.
��A Muse may be viewed as a song which can be heard through a radio tuned to the appropriate station, or as software which can be utilized by a specific brand of hardware, or she may be considered a obsessive-compulsive disorder which can be “cured” through long, long talks and a variety of medications.
��The Muse confers upon her vessel neither greatness nor doom, although either or both may occasionally occur. She is a harsh, inflexible mistress with whom one does not negotiate or compromise. Once invoked, the Muse enslaves, demanding simply and solely that her song be sung perfectly.
��There is no greater arrogance, no greater humility, than that of an artist. She possesses the arrogance of having been Chosen, and the humbling knowledge that the song is all that matters.
��Long gone is the day of the proud and gloriously insane shaman. They shiver alone now, or huddle together in tiny clumps, diseased and singing through parched throats.
��The sculptress was more beautiful than pretty. She had olive skin, a square jaw, and dark kind eyes. ��Her skin was smooth and clear, and when she had been out in the sun tiny freckles would appear on the bridge of her nose and beneath her eyes. Silver streaked her short, very black hair.
��She was short, with hard, calloused hands. She had kept her gymnast’s body. Diane was thirty-seven years old.
��She lived with her father, a retired pediatrician, a sober alcoholic, a marathon runner.
��Over the years, Diane’s relations with men had been turbulent and exceedingly short-lived. They had been desperate and clutching things, more often than not; clutching at ordinary dreams, ordinary love - and she had been pulled away each time.
��Her work was all that mattered, really. She knew this now. Her loneliness became a sad, sweet friend who watched silently as she worked.
��She had lived with her father for several years. They lived quietly and pleasantly together in the big, old house. He did not pretend to understand his youngest daughter, but he tried to accept her. He tried to give her what alcoholism and a breathless career had denied to his three older children.
��Diane’s two sisters and brother were all three quite successful in a worldly sense. One was a doctor, one a lawyer, one was a vice president for marketing at a major corporation. All three had stable marriages and intelligent, stable children.
��At one time, their “helpful” suggestions and well-meant criticism had angered Diane, but no longer. She understood how odd she must appear to them. And she understood as well their sometimes not quite veiled resentment that she had the father they had never been permitted.
��There was a comforting sameness to their days. Diane rose early and worked throughout the day as her father ran. When evening came, she cooked dinner. She enjoyed cooking, and dinner was invariably exotic and delicious. After dinner, she returned to work and her father washed the dishes.
��She worked in the garage. Her weights and bench were there also. After working for an hour or two, she would stop, turn on the radio, and lift weights. She lifted until her body was rid of the tension and tightness of the day, and she would shower then, and go to bed, and read cookbooks until she fell asleep.

��Cat arrived on the day her father died.
��The garage door was open to the cool breeze and morning light. The tom walked in, sat on his haunches, watched her work, and waited. When she noticed him, he meowed once. She brought him milk in a small bowl, and returned to work.
��Wearing shorts and sneakers, her father came in, pulling up on his knees, stretching for his run. “Well, I’m off. Jesus. What on earth is that?”
��She looked away from her work, at the animal lapping milk. He was a large creature. He was evidently missing his left eye as well as a good bit of his black and white fur. His left ear appeared as if it had been chewed for a time and spat out when found unappetizing.
��Her father grinned. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand your taste in males, sweetheart.” He shook his head and ran off.
��The telephone call came a couple of hours later. The rest of the day and that night was a blur of speeding to the emergency room, shouting doctors and nurses, a glimpse of her father with a tube down his throat and things attached to his arms and legs, and a nurse taking her by the arm. “Wait out here, dear. We’ll let you know. We’ll let you know.”
��And the young intern, holding her hand and talking quietly. And the drive home at dawn. The telephone calls. Sitting on the living room couch, staring at the wall, not thinking, falling asleep unaware of Cat beside her.
��After the funeral, she sat on the couch with Cat beside her. Her two sisters and brother sat in the living room with her.
��“We have to talk about this now,” said the doctor. “With all of us together.”
��“Okay,” said Diane. ��“Fine.” She had a good idea of what the conversation would consist of.
��“Turn off the tv, Don,” said the lawyer to the marketing VP.
��“I just want to see the scores, that’s all.”
��“Turn it off.”
��“You got the house, Diane. None of us mind that,” said the doctor.
��“We think you should sell it and use the money to go to school,” said the lawyer. “Plenty of people your age begin second careers, or even -” she looked significantly at Diane ”-begin careers.”
��“I admire your creativity, Diane,” said the doctor. “I really do. But to survive, you have to have food, water, and shelter, and in a month or two you’ll run out of money and you just won’t have these things anymore.”
��“I don’t think hardly anybody’s made a living off sculpturing since the Renaissance,” said the marketing VP. “There just ain’t a market for that kind of thing.”
��“Poor Dad,” said Diane.
��“Poor Dad,” said the doctor. “I remember waiting up so late, so many times. He always had so much time for all the kids in the world except his own. I’d just want to talk with him about this or that little problem, never anything big, you know. And then he would finally come home, so late, and stink of bourbon and sit on that damn couch and say he just had to rest his eyes. ��“I’m awake, I’m awake. I’m just resting my eyes,” and then I’d hear the snores.”:
��“I remember the snores too,” said the lawyer. “God, how I hated him sometimes.”
��“I remember the fights,” said the marketing VP. “I remember when he and mom broke up. I remember when he hit her.”
��“He was the man who let me make my things,” said Diane. She began to cry, and the three other stopped being their occupations for a while, and cried, too.
��When Diane took a deep breath at last, and wiped her eyes, it was to notice a sharp pain in her thigh. “Ouch.” She looked down to see Cat digging claws into her.
��When Cat began to talk, she should of course have been surprised, but somehow she was not.
��“Cat eat no more that awfulness in cans,” he said. “You dig deep in sand and cover good. Cat no savage. Cat eat lobster, with butter and salt. You get Cat lobster now. Or Cat wait you sleep and bite you hard on place where tail should be.”
��“He sure does meow a lot,” said the marketing VP.
��“He might have distemper,” said the doctor.
��“He was talking to me,” said Diane. She rose from the couch.
��“Oh really?” said the lawyer. “What did he say?”
��“Basically he said his catfood tastes like shit and he wants lobster and if he doesn’t get lobster he’s going to bite me on the butt. And I’m not selling this house. See you later.”

