Chapter 4 man in taxi
A few years ago, I was writing a sort of "gallery visit" article under my pseudonym for a small art publication.Although it is a "gallery visit", since I am a 100% layman in painting, I can't write professional reports, so my job is just to summarize the atmosphere of the gallery and the impression of the owner in a relaxed style.It wasn't very hard work being me either, it started out purely by chance, but it turned out to be a very interesting job.At that time, I had just started writing novels, and I felt that organizing the conversations of various people into a novel would be of great benefit to creation.I try my best to carefully observe what the world is thinking and how to put it into language, and then tailor it appropriately, and then use it to piece together my own articles.
This series of reports lasted for a year.The magazine is a bimonthly, and a total of six articles have been written.I asked the editorial department (actually, there was only one editor) to introduce several interesting galleries, and then went to investigate with my legs, and selected one to write a report.The length is about fifteen pages on 400-character manuscript paper, but I am generally afraid of meeting strangers and slow to respond, so it was not smooth at first, and I didn't know how to ask the other party and how to sum it up.
Despite this, in the process of repeated groping and making some small mistakes, I still found a trick (probably a trick), that is, when interviewing, I should try to capture a certain sublime, a certain acuity, some kind of tenderness.Every person in the world must have a light spot in his personality—even if it is small—if he can successfully capture that light point, questions will follow naturally, and reports will come to life.The key is understanding and love, even if the other person's words are clichéd.
I've done many, many interviews since then, and there's only one that didn't make me feel any love until the end.It was the time when I went to interview a famous private university for writing "University Visiting Diary" for a weekly magazine.After transferring to that university for almost a week, all I could smell was authority, corruption and hypocrisy.Interviewed more than a dozen faculty members including the principal and the department head, only one of them was quite idiomatic, and this associate professor had just issued a resignation report two days ago.
But that's over, let's get back to the peaceful gallery.The galleries I interviewed were almost all galleries in small streets that had little to do with authority.I went with a tall photographer three or four years older than me, and I listened to the gallery owner while he took pictures in the room.
At the end of the interview, I always ask the host the same question: what is the most impactful painting you have seen before.As an interview question, it is not high enough. It is like asking a novelist which novel he likes the most in the past. The main points of the question are too general.The answer can be imagined, either because I read too much and can't remember clearly, or I don't know how many times I said the old formula.But every time I still repeat this question.On the one hand, it is because it is reasonable to ask such questions to people who take art as a profession, and on the other hand, it is also because I feel that I may happen to hear some anecdotes.
It was a mistress in her forties who told me the story of the picture entitled "The Man in the Taxi."She is definitely not a beauty, but she has a demure and elegant appearance, which can make people feel warm in their hearts.She was wearing a white shirt with long ribbons, a gray tweed skirt underneath, and a pair of streamlined black high heels on her feet.Her feet were born with a problem, and every time she walked across the wooden floor, there would be incongruous footsteps sounding like wedges in the empty room.
She runs a gallery focusing on prints on the first floor of a commercial building in Qingshan.At that time, the prints hanging on the wall were hard to be regarded as high-quality goods even to a layman like me, but I felt that there was a kind of magnetic element in her personality, and its wonderful force made all the things around her come into being. Dazzling brilliance that exceeds reality.
When the interview was roughly over, she put away the coffee cups, took out the red wine bottle and glass from the sideboard, poured them for me and the photographer, and poured a glass for herself.Her fingers are very slender and watery.On the hanger in the inner room, probably her own tarpaulin double-belt windbreaker and cashmere scarf were hung together.A duck-shaped glass paperweight and small golden scissors rest on the workbench.It was early December, and Christmas carols were playing on bass from a small speaker on the ceiling.
She got up and walked across the room, took a pack of cigarettes from somewhere, took out a slender golden lighter and lit it, exhaling a thin puff of smoke from her lips.As long as the footsteps are silent, there is nothing unnatural about her.
"One last thing I would like to ask, if I may," I said.
"Of course, please—" she said, and then smiled, "but isn't this statement a bit like the criminal police in TV dramas?"
I laughed, and the photographer laughed too.
"What is the most impactful work you have come into contact with before?" I asked.
She fell silent in thought.After a long time, she put out her cigarette in the ashtray, looked at my face and said, "The answer to this question depends on the meaning of the word 'impact', that is to say, it depends on what 'impact' refers to. Does it refer to the artistic appeal, or the simple shocking and explosive power?"
"I don't think it's necessarily artistic appeal," I said, "I mean skin, physical impact."
"Without skin impact, our career would not be established." She said with a smile, "That kind of thing is lying horizontally and vertically, as much as you want. What is lacking is artistic appeal." She picked up the cup , moistening her lips with wine, "the problem," she continued, "is that anyone is not sincerely looking for appeal. Don't you think so? You pick creations too, don't you think so?"
