Miser

(For a newer draft of this story, click here.)

Rebecca watched the remnants of hummus harden in a white plastic bowl. Todd watched the last of the carbonation bubbles slip into the bottom of the two pilsner glasses on the coffee table. A faint smell of spice hung in the air from repeated use of incense in the apartment. A pronounced taste of garlic draped on the tongues of old friends as they sat at opposite ends of an uncomfortable futon couch.

"Do you think an artist needs an audience to be an artist?" Todd asked with a hand supporting his leaning head.

"I guess so. If you don't have an audience, you're more of a... hobbyist. Right? A hobby is something you do for fun in your basement or something. There's no audience down there." Rebecca responded with lips lightly coated with chapstick.

"I hope it doesn't. That would be a bum deal for a lot of people." Todd scratched his stubbled chin. "'Hobbyist' doesn't carry the same oomf as 'artist'." He pulled on the tattered cuffs of his khaki pants.

Rebecca following the motion of Todd's hands and looked towards his black shoes. She thought his black ankle socks looked nice. "Don't artists want to be seen or heard? What's the point of making art and not changing lives by it?"

"I just figured artists wanted to make art."

"And if no one sees or hears it?"

Todd shifted his weight further onto his left buttock and rested more heavily on the green and black back of the futon. "So what? It exists on its own. That's what's important." He looked past her towards the kitchen. A series of fading Polaroid pictures lined the frame of the passage way. His gaze traced them up, over, and down. He could only make out splotches of color. In one, he thought he saw a chocolate Labrador. He was growing frustrated at his friend's opposition. He thought she understood better. "This is just like the tree in the forest. Just because no one is around to hear it doesn't mean it doesn't make a sound. Of course it makes a sound. To ask the question of whether it does or not is a ploy to get you thinking about things existing beyond your perception. The answer is really clear cut, though, cleverness aside."

"But what do sounds matter if they're never heard? That's what the koan is getting at, right? Think about it. An asteroid slams into the surface of Mars and who cares? It sure makes a sound, but the sound is kind of in vain or something. Sound is for ears. Sound without ears is useless."

The corners of Todd's lips dipped slightly. He thought 'useless' was a telling choice of words. He shook his head in denial. "That doesn't mean there wasn't a sound. Utility changes nothing about facts. The facts are the facts." He looked at Rebecca who was looking to the right of his face.

The setting sun cast an orange tint onto Todd from the living room window. Rebecca was becoming uncomfortable with the tone of the conversation. She stared out of the window to see the adjoining building. Craggy brick and mortar interrupted the otherwise pleasant hue. A cat stirred on a second floor sill. Its tail flicked into the cream half-drawn blinds and set them fluttering. "A wasted sound."

"What if an artist can't get the attention of his audience? What if they're too busy? What if all the people within earshot are uninterested? What if they have headphones on or something?"

"Well, at least she's trying to make it public. She's closer to being an artist because she's trying." The cat left the sill altogether. Rebecca returned to her friend's face.

"That's non-sense. She's not closer. She's already there. She's making art."

Noticing Todd's face begin to redden, Rebecca cut to the chase. "You're getting flushed. What's your angle?"

"Oh, I suppose I'm looking for a little reassurance," Todd admitted bashfully.

"You're taking a roundabout way of getting there."

"If I said it right out then you'd be likely to just build me up because you're nice."

"Because I'm your friend."

"Right. And that's not what I'm after. I'd like to be reassured by the truth rather than somebody's pity." Todd paused. He ran his fingers across the wrinkles of his pant leg. "A friend's pity."

"Fine. Then make your case and I'll pretend I'm a judge." She sat up. Her hair whisked behind her neck and a finger of her bangs settled over her right eye. Brushing it into place, she shut her eyelids.

