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A kingdom where the
Artists hold sway? Now this really is
fantasy! The Corners of Things By John Lewis There
is a country where a disappointed King lives. The King is a fat man and knows
it. He smells like old butter. His features are soft and fleshy; his hands are flabby.
There is an overall air of a bashful shambling mule. You can see that he thinks
a King should be tall and thin, but what can he do - he has only the body of a
sturdy abbot? What shames him above all is his lame left leg. Of little comfort
is it to him to note that it is fashionable among the nobility to drag the leg
when walking. Sometimes
when he visits the palace gallery, he looks at the portrait of a famous fat
King of the past. There seems no sign in the famous King’s eye of unease at his
large condition. Rather the viewer is assailed with a torrent of visual
braggadocio - the manly strut of isosceles legs, the arms akimbo, the impudent
stare, all speak of a man at peace with his central bulk. Perhaps he simply
could not see his fatness. Perhaps the flatterers had persuaded him his frame
was sweet and lissom. God pity a King that sees himself truly. So
you see this King is objective. His courtiers have never been quite able to
believe this - they still paddle him as though he was a deluded bully, like
other autocrats. He bears with this, for they know no better. But how is it, he
wonders, that other monarchs swell themselves unremittingly on the selfish
lies? Is there never a moment at midnight, when they stumble into an unlooked
for silence and contemplate the emptiness? Is there never a moment when even a
stupid vain King looks in the mirror and realises that after all he is only
another man.? But then he reflects that even the poor man can find refuges of
superiority in the mind's forest. Those little sunlit glades of bliss before
the rain falls. Alonso
the court artist is thin, tall and dark. Imagine a fastidious animated cadaver
stooping to admire the tangled weeds, but scowling at the sunflowers, and there
you have this man of feeling. He knows his Majesty envies his leanness,
demeanour and sensibility. When they talk about Art, he gloats on the see-saw
of jealousy and respect revealed by the royal glances. Alonso does not confine
himself to oils, watercolours, carbon and stone. He uses other materials as the
spirit moves him. