The Masterpiece by Anna Enquist

"Come with me to the studio. I'd like to show you what I'm working on." With big bouncing steps Johan precedes Lawrence through the garden.

He's a child, he's a boy, thinks Lawrence. When he can be active again, start something again, tear something down or instead build it up, it's all right. Put a stamp on the world, sure! Everyone must know that he's been there! That's also how he seduces his women. He puts his stamp on them: Steenkamer was here. It's not unnoticed by the competition. Most likely Alma lets Oscar know almost daily that she's been stamped by Johan. And Zina's young man, that poor soul, he knows all about it too. Score points and win, also in his work. With every painting Johan has to crush something, overpower something. Moreover he has to be cheered on, otherwise he has no existence.

Johan has entered the garden pavilion and has left the door open. Lawrence walks slowly behind him into the tall light gray space. It is empty and orderly. To the right of the door on the short north-facing wall there is a kitchen counter on which washed glasses are draining. Brushes are soaking in jars on a shelf above it. In the corner is a door to the bathroom that Blue had already constructed while he was building the sailboat. There are a few easy chairs and a bed which are separated from the actual work area by a bookcase with a stack of Playboys, a book of photos about the Pacific Ocean, travel literature by Chatwin, and a thick book entitled Research in Perception of Colours. Along the long west side of the space, shelves and scaffolding have been installed where Johan keeps his materials in perfect order. In front of this cupboard stands a large worktable, half covered with sketches for the commissioned fresco. The east wall, across from the table, consists of windows. The original garage doors have been replaced by glass that looks out over the lawn. From floor to ceiling light comes into the room. Against the short south wall a two-level storage system with slats has been built for Johan's paintings. It looks like a storage space for giant long-playing records. Stickers on the side show the contents of each compartment. The storage area as well as the large windows can be closed off by long, light gray curtains.

From his position near the door, Lawrence sees the back of an easel which stands in the middle of the room. Johan flits around like a fish in its own water barrel.

I don't do things right, thinks Lawrence. My workroom isn't even a quarter of this, and when I enter it I'm not suddenly five inches taller like Johan is now. Spineless and weak, he said. He has no time for losers.

During these envious reflections Lawrence walks with his hands in his pockets to the easel, around it, and back a few yards. Johan rummages in the kitchen.

A punch in the face. Jesus. Close eyes. Open again. The painting is four and one half feet wide and three feet high. Two women on a sofa. Lisa sits on the right. From the bloodless face her wide open eyes look straight ahead, at him. She sees nothing. She's wearing jeans with worn, bleached knees. Her upper body is naked. On her lap lies the head of Ellen who has fallen over from her sitting position at Lisa's left. The face is turned to the viewer, the eyes are closed, the mouth is pressed open against Lisa's knees.

Three small parallel streams (tears, snot, and drool) run down. Ellen has bare legs under a short black skirt; one leg hangs diagonally to the lower left corner of the painting, the other is pulled up slightly so that the knee extends forward. Ellen's right hand hangs down limply in between the knee and the oblique calf. Her left hand is held by Lisa andthe tendons in the wrist are tautis squeezed tight in an uncomfortable and strange position. Lisa has placed her arm around Ellen's upper body. It looks powerless; with spread fingers the hand lies on the stomach. Ellen is wearing a sweater with a small strawberry pattern that contrasts strangely with the intense despair on her face. Lisa's breasts are small, like those of a very young girl. The slightly swollen nipples give the impression that they were never suckled. There is no comfort to be found here. In the upper left corner of the painting next to Lisa's horror-stricken face there is a window. It's open. A soft breeze pushes the curtain aside slightly and pale sunlight comes in. Through the window a solitary birch can be seen, a young tree with a straight trunk, vivid black spots on the white bark, and a light green haze of just sprouted foliage around the branches. Despite Lisa's wide open mouth, it is deathly quiet. She screams soundlessly. Despite Ellen's swollen face, she is not repulsive. She is one with her sorrow.

Lawrence is bewildered. How is it possible that Johan feels so perfectly the mood of the woman who is a mystery to him in his everyday life? How can he give form so passionately and so exactly to a sorrow that he denies? If Johan has imagined this, why doesn't he understand Ellen? And who would go to Paris with his girlfriend if he knew that his wife was feeling like that? Lawrence clears his throat.
"How did you ever think of it," he begins.
"I saw them sitting one time. They're not Lisa's real tits, but you can see that yourself. From Playboy. Their heads are from a vacation snapshot."
"But why - "
Johan interrupts him.
"A pietą, don't you think. It struck me immediately. I moved the cross beam, you see, tore the form of the cross out of its context. It also created a nice space for the window."
He's hopping on his feet in front of the gruesome painting, a satisfied grin on his face.
"Nice, I like all that grey. The intensity of the lower part is much stronger than that of the upper half. I turned it around, you know, sort of a pale Jesus."
"But Johan, if you, I mean, has Ellen seen it?"
"No she never comes here actually, especially not now."
"But can't you talk with her?"
"No, there's no talking sense to her. And I sure can't. That knee is good, don't you think? I'm also satisfied with the snot, that was difficult. You know that I worked on it for half a year? All those hairs, boy, nasty work!"
No, Lawrence thinks, they're clearly not on the same wavelength.
Johan pokes his friend in the side.
"Come, we're going back. I still want to take a look at that wall. And then we'll go and have a beer. Or do you have to go home?"

Inside, Lawrence recovers his equilibrium. They talk about moving the wall and the prices of marble; that's familiar territory. Johan is willing to be helped and advised; he's eager and very interested. Lawrence, who cannot get the blood-curdling image of the two screaming women out of his mind, keeps having the feeling that something isn't right, that he should offer his friend help in another way, but that he can't. Johan listens to him, will soon sit in the café with him for an hour, full of good fellowship and trust, but totally unapproachable.