The Thirteenth Night

 

When Nick arrived, dinner was ready, but there I was, still seated at the table, surrounded by my cookbooks.

“What are you doing?” he asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

“Choosing what to cook for my birthday.”

“Whoa!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide with joyful surprise. “When will it be?”

“In seven months and a few days.”

“Isn’t it a little early?”

“Not at all! I’m enjoying the party right now! Take the dishes, please, while I clear the table.”

“What have you chosen for your party?”

“Ah, well, I’m planning a surprise party for myself, so I haven’t told myself, and therefore I can’t tell you!”

“You do realize you're being totally ridiculous, right?”

“Of course I know. As the great Fernando Pessoa wrote in one of his poems, all love letters are ridiculous—they wouldn’t be love letters if they weren’t. To celebrate birthdays is a love letter we write to ourselves—or others. Celebrating is essential!”

“I would love to share such understanding and enthusiasm with you.”

“I know. I can tell you’re not much of a fan of celebrations. How many times have I celebrated occasions all by myself?”

He looked at me with a warm, tender smile.

“What?” I asked, intrigued.

“You’re reminding me a little of Mary Poppins. Are we going to have dinner floating near the ceiling?”

“It would be lovely, but I doubt it. I haven’t quite achieved such level of proficiency yet!”

“By the way, I bought some African violets.”

I glanced at the ones on my kitchen windowsill and said, “Really?”

“I’ve never had plants before, but yours look so vibrant. I realized I was missing some color in my life. Let’s see if I remember to feed them.”

“You will, if they’re important to you.”

***

Later, as Nick was about to leave, I handed him a wrapped present.

“What’s this?”

“A gift. Open it!”

“A book? Le Petit Prince—is it any good?”

“Honestly, it's an utterly disgusting piece of rubbish!”

“You silly!” he laughed. “But why?”

“Well, I like to spend money just to annoy you.”

“C’mon!”

“I’m introducing you to a new friend. Listen carefully to what he has to say. He’s quite wise.”

“Have you read it before?”

“A few times, in two different languages.”

“Okay, I’ll trust you and will read it carefully.”

“Good boy!” I said, waving him off with a smile.

 

 

The Twelfth Night

 

After dinner, while I was clearing the plates from the table so we could play our little game of crapaud, Nick was scanning the books on my shelf.

“I wish I were like you, he said, and read so many books. Have you read them all?”

“No. On that shelf are the ones waiting for my love-struck eyes.”

“But why keep all these you've already read?”

“Because I love them. I like knowing they’re there, within reach of my hands. Even to read them again.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course. I’ve read Stephen King’s The Shining four times. I adore the story. Wuthering Heights about five times. And mind you, those aren’t even my bedtime books.”

“Want to tell me a story?”

“Excuse me?”

“You read so much, there must be a story you could tell me.”

“Ok, let me think... In a tiny house on a small road lived three girls, very different from one another. Early in the morning, Arabela would open the window, Carolina would lift the curtain, and Maria would look out and smile: “Good morning!” she would say to the passersby.

“Arabela was always the most beautiful; Carolina, the wisest, and Maria looked out and smiled, saying ‘Good morning!’”

“The passersby would look and see the beautiful one, and the wise one, but of all, the one who lingered in everyone’s memory with deep longing was Maria, Maria, Maria, who said with a voice full of smiles: ‘Good morning!’”

“That’s not a story!”

“No, but it’s beautiful and true, like everything Cecília Meireles ever wrote. It’s a pity she wrote “As Meninas (The Girls),” a small poem, in Portuguese, which means I had to retell it in English.”

“There is a story in that poem, but we are the ones who have to make it. It’s like an invitation to live.

“Nice analysis, yours.”

“Too bad it doesn’t work like that. Maria’s smile only seems to attract bad people.”

“Only?”

“Almost always.”

“So, not always. I don’t see myself as bad, though I know I can conceive terrible evils, maybe even act on them; it’s my personal choice not to give room to those inclinations. But what if I gave in to the evil within me, instead of the good that resides there? Does that happen to you?”

He was silent.

“I understand what you mean. Is this poem also your friend?”

“A childhood friend. I met him when I was still a boy, at school. Ready for the game?”

“Always! And, looking at me he said: You’re a Carolina!”

“You’re an Arabela!”

“And we’re Marias!”

 

 

As Meninas

 

 Cecília Meireles

 

Arabela abria a janela.

Carolina erguia a cortina.

E Maria olhava e sorria:

"Bom dia!"

.

Arabela foi sempre a mais bela.

Carolina a mais sábia menina.

E Maria apenas sorria:

"Bom dia!"

.

Pensaremos em cada menina

Que vivia naquela janela;

Uma que se chamava Arabela,

Outra que se chamou Carolina.

.

Mas a nossa profunda saudade

É Maria, Maria, Maria,

Que dizia com voz de amizade:

"Bom dia!”

 

The Eleventh Night

 

That night, I said to Nick: "I want to paint your portrait."

"Seriously?"

"Of course! It’s been a while since I’ve painted portraits, but I think it's worth the risk with you."

"You want to do one of those portraits where no one knows who they’re looking at?"

I laughed at his fear and replied: "Of course not. I'm a Baroque artist who’d love to be a Renaissance artist, who’d love to be Gothic artist."

"Do I have to pose for you?"

"Yes, but it can be done in two ways: either you stay still in front of me while I work, which will take hours and might even stretch over days, or we take a photo the way I imagine the portrait, and from the photo, I’ll paint it, without needing your actual presence."

"The photo idea seems more interesting to me."

"It does to me too."

"But why do you want to paint my portrait?"

"In one of his novels, Pasolini describes a scene like this, and the response of his artist character is: 'To possess you.' To copy is to possess; to possess beyond the physical object, beyond the portrait itself. The artist possesses in their soul the essence of what they’ve copied."

Nick stayed quiet for a moment, absorbing what I said, and then asked, almost changing the subject: "I thought artists create, not copy."

"Nowadays, painting can be figurative or abstract. A portrait is, by definition, figurative art: there is a figure to be seen. So, there are two possibilities: either I go down an objective path, ‘copying’ what I see, or I take a more subjective approach where I trust my personal interpretation of what I see. From the artist's perspective, the objective side means possessing in my soul what I've copied, and the subjective side means that the artist has indulged in psychological masturbation. Since I don't masturbate, not even psychologically, I refuse to engage in such modern nonsense."

He laughed at my language and asked: "What do abstract artists do?"

"Abstract artists are the biggest masturbators of all, because the more subjective you become, the less connection you have with reality, until you’re totally abstract. Picasso, a guy who dedicated his life and work – and we can say that’s what makes him an artist – to detaching from the real world to dive deeper into himself (that psychological masturbation), but he never allowed himself to fall into the limits of abstraction, because to him, abstract painting is, for figurative art, what music is to literature. Since he didn’t like music, he also disliked abstract art."

"Are you saying musicians are all wankers?"

"Each art appeals to a different sense; painting is for the eyes, and music is for the ears, and ears don’t have eyes. The purpose of music is to reach our emotions through sound, and there are techniques to do that. In that sense, the more I possess myself, the better I can speak of my emotions and transmit them through sound. But I’m summarizing entire books on art. I don’t want to bore you."