"Maybe," I said.
“One of the inconveniences of artistic appeal is that you can’t express it properly in words,” she continued, “and when you do express it, it becomes completely stereotyped, stereotyped, clichéd… like talking about dinosaurs. So Everyone is looking for something simpler, something simpler, something you can step into and click like a TV remote to change channels. Skin impact, sensuality...it doesn’t matter what you call it.”
She poured wine into the two empty glasses and lit another cigarette.
"That's enough twists and turns."
"Very interesting," I said.
The faint vibration of the air conditioner, the exhaust sound of the humidifier and the melody of Christmas carols overlapped in a low voice, forming a strange and monotonous rhythm.
"If it's okay to talk about neither artistic appeal nor skin shock, I think I can tell about a painting that remains in my heart, or rather a story about a painting ——Is it okay to talk about this?”
"Of course." I said.
"It happened in 1968." She said, "I originally went to study abroad in an art university in the eastern United States to be a painter, but I wanted to stay in New York to support myself after graduation—or I was no longer convinced of my talent. It’s okay to be hopeless—I started a business similar to that of a painting purchaser. I wandered around the studios of young and unknown painters in New York, and when I saw works of good quality, I bought them and sent them to Tokyo. Art dealer. At first I sent color photo negatives, and the Tokyo art dealer selected the ones I liked, and I bought them locally. Later, when I had credit, I decided what to buy and bought them directly. I have a relationship with the group of painters, or have a reliable information network, so, for example, the news that so-and-so is doing something special, and so-and-so is struggling. All the news can reach my ears. In 1968, Green Witch Village is not to be underestimated. Do you know what happened then?"
"It's a college student." I said.
"Then I know." She nodded alone, "there is everything there, really everything, from the highest grade to the lowest grade, from top-notch genuine products to 100% counterfeit... For people like me For people, Greenwich Village in that period was simply a treasure mountain. As long as you have enough eyesight, you can definitely come across first-class painters and brand-new masterpieces that are hard to see in other places in other periods. In fact, I sent Many works in Tokyo are now valuable, if I kept a few of them for myself, I should be a rich person now. But I really didn’t have any money at that time...it’s a pity!" She turned her palm up Spreading her hands on her knees, she smiled nicely. "But there was only one, indeed only one painting which I made an exception and bought for myself. It was called 'The Man in the Taxi'. It is a pity that the painting was not very artistic, and the technique was mediocre, and it was difficult to find. The germ of talent is contained in the roughness. The author is an unknown exiled painter in Czechoslovakia, who has long since disappeared in obscurity. Of course, it is not a high price... Well, don’t you think it’s strange? Those selected for others are worth money The painting I chose for myself is worthless, and there is only one painting. Surely you think so?"
I will answer appropriately and wait for the next article.
"I went to the painter's dormitory one afternoon in September 1968. As soon as the rain stopped, New York was like an oven. The painter's name has been forgotten. You know, Eastern Europeans have a hard time remembering names, Unless it's American. He was introduced to me by a German student of painting who lived in the same apartment as me. One day he knocked on my door and said to me: 'Hey, Toshiko, one of my friends is A painter who is very short of money. Would you like to stop by tomorrow to see the paintings, if you can?' 'OK.' I said, 'but does he have talent?' 'Not very much,' he said, 'but he is a good man. ’ So we went to the Czechs’ dormitory. There was such an atmosphere in Greenwich Village at the time, how should I put it, like everyone was getting together a little bit.”
She looked at about twenty paintings in the Czechs' filthy room.The Czech was twenty-seven years old and had escaped across the border three years ago.He lived in Vienna for a year before coming to New York.Wife and young daughter remain in Prague.During the day he painted in the dormitory, and at night he worked in a nearby Turkish restaurant. "There is no freedom of speech in the Czech Republic," he said.But what he needs is something more realistic than free speech.As German painting students say, he lacks talent.She murmured in her heart: He was supposed to stay in Prague!
The Czechs have some merits in their techniques, especially the coloring, which is sometimes shocking.The strokes are also quite skillful.But that's all.In the eyes of an insider, his painting has completely stopped here, and there is no extension of thinking.It's also a stop, but he didn't even enter the "dead end" in art, he just "died".
She glanced at the German painting student, and his silent expression revealed the same conclusion as hers.that is it.Only the Czechs watched her every move with apprehensive eyes.
When she said thanks and was about to leave the Czech room, her eyes suddenly fixed on a painting by the door—a horizontal oil painting the size of a twenty-inch TV screen.Unlike other paintings, something is breathing in this painting.It's not a big deal, it's really very faint, and I'm afraid it will shrink and disappear when I stare at it.But it does breathe in the painting, albeit only slightly.She asked the Czechs to remove the other paintings and leave a white wall for this painting to stand up for a closer look.
