The Fiftieth Night

 

Last Saturday, when Nick arrived for his weekly visit, I showed him my latest ceramic creations.

He was enchanted by the variety of shapes and colors—vases, figurines, plates.

“None of this is meant to be functional,” I told him. “Just beautiful.”

“They look like museum pieces, you know?” he said. “As if they were asking for a palace to house them.”

“Oh, don’t exaggerate. My inspiration does come from the classics, it’s true—from the Greeks to the French and Germans of the nineteenth century. I borrow an idea from one, another from elsewhere, learning from what they got right.”

“I think only rich people are going to buy these.”

“I still think you’re exaggerating. But yes, I do believe these pieces won’t appeal to the ultra-modern crowd; and artists who place themselves at the center of their own art will probably be scandalized.”

“You once told me you don’t want to express yourself in your art…”

“Every artist expresses himself in his art; what I refuse is to make that expression the very purpose of art. ‘I make ceramics to express myself!’—not me. I make ceramics to express truth, beauty.”

“I guess that’s getting into subtleties I can’t quite reach.”

“Perhaps I don’t know how to express myself properly. The idea is clear in my mind, but putting it into words—maybe that’s not so easy.”

“Well, I think your work has something hypnotic about it. It’s really beautiful, and the more I look, the more I… see…”

“The more you discover?”

“That’s it.”

“Bravo! Then I achieved what I set out to do.”

“So that’s what you want to market in America?”

“Yes. As an American, do you think I stand a chance?”

“I think so,” he said. “Especially with wealthy conservatives.”

“Two lovely little words.”

Nick looked at me, surprised, and said:

“You’re being cynical.”

“A little. I think I can afford to be.”

I paused, then went on:

“The website showcasing my work will be ready next week.”

“I can’t wait to see it!”

“It’ll be beautiful, you can trust me. And the hotel—has it survived without me?”

He laughed and said:

“Looks like it has. No one’s really replaced you yet, but it’s getting by. New guests all the time.”

I smiled, thinking of my vases—meant for a home, not for passage.