"I keep thinking about this guy I once heard about. He worked some menial job all of his life. He was a janitor or something. He eked by, barely paying his bills. No one ever took any real notice of him all of his life. He was quiet. Didn't say much of anything. Didn't do much of anything by all accounts. Went to work. Punched in. Punched out. People figured he was simple. I never met him so I wouldn't know. Anyway, he got old and eventually died. When an appraiser went to his little house to see how much the bank should list it for, he found the usual things in an old guy's house. Dated furniture. Dusty drapes. A stale smell. There were probably some expired cans of soup in the pantry. All was as it should be until he took a look in the attic. When he poked his head in the attic and flipped on his flashlight, he discovered this huge cache of paintings. Oil on canvas. They were sublime. Landscapes mostly, some with storms, some with clear skies. Naturalistic stuff. They would bring you to tears. Apparently the guy worked his crap job and kept to himself by design. It left him enough energy to go home and paint most nights. Now, come on. Wasn't he an artist?"

"Why do you think about him so much?" Rebecca noticed an extra shine to Todd's eyes.

"Later. Answer my question."

Feeling awkward but not wanting to lie, she looked for a diversion. "I don't know. I'd have to see the paintings." Rebecca left to retrieve another beer. Todd tracked her exit.

"Why are you changing your tune? Earlier you said an artist needs an audience. Now you're saying there's something to the quality of his work."

The twist off top released a hiss into the air. She tossed the cap onto the table. It slid into the side of one of the glasses and rattled to a stop. "Well crap, Todd. It's complicated business defining things," Rebecca said before taking a sip. "Art probably involves both." Tasting the bright flavor of hops pleased her. "Did you want another one?"

"No, thanks. I'm fine." Upon feeling a tingle growing in one of his feet, Todd uncrossed his legs. He bent his left leg and laid it on top of the couch in order to keep facing his friend. "Let's assume they were really great paintings. Accurate depictions of landscapes--"

"Overdone."

"What?"

"Landscapes are overdone."

"So now the subject matter is important, too?"

"Probably."

"Some help you are."

"Sorry. I don't like how personally this academic conversation is for you. I was trying to get away from talk of artists and stick to art. Keep going."

"No."

"Oh, get off it. I'm listening." She took another sip. Her fingers felt slick and cold holding the bottle. She placed it on the table. Her hair drifted back across her forehead and she returned it with a swipe to its proper place.

Todd leaned forward and engaged her with eye contact. "Assume there is enough skill in the work and it has whatever subject matter you think necessary. Are you really going to tell me it's not a piece of art and that the old man by association isn't an artist?"

"I'm sorry, but I still don't buy it. You can't just horde it for yourself. Artists are generous; they aren't misers. That guy may have had all the talent in the world, but if he never shared it he's not an artist."

Todd leaned back. A small burp passed breathily between his lips. The taste of corn from the Colt 45 returned. "You can't just share your art. It's not that easy. Would you rather he stuck it on his front porch or something?"

"He had friends, didn't he? He could have shown his friends."

"That's all it takes--showing a few people?"

"At least the effort was made. Yes. I think that's all it takes."

Todd made eye contact with Rebecca. Her pupils were big in the poorly lit room and surrounded by hazel slivers. "Well damn."

"What?"

"I was identifying with the guy because neither one of us are famous. But I see your point and now I don't feel as discouraged."

"You say it like it's a problem."

"Well..." Todd looked the the Polaroids again. "I guess it is. I got used to thinking it was out of my control. My failure that is."

"Fame has nothing to do with artistry. I'll give you that. But yeah, you can't just shove all the stuff under your mattress. What good is that?"

With a click from the thermostat, the whir of the air conditioner began. Todd paid attention to the low-level white noise of the fan motor. "It's safe," he conceded. "I should get going."

Rebecca got to her feet to stop her frazzled-haired friend. "Now, now. No need for that."

"I'm fine. Just feeling tired. I've been preoccupied lately, thinking about what I am and what I'm gonna do with myself. Sucks to have a knot you've been picking at for a long time untied so quickly by someone else. But, it's nice to be freed." Todd rose to his feet and pulled his shirt down. The wooden floor released a creak as Todd leaned over to grab his glass. "Thanks for the beer."

"You're welcome. I'll get it." Rebecca stretched out a hand a took the glass from Todd. It was warm. "Thanks for the visit."

"Welcome."