"This is the first thing I drew after I came to New York." The Czech said quickly and embarrassingly, "On the first night in New York, I stood at an intersection in Times Square and looked at the street for several hours, and then I went back to my room and spent a night painting from."
It was a young man sitting in the back seat of a taxi.As far as the camera is concerned, the man was photographed at a position slightly off the center of the lens.The man turned his face to one side, looking out the window.She looks pretty, with a tuxedo, a white shirt, a black bow, and a white scarf.Kind of like a gigolo, but not.What he lacked as a gigolo—in a word, he lacked something like condensed hunger.
Of course he is not without hunger.Where to find young men who don't feel horny?It’s just that the hunger and thirst in him is too abstract. In the eyes of those around him—even in his own eyes—it seems to be a special point of view in the process of being formed.It's like a blue mist that knows it exists but can't catch it.
The night is just like the blue mist that hangs over the taxi.From the rear window of the car, you can see the night, and all you can see is the night.The blue base color incorporates black and purple.The shades are very elegant.Just like the tone of Ellington's "Duke" Orchestra, it is elegant and thick, so thick that it seems that all five fingers will be sucked in by touching it upwards.
The man turned his face to one side, but he didn't look at anything.Even if there is any scenery outside the glass window, it will never leave any scratches in his heart.The car kept going.
"Where is the man going?"
"Where is the man going back?"
To this, the screen did not answer anything.Men are included in the limited form of taxis.Taxis are included in the obvious principle of mobility.The car is moving.It doesn't matter where you go or where you go back, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter where you are.It was a black hole opened in the huge wall, which was both an entrance and an exit.
It can be said that the man is looking at the black hole.His lips were dry, as if he were in desperate need of a cigarette.But for some reason, the smoke was far out of his reach.He has prominent cheekbones and a pointed jaw, as if sharpened by violence.There was a thin shadow there, like a scar, the shadow of a silent battle in an unseen world.A white veil hid the tip of that shadow.
"In the end, I paid $120 to buy the painting for myself. Although $120 is not much for a painting, it was a big blow to me at the time. I was pregnant at the time, and my husband couldn’t find a job. My husband was an off-off Broadway actor, and he didn’t make a lot of money when he was doing something. Most of the living expenses depended on me.”
Having said that, she stopped to take a sip of wine, as if she wanted to use wine to trigger memories of the past.
"Like that painting?" I tried to ask.
"I don't like the painting." She said, "As I said just now, the painting itself is a little better than the one drawn by an amateur, neither good nor bad. What I like is the young man in the painting. I bought the painting for no other purpose. The Czechs were overjoyed that the painting was recognized, and the German boys were also a little surprised, but I’m afraid they will never understand my real intention for buying that painting.”
The tape of Christmas carols has also ended at this point. With the sound of "click", a deep silence enveloped us.She crossed her fingers in the tweed skirt.
"I was twenty-nine at the time. My youth is almost past, as the saying goes. I came to America intending to be a painter, and I didn't. My hands weren't as good as my eyes. I didn't have anything. I can create it with my own hands. The man in the painting, I always feel that he is like a part of my own lost life. I hang the painting on the wall of the living room and watch it live every day. As soon as I see the painting man, I feel bitterly how great my loss is, or how slight it may be.
"My husband used to joke that I was in love with that man. I was always staring at the painting in silence, no wonder he thought so. But he was not right. I felt something like sympathy for that man. I The so-called sympathy does not mean sympathy or empathy, but means that two people taste some kind of helplessness together. Do you understand?"
I nodded silently.
"Because I watched the man in the taxi for too long, he became another self before I knew it. He understands my feelings, and I understand his feelings. I understand his helplessness: he was imprisoned in the famous In the taxi called mediocrity, he can't break free, forever, really forever. Don't you think it's sad that mediocrity let him inhabit there, imprisoning him in a cage with mediocrity as the background?" She bit her lip, silent After a while, he opened his mouth and said, "In short, it is such a thing. There is no artistic appeal, no impact, nothing, no sensibility or skin impact, but if you ask about the longest in your heart There is such a painting, but only this one. Is it okay to understand it this way?"
"One thing I want to ask," I said, "is that painting still there?"
"Not anymore," she replied, "burned."
"when?"
"1971, May 1971. It feels like a recent event, but in fact it has been almost ten years. One after another, various troubles have made me decide to break up with my husband and return to Japan, and give up my child. Yes. I don’t want to say anything specific, please allow me to omit it. At that time, I didn’t want anything, no matter what, including all the ideals, hopes, love, and their afterimages that captured me there, everything .I borrowed an open truck from a friend, took everything in the room to a field, doused it with kerosene and set it on fire. 'The Man in the Taxi' was in there too. Don't you think that would be a good scene for sentimental music?"
She smiled, and I smiled back.
"I don't feel sorry for burning paintings. Because burning liberates him as well as me. He was liberated from the prison of mediocrity by burning. I burned him, I burned a part of me. It was nineteen It was a clear afternoon in May 1971. Then I came back to Japan. You see," she pointed around the room, "it's like this. I'm running a gallery, and my business is going well. How can I say it, I have business skills Well, sure. Being celibate now is fine and comfortable. But the story of 'The Man in the Taxi' didn't end in a vacant lot in New York on a May afternoon in 1971, and the following. "
She took a cigarette out of the pack and lit it with a lighter.The photographer coughed lightly, and I changed my position on the chair.The smoke rose slowly and was blown away by the air conditioner and disappeared.
"I met him on the streets of Athens last summer, it was him, the 'man in the taxi', yes, it was him. I sat with him in the back seat of an Athens taxi."
That was completely accidental.She was traveling, and at six o'clock in the evening she took a taxi from the Egyptian Square in Athens to Basilissis Sophies Street, and the young man came up and sat next to her in Ormoni Square.In Athens, as long as the direction is the same, taxis allow guests to ride together.
The man is tall and tall, very handsome, wearing a tuxedo and a bow tie (rare in Athens), and looks like he is going to an important party. From head to toe, there is no difference from the painting she bought in New York. Men are exactly the same.For a moment, she felt that she had a huge illusion, as if she jumped into the wrong place at the wrong time, and she seemed to be floating in the air ten centimeters above the ground.Her mind went blank, and it took her a while to come back to her senses.
"Hello!" The man greeted her with a smile.
"Hello!" she replied almost reflexively.
"Japanese?" the man asked in good English.
She nodded silently.
"I've been to Japan once," he said.Then he raised his hand and stretched out his five fingers as if to measure the length of the silence. "Performance travel."
"Performance?" She interrupted, still in a daze.
"I'm an actor. An actor at the National Theater of Greece. You know the Greek classics? Euripides, Aeschylus, Sophocles..."
She nodded.
"In short, it's Greece, and the ancient things can't be better." Having said that, he smiled slightly.After the topic came to an end, he turned his slender neck to one side, watching the scenery outside the window.As soon as he said it, it seemed that he could only be an actor.He stared out the window for a long time, motionless.Standing O Street is packed with commuters, and taxis can only move slowly.The man didn't care about the speed of the car, just staring at the shop windows and movie theater advertisements.
She desperately cleared her mind, putting reality into the frame of real reality, and imagination into exact imagination.But the situation remains the same: she sat next to the man in the painting in a taxi on the streets of Athens in July, which is absolutely true!
In such a time, the car finally passed Stantigo Street, passed through Syntagma Square, and drove into Sofis Street.In two or three minutes, the car will arrive at the hotel where she is staying.The man was still staring out the window silently.The pleasant evening breeze brushed his soft hair.
"I'm sorry," she said to the man, "where are you going to the party?"
"Well, of course." The man turned to her and said, "It's a party, a very grand party. All kinds of people come to clink glasses. It will probably last until dawn. I'm going to leave halfway."
The car stopped at the entrance of the hotel, and the male waiter in charge of the taxi opened the door.
"Have a nice trip!" said the man in Greek.
"Thank you," she replied.
Watching the taxi disappear into the turbulent traffic in the evening, she walked into the hotel.The faint twilight wanders back and forth over the city like a thin film drifting with the wind.She sat in the hotel bar and drank three shots of vodka and tonic water.The bar was silent, there were no other customers except her, and the twilight had not yet fallen here.She felt as if a part of herself had been left in the taxi.It was as if a part of her was still in the back of the taxi, heading to a ballroom with the young actor in the tuxedo.It was a sense of remnant, the same remnant feeling you get when you stand on solid ground while a rickety boat is under it.
After a time too long to remember, when the swaying of the heart ended, something about her disappeared forever.She could clearly feel it disappear.That thing is gone.
"The last words he said to me still ring true: 'Have a nice trip!'" She clasped her hands in her lap. "Don't you think this sentence is wonderful? Whenever I remember this sentence, I think like this: I have lost many parts of my life, but that is just the end of a part, and I can still gain something from it in the future. She sighed, and smiled with the corners of her mouth pulled slightly to the sides. "That's the end of 'The Man in the Taxi' story, it's over," she said. "Sorry it took so long."
"Where is it, it's very interesting." I said to the photographer.
"There is a lesson in this story," she said at last, "a valuable lesson that can only be learned through experience. It is this: You can't eliminate something, you can only wait for it to disappear."
Her words ended there.
The photographer and I drank the rest of the wine in our glasses, thanked us and left the gallery.
I quickly compiled her words on manuscript paper, but due to the limited space of the magazine at that time, I couldn't report it.I am very pleased to be able to publish in this form now.
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