��Diane continued her work with a strength and focus greater than she had ever previously experienced.
��Cat talked, but rarely.
��It was to say such things as, “I like this. It is big and mighty. It remind Cat of Cat.” Or, “You pet Cat now,” and after several minutes, “That enough.” And the inevitable, “Lobster time. You go.”
��She was too busy, too possessed, to be particularly curious about his ability. His presence pleased her, though, and she was glad he seemed to enjoy her work.
��A month passed, and another. Cat’s hair grew thick and lustrous and her credit cards became exhausted. Collection agency people began to call, and Cat had not one but two eyes now, clear golden diamonds. As practical matters began to intrude through every crack and crevice of her life, Cat purred. And ate.
��The day came when she had to say, “Cat, i”m sorry. There’s no money left. Not for lobster or even shitty catfood. I’m going to sell this place, get a job. Maybe go to school. I love you, Cat. I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”

��An artist’s faith has little to do with belief in an omnipotent, paternal, “all for the best” being. She has faith (if one wishes to call it such) in her utility, in her worthiness as a tool The Muse mat deign to use.
��The artist does not pray for riches or eternal salvation. If she prays at all, it is to give thanks for the beauty that flows through her, and to beseech that it may continue.
��Responsibility for another creates conflict for such a priestess. How does one so lost in song provide for, care for someone else?
��Must the artist become, in a small way, a Muse herself?

��She sat on the cool garage floor. ��Cat lay purring in her lap. He looked up with eyes so lovely she caught her breath.
��“You sell den? Get job? Take care Cat? You foolishest human in world.”
��She smiled down at him. “So I’ve been told.”
��Cat growled. “You make fun? Cat wait you sleep and -”
��“No, no,” said Diane. “I wouldn’t presume ... I’m sorry, Cat. It’s just -”
��“Cat bit you anyway. Just for fun.” He but her hand, lightly, with the ruthless tenderness of the feline.
��“Ouch!”
��He stood and stretched. He stepped off he lap and sat beside her. “Take care Cat? Cat great king. Cat many female. Make five hundred maybe thousand kittens. Name all Cat.”
��“You got job. Cat got job. He take care of foolishest humans in world. You call Hashimoto now, good and foolish human. 4-8-6-4-0-1-1.”
��Diane rubbed her hand. “What?”
��“4-8-5-0-4-1-1. You call. Cat hungry. Go get lobster somewhere else. Goodbye, good human.”
��She watched him leave. “Cat?” The cement floor was cold against her butt.
��She could not work any further that day. The big house shimmered with aloneness. She felt she must make decisions - to clean this or that room, to cook for dinner this meal or that, to bathe or not, to live or nor - and she could decide nothing, except to go to bed.
��In the morning, she called the number on the telephone. “Hashimoto?”
��“His secretary. May I help you?”
��Diane chuckled. “Frankly, I don’t know why you’d want to. I make things, and my cat, no, not my cat but this cat, you see, he um -”
��The secretary returned her chuckle. He clicked his tongue. “You artist people are such characters. You must be the sculptor. We’ve been expecting your call. Mr. Hashimoto wil;l see you at 3 p.m., if that suits you. I’ll send the men right over to help you load your samples.”
Diane stared at the telephone. “Okay. Okay?”
��Mr. Hashimoto was the CEO of a large multinational corporation. He believed that employee productivity could be enhanced through stimulation of their aesthetic sensibilities.
��He liked Diane’s work. “It makes me feel - how do you say in English - religious?”
He offered her a five-year contract, a sum of money too large to be meaningful, health insurance, and a profit-sharing plan she did not at all understand.
��“Thank you.” She could think of nothing else to say.
��“Thank you,” said Mr. Hashimoto.

��In the garage that evening, she wondered about Cat. Had he been an alien from another planet? A symptom of her isolated existence? Some sort of reward?
��She shrugged. “I’ll miss you, Cat.”
��She would think about it more later on, maybe. Right now, she had a lot of work to do.





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