The hard part? Getting God to sit still long enough for a quick portrait. Eventually, all I got was a sketch of His hand, which I used in that big ceiling job I got over at the Sistine Chapel. The Pope’s people said I couldn’t use the likeness of The Big Guy, so I substituted the face of the old geezer who sells religious trinkets out in front of the Chapel. I had to work way the hell up there on a scaffold, lying on my back for months at a time. It took four years. Hey! It was a job. I needed the money, as usual.
I wonder if anyone will actually see the thing? People don’t usually look up when they’re praying do they? Aren’t you supposed to keep your eyes closed? With luck, someone will notice, though. I put a lot of work into that thing. I’m hoping people see it because I need the exposure. The David job kept me in pocket change for awhile, but interest has faded already. And the Tomb? Don’t get me started!
In this business, you’re only as good as your last masterpiece.
____________________________________________________________________________
Vincent Van Gone
My life’s a mess, as usual.
Gauguin, the crumb, has to be the world’s worst room-mate. The guy’s always half in the bag and often argumentative. He says he hates my work, which hurts, since I like his a lot.
That woman I’m interested in is still ignoring me down at the bar.
Theo’s checks are bouncing all over the place.
On top of everything, I cut myself big-time the other morning while I was shaving. I was bleeding like crazy so I went down to the walk-in clinic. They were no help at all, claiming, among other things, that they hadn’t been invented yet. I had to use my hankie as a bandage, tying it around my head with a big goofy-looking knot at the top. I painted a picture of myself like that, for the insurance company. It was a lot of work for nothing. They said it looked like I had a toothache, which isn’t covered since I don’t have a dental plan.
It’s all making me a little nuts, to tell you the truth.
____________________________________________________________________________
¿Que Pasa, Pablo?
I had to tell Felicia not to come back. She had been here much too long. After three weeks, it is high time for her to move on.
Today, a new model came. Her name is Nympholita and she is 20, a little old for me, but what the hell. I am immortal, after all. What difference does a few months, mas o menos, make to me? I made her promise not to reveal anything about our upcoming relationship. After what happened with Immasculina, I do not wish to take chances. Immasculina promised not to tell anyone about my little ED problem, but she must have said something because a lot of women are pointing and laughing at me down at the café.
I like Nympholita so far. She brings me coffee in the morning and doesn’t wear clothing, which I find charming. I’m looking forward to working on her. She must be molded, like those before her, into the shape my genius demands. Bringing me that coffee every day is a good start.
She reminds me a little of Imaginina, a good example from my blue period. She was already beautiful when she came to me. When she left, she was beautiful and sad.
Of course, Braquelita was probably my best creation. She had known other men, which I don’t ordinarily tolerate. However, in my hands she blossomed! Ah, yes. Her magnificent temper! When she threw that vase at me and fractured the mirror! A great moment! After she stormed out, I recall gazing into that mirror (Always a source of pleasure and inspiration for me) and seeing things very differently.
I did then what I always do in those brief periods between women. I painted. The mirror incident has sent me off in a new artistic direction. I shall I call it Fracturism…
Something like that.
•
