Incubi

“Who cares?” she muttered, and meandered back to her table. It had been another blurred day. She’d sketched obliviously from noon, and now it was 10 p.m. Time seemed to have no meaning here, no weight.

Now her mind wandered. Ginny and Amy must have worked the day away too; Veronica hadn’t seen or heard them. She wondered if she would sleep with them again tonight but immediately answered No. She was finished with exploratory sex. The next person she slept with would be a man.

What now?

The sketch was finished. She used sketches only as outlines, much like a novelist. The sketch would not be part of the actual creative product. Khoronos had provided several sizes of canvas frames — a good brand too, Anthes Universal, which was double-primed and suitable for any paint base. She chose a 24”x34”; she hated easels, preferring a Trident brace-frame, which Khoronos had also surprisingly provided. And he’d provided equally good paints, Gamblin oils, among the best in the world, and Pearl brushes.

It was all here, but she still didn’t feel ready to start. She still had not yet figured something out completely.

Me, she thought.

That was it. She didn’t feel ready to paint her own likeness.

The sketch looked all right, but it was just a sketch, a rudiment. It wasn’t her. Suddenly she felt frustrated.

I know, she thought just as suddenly.

She rushed to the hall. Khoronos was here for them, wasn’t he? Would he be mad if she disturbed him now, at this hour? She stood for a moment before his door, paused, then knocked.

“Come in.”

“I’m sorry to dis—” but then she stopped just inside. Khoronos sat shirtless in a lotus position. He was meditating.

“I’ll come back later,” she said.

“No, stay.” He raised a finger, eyes closed. “Just a moment.”

Standing there, behind his back, discomfited her. She felt like an intrusion. Then he stood up and turned. The mirror-walled room was full of him, a thousand reflections at myriad angles.

“It may seem wildly eccentric, or even exaggerated.”

“What?” she asked.

“This room.”

“No, but…” she glanced around. “It’s a little weird.”

“This room helps me think. It inspires me. When I’m here, alone, I feel as though I’m sitting in the lap of infinity.”

Veronica looked up and down. She saw her upturned face. She saw herself looking at herself between her feet. Even the ceiling and floor were mirrors.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You’re not. I’m here for you.”

Now she looked at him. He was slim yet crisply muscled, well-tanned. He wore white slacks and powder-blue shoes. His silver-blond hair hung like fine tinsel to his shoulders.

“Your work is going well. I can see it. Am I right?”

“Yes. Well, sort of.”

“But you’ve come upon a stumbling block.”

Veronica nodded. All that remained in the room now was the single chair made of chrome wire. Khoronos sat down in it and looked at her.

“Tell me.”

How could she start without sounding stupid? “I’m painting my dream,” she said. “I’ve got it all worked out now, but—”

“You are in the dream, correct?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And you don’t know how to render yourself?”

“No, I don’t. I have no idea. It’s scary.”

“That you might not paint yourself well? Or is it merely the idea of painting yourself that scares you?”

“The latter, I think.”

Khoronos subtly smiled. “Re-creation is often scary, particularly when we must re-create ourselves with our own hands. The possibility always exists that we may falter, and hence—”

“Destroy ourselves,” Veronica finished.

“Exactly.” Suddenly he looked stern. “But had artists never dared to challenge themselves, then there would be no art.”

Veronica glanced down. “You’re disappointed with me.”

“No,” he said.

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited about a painting before. I want it to be good.”

“Then you must look into the face of your fear, grab it by the teeth, and accept the challenge.”

The room nettled her nerves. There was nowhere she could look without seeing herself look back. Each wall extended as a vanishing point of her own doubt. “I don’t think I’m looking at myself right.”

“You are correct,” Khoronos said.

“Sometimes…” Her voice diminished. “Sometimes I don’t think I’ve ever really seen myself at all.”

“But the impetus of all art, Ms. Polk, is seeing. You’ve learned to see many things. You merely have not yet extended your perceptions to the necessary extreme.”

“What’s the trick?”

“Transcension,” he said.

She thought about that, aware of the mirror-faces watching her. The faces seemed hopeful, expectant.

Then Khoronos said, “Define art.”

Her expression confessed her desperation.

Khoronos laughed. “Not an easy question, I know.”

“But you have the answer,” she felt sure. “What?”

“Art is transcension. There can be no other answer in the end. Art redefines all that we see, and without that redefinition, nothing has meaning, Ms. Polk. Nothing. To the entire realm of creation, the artist is but a vehicle of redefinition. Creation, in truth, is re-creation. Do you understand?”

“I guess so,” she said, but she didn’t really.

“Art is nothing more than the act of transcending the physical into the spiritual. That may sound cold, but it’s also the greatest power on earth. We each assume our place in life, and the artist assumes his or her place too, merely in an exalted relativity.”

What is your place? she wanted to ask.

He smiled as though he’d heard the thought. “The level of the success of any art depends on the success of the artist’s power of perception. The power…to see.”

Now Veronica felt swamped. She felt drowning in a lake of riddles, reaching out for something to hold on to.

“Do you understand now? Everything is meaningless until we give it meaning. Including ourselves.”

Veronica stared not only at him but at what he’d said.

“But there’s one more function, one more piece that makes art ultimate.”

“What?”

“Transposition.”

The word buried her at once. None of you are ready yet, Gilles had told them last night. And Marzen: Not yet ready to transpose.

She repeated the word in her mind. Transposition. It sounded echoic and vast, like a word spoken by a spirit.