Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

A little further down the dirt road, on the other side of the street, I find another small building, which happens to be another post office. This time, however, the sign on the door says: GLENRIO, NEW MEXICO, 1938. Aha. I think I’m beginning to picture the drama of this little Berlin. Situated on the border between two states, Glenrio was torn between the charm of New Mexico and the prosperity of Texas. And while the legendary Route 66—America’s Main Street — had passed through it, the little town had managed to juggle the passions and animosities. But later, after the freeway was built a little north of here, the town started dying away. Glenrio (Texas or New Mexico), little by little, lost its important geopolitical status and gave in to the mercy of the prairie, which slowly gathered it back into its dry bosom.

Further down, at a fork in the road, sits an abandoned white diner with a hitching post out front. On its door, a heavy lock and a CLOSED sign hang on a thick chain. On the window sill, salt and pepper shakers, oil and vinegar bottles, and porcelain vases with no flowers are lined up on top of old newspapers. In the corner is a rusty steam iron with a gaping mouth, squatted by spiders.

I walk about fifty yards further until I reach an old water tower, tilted to one side and tied with barbed wire. Around it, a few elm trees have thrust their thin bodies up into the air. I scare a little gray rabbit, who scurries away with ears pressed back and white tail bobbing up and down like a tennis ball. One black-and-white roll of film later, I get back into the car, find the exit to I-40, and merge with the fast caravan of vehicles heading east.

*

Stella sold a few more paintings at prices she’d thought up while I helped her pack and transport them. What is a painting worth? she used to joke. If you keep the receipts for the materials you’ve bought, you have your answer. How much does a painting cost, really?

Around Christmas the proposal arrived — an entrepreneur from Florida had seen her pieces in the architect’s home and thought they would be perfect for a small boutique hotel he was just finishing. He wanted to purchase seventy-eight medium-sized pieces in the same style. The money he offered was excellent. Stella politely declined.

After that, Stella spent time getting familiar with the Los Angeles art scene. She went to gallery openings, met artists, sculptors, and curators, and looked for galleries where she could exhibit her work. She participated in a few group shows before she found a gallery in Santa Monica that would represent her. The gallery owner, Jane Goldstein, was a fifty-year-old platinum blonde lesbian, with lead-gray eyes and dry Californian crow’s feet. She knew everyone who was anyone in that business. No one knew how exactly she picked her artists, but when a friend of ours learned that Stella was among Jane’s chosen ones, he rolled his eyes, flipped his pink scarf with his soft wrist, and winked at her: “If your work is in Jane’s gallery, girlfriend, be ready to say goodbye to anonymity.” He was right. A few months later, there was a opening in Jane’s calendar, so Stella had the dates for her first solo show.

*

— do you sometimes think that everything is meaningless, zack?

— i don’t think in paradoxes

— what’s a paradox?

— a statement that seems logical but contradicts itself

— where’s the paradox in everything is meaningless ?

— you see. . the statement everything is meaningless is part of everything. hence, it is also meaningless. which means that everything is not meaningless. a paradox

— this won’t be in the picture, right?

— no, baby

— then why are you pointing the camera at it?

— relax, it’s not in focus

*

I stop at a gas station, fill up, and check the tires. I look at the map and calculate that from here to Columbus, Ohio, is about twelve hundred miles. If I keep an average speed of sixty miles per hour, it will take me about twenty hours to get there. I am not sure that this stretch of road has more than twenty espresso machines total. And how many of them are in decent shape is a different story. That’s why I fill up my stomach with thin, gas station coffee, buy a dozen doughnuts, and take off. I’ll stop only for gas and for short breaks. I’ll try to drive the whole distance in one fell swoop.

*

Jane had managed to sell half of Stella’s paintings before opening night. I didn’t want to miss this occasion, which was extremely important for Stella. I organized my schedule so that the day of the opening, I’d be in L.A., inspecting a site. I made a hotel reservation (at ICONIQ’s expense, of course) so we could spend the night there.

The cab stopped in front of the gallery. I paid the driver, stepped out of the car, and while I was tucking my wallet in my blazer pocket, just a second before slamming the door, my glance slid over the yellow top of the car and landed on the woman behind the gallery window, whose face burst into inaudible laughter at that very moment. Her mouth — a perfect O. Her eyes — wide open. Her eyebrows — racing to meet her high forehead. She was wearing a black dress, fitted tightly over her beautiful breasts and revealing her bare shoulders. Her hair was pulled back neatly, and the curve of her graceful neck was sliced by a necklace I’d chosen for her. Behind her were the paintings I recognized. She was a copy of the woman I knew better than myself, she was the girl I had met in a café by the sea, she was my other half, whom I planned to grow old with.

There, on that boulevard, one hand in my inside pocket and another resting on the cab door, the world froze and went mute in a kind of reverse déjà vu , in which I saw Stella for the first time.

I slammed the door, the sidewalks came to life, the street filled with the sounds of car horns and music, and she was laughing at the punch line of a joke the moment I entered the gallery.

I have never seen an artist more beautiful than Stella. For god’s sake, she was not an artist who tried to look like an artist.

That night, I saw her paintings the way they should be seen — as she had always seen them. They were in the order she intended and lit with the appropriate lighting. I never suspected the impact.

*

There are a very limited number of things more boring than driving on I-40 in Texas. Two hundred miles later, I discover one of them — driving on I-40 in Oklahoma.

I’ve heard that the Aborigines have many words for sand . I know that the Eskimos have about twenty different terms for snow . I try to think of how many words the Americans have for road:

I decide to look for an analogue in my own language. The only thing I can think of are the words pointing out who is who in the family tree:

I keep driving northeast on I-44. A little past Oklahoma City, the heaviest skies I have ever seen gather above the prairies. I stop. A sky like this will either drive you insane or leave you cold How did the first settlers endure it? I stretch my limbs and body and lean on the steel guard rail. I spend a long time there, listening to the wind. I start moving my head slightly — if it’s half-turned to the left, I hear the wind one way, if it’s turned to the right — another. I even try to compose a little melody. Strange, there are so many ways to have fun with the wind just by turning your head left and right like an idiot.