back to: words

TRYST

He has a thing for painters. She tells him, on their last night together, that he'll never find another painter as great as she's someday gonna be. She's serious. He believes her.




About this time last week, they met at this soirée in an art gallery where her work was showing. She was the artist-in-residence; he was there on invitation of a friend. Once the party got started, the man helped himself to some cheese and wine. He walked through the gallery alone, viewing the artwork on display. As he stood admiring one especially large canvas, a thin, attractive woman sidled up to him. "Do you like this painting?" she asked. "Yes," he replied. "I do very much." She looked at him and smiled. "Would you like to get to know the woman who painted it?" It was the start of a short and ill-fated affair. For seven days the couple found excuses to see each other. In her studio, at Starbucks, in his midtown loft apartment. It was fun. The driving forces were strong physical attraction, a shared interest in art, and witty, sarcastic dialogue that grew deeper as the week progressed. Their relationship was hot, intense, emotional, the rest of it. It wouldn't last. It was like a bird of magnificent plumage, but whose wings were clipped so it could never get off the ground. If the painter was sweet to this man—and she was—then this was tempered by his suspicion that she'd been sweet, under similar circumstances, to many other men before. If the man was adventurous in the bedroom—and he certainly was, that—then he was too bothered by the fact of his out-of-town girlfriend to let things go too far. The man had scruples, in other words. And this painter was too eccentric to be trusted with his heart or anything else of value. Life is uncertain and so is this woman. So why take the risk? Love, sex; hearts, groins. They make sense only in retrospect.




Now it's late into their last night together. This affair is drawing to a close. The painter waxes arrogant. "Do you have any idea how awesome I am?" she says. "How terrific my work is? Look me up in ten years time. The stuff I'm painting then will blow your mind." Though he doesn't doubt it, the man smiles and repeats what he's been telling her all week. None of this matters. His girlfriend is returning soon. "Plus, I've been with other painters before. There will be other painters after you." She objects: "You think I'm replaceable. That may be true. But I'm special. You'll remember me." He dismisses her. "You're not so special. I remember them all." She frowns, indignant. "I'm not like the others. I'm an asteroid on a collision course with your life. The crater I leave behind will be huge. People remember a virus, a natural disaster, an intercontinental ballistic missile—they can't help it. You'll never forget me." He laughs. "Ok, I'll admit it. While you're splayed out half-naked across my lap, it's hard to deny your memorability. Tomorrow—that's a new day. You'll be demoted; you'll become one name among many." She sighs; he continues: "My love life is poised to humble you. Get ready."




Always she's felt this tension. How does an artist reconcile her talent and ability with a life of inconsequence? For this painter, it's prompted a dispute over her place in the cosmos. There was an argument with heaven, which she lost; the upshot was an adoption of increasingly modest goals. We are not popes, pioneers or presidents, visionaries, makers of war. We cannot be everything to everybody, she's realized, or even most things to somebody. We must resign ourselves to being a blip on the sonar of a few people's lives, and pray that that blip is large enough to satisfy, to matter. Our feet traverse a desert made of the sand of human exertion. And lo, the passing of time, the ultimate leveler of human impact and experience. The axe murderer, the priest, the small-time playboy, the day care employee. One by one they make their mark in the desert; the winds blow; their influence is laid flat and scattered. The priest means less to his dry cleaner than to his communicants. The day care employee means less to the children than he does to their parents. The axe murderer cannot mean much to a town that continues to function without him. Nor can a painter matter much to her lover if this is only a fling, if words like "tryst" sum up their relationship and explain its reasons for ending. Where do we find meaning in all this? Love and sex—they make sense only in retrospect, if they make sense at all. In the meantime, here is a canvas. Here is some paint. You say you can paint, painter. So paint! Paint away! Let us watch you paint! Alas, it is late. It is time to go. The man locks his mistress in one final embrace. "Good luck with your artwork," he says, "and thanks. This was fun."  "I don't need your luck."  "Don't be like this, please..."  "I'll miss you."  "You won't."  "I might."  "Good bye."  "Bye."


top of page | back | home