The Paintings: Trois

The studio had two entrances, one on the Rue de la Parcheminerie, two doors from the little cafe, the other could only be found by accident. Over the years the back door to the ediface was encroached upon by other buildings and shops until the only way to find it was to follow a winding path through back alleys and a narrow space between two buildings. Desiderio's apartment and workspace was on the second story of a two story building. The painter paid no rent because no one knew he lived there. After a few years had passed it was now his home. What not even Desiderio knew was that the owner of the studio apartment had died three years before. An elderly lady well into her eighties, she had outlived all of her family. For reason's unknown, none of her papers, rifled through by the states lawyers after her death, made mention of the residence in Paris. Two years ago on a cold rainy Parisian night, Desiderio had gone down the ally looking for a dry space and found a back door unlocked. Upstairs into a large room, with a big fireplace and plenty of furniture to burn, he could tell the place had been abandoned. He thought he would stay until somebody showed up to kick him out, they never did.

The studio was dark, always dark. The two tall windows looking down on the street were covered with big heavy drapes. If he needed strong light to paint a minute detail he would crack open the drapes a bit, but mostly he painted by lamp light or candles. He painted as if in the womb. He painted as if on fire and he painted as if he were a baby being gently held in the arms of a loving mother. He painted in anger and as if his life depended upon his caressing paint to canvass.

It was a Tuesday night, around 11 PM. He had his eyes closed as he remembered the face of the small boy he had seen earlier in the day. He felt the canvas with the brush, and would look down only to mix a color or grab one already splayed on his palette. The boys face blended in with Dino's face, at least the one he remembered from a long time ago. Dino would be 26 now, and he did not know that face. He felt the honesty that sometimes partners with intense pain and sorrow. But the painting was not about him trying to display what he was feeling, or to get rid of it or make it a cathartic release. The paintings were never about therapy, they were about exploration.