Robert Walker - Absolute Instinct

Back in Millbrook, he had shown one of his sculptures- his best work-to another art exhibitor, Cameron Lincoln. The man had claimed to love it, that it was world-class work, that it could easily fit into any gallery in the nation or the world stage, and that together they could make a fortune selling such works for Giles. But he told Giles that he needed more like it, a grouping, he called it, of at least six or seven “related” sculptures to be a part of a show he wished to promote. Giles showed Cameron his other works, created long before his master work, but Cameron's reaction was as tepid as cold soup to the work that “had no backbone.” Cameron Lincoln absolutely loved the “unique and inspired use of the spinal vertebrae as artistic metaphor” in the sculpture.

“If you can get a grouping together before next April,” Cameron had promised, “I can put your work on display alongside Minneapolis St. Paul's finest artists.”

Giles could hardly believe his luck, but he could not possibly put together that many sculptures in so short a time. It had taken him a year to complete the sculpture that Cameron so admired, not to mention the time involved in getting together all the parts. As a result, Giles proposed a grouping of six or seven oil paintings with similar motifs in which spines figured heavily, one his snake pit of spines, all alive and hissing and writhing. Others were paintings representing sculptures he had dreamed up-plans for similar sculptures as the one Cameron so admired. Giles had already sketched these in charcoal, and he had rushed them to Cameron.

Cameron had stared at each sketch, finding them fascinating. “The attention to detail, even in black and white is remarkable, Giles. Christ, you know every bone and cusp in the backbone, don't you, boy?”

“Some people call the spine the Devil's tail.”

“Really? I'd never heard that.”

“Says it explains why men are evil.”

“Women, too. They got backbones so they hafta be just as devilish, huh?”

Ignoring the question, Giles had replied with a question of his own. “If I do these sketches in oil, can you exhibit the paintings alongside the finished sculpture?”

Cameron had again stared at the sketches or rather into them. They pulled him in, and he felt mesmerized by them. Giles worked so beautifully with the human form, creating fired clay images of women in various poses, birds and animals at their sides. In the spinal sculpture that Cameron so admired and in the sketches, the human vertebra shone through the back as if to tell a story of courage and fortitude, as if the skeletal snake had a life of its own. Uniquely done, the faces were filled with pathos. Life-sized, everything stood in proportion, except that the spines lay outside the otherwise natural, peaceful body, floating overhead like the bony wings of angels. Cameron said, “It is the disarming, stark imbalance that creates a reaction in me that I must believe others, too, will-must-feel. At the center coils the knotty, snakelike cord painted a daring, hellish red. I love it, Giles… love it, love it, love it. So, we've gotta get more done and quickly.”

“It takes time to build a bridge.”

“Giles you've accomplished serenity alongside human misery, no small task for any artist.”

“Sounds like you really like it. Do you? Really like it, I mean?”

“I love it, Giles. We can do the exhibit as oils. I will be terribly surprised if they do not evoke a great response,” added Cameron.

However, before the exhibit ever got under way, the show fell through when Cameron was arrested for art theft and fraud. Sometime afterward when Lincoln was out on bail, Giles, in a fit of artistic rage and frustration killed Cameron.

Giles's bus now arrived in Milwaukee's downtown area, and he stepped from it and onto the pavement. He walked east on Milwaukee Boulevard the two blocks to Lucinda's gallery. She was locking up, readying to go without him. Sometime during the evening, he must ask her again if she could find the time to come to his loft to see his work in progress.

She turned from the door and gasped at his sudden appearance. “Oh, Giles! You frightened me. You made it after all.”

“Sorry I didn't mean to scare you. Running late, I know. Glad I caught you.”

“How've you been, Giles?”

“Fine and you?”

“Have you been working?”

“You know I'm always working, always.”

“All work and no play,” she chided.

“When are you… Are you going to come see it?”

“Oh, absolutely!”

He stopped and she stopped with him, and he stared deep into her eyes. “When absolutely?”'

“Oh, I'm sorry, Giles. I don't want you to think I'm just blowing you off like that, no!”

“Then just say when.”

“Sheeze, you can be pushy for a shy guy. All right, as soon as ever I can find time. Now you mustn't become a pest about-”

“What about tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“After the Orion exhibit. Come back with me. Promise me.”

“I can't promise you it will be tonight, Giles. Perhaps sometime tomorrow.”

“Promise? Really.”

“I give you my word, but you know how busy my schedule is, so please don't be disappointed if… Oh, don't pout. Now you've learned my secret horror! My word is worthless!” She laughed nervously and patted his hand. “I will get there, soon. Not tonight but soon, I promise, Giles. OK? Tell me it's OK. I'll just die if you don't.”

“Yes, I see…” The bitch is never going to see the work, he thought.

They walked the few blocks to the Fine Arts Center. She spoke of Keith Orion and Keith's melancholic nature, and Keith's showmanship, and Keith's genius, and Keith's wonderful chances for a showing in Chicago. Giles wanted to kill Keith before ever having met the man, and once they arrived, Lucinda immediately latched on to Orion's arm without a thought of introducing them. Giles was left to wander about the center on his own.

Orion was all that she'd said and more. He even dressed like a successful artist in the most expensive cloches Lucinda could find for him. He'd been well turned out, and his booming, masculine voice, good looks and charm filled the gallery. But an hour into the showing, Orion and Lucinda had a posh but loud falling out with one another on the gallery floor, and even in this short measure of time, Giles realized that the show had quickly sagged of its own weight. In Giles's estimation, and obviously in the estimation of the combined Milwaukee, Wisconsin, art critics' circle, Keith Orion had relied too heavily on his David Copperfield imitation, his charm thinning rapidly, and too many of Orion's oils and sculptures derived from Picasso and his disciples, showing nothing really original save the colored lighting and the special effects around and outside the frames, with little to recommend what was inside the frames. The sculptures, too, had taken on the feeling of Moore derivatives. Nothing unique. Nothing challenging to the eye, and certainly nothing leaping out at the audience, grabbing hold, and holding it hostage. Nothing like Giles's work.

“I sculpt circles around this clown. I make him look like a Boy Scout,” he told himself, but others near him overheard and moved away as if he might pose a threat.

Still Giles felt happy, and if not happy, hopeful. Guardedly hopeful. He could clearly see that the public reaction to Orion's work proved disastrous. The comments of the evening spelled death for Orion in Milwaukee, and so Chicago was a pipe dream for him now.

Giles didn't see Lucinda again; she'd simply disappeared. Never going up to Orion, not bothering to pursue any contact, Giles inched toward the huge glass doors and left. Outside, he located a cab and went home to his sculptures.

Milwaukee was a loss. Besides, showing his work so near his scavenging could prove unwise and unhealthy. Lucinda had told him of a small cafe in Chicago where she knew the owners, and she felt his work would fit perfectly their little galeria de' artes. To this end, she had penned a letter of recommendation, should he ever care to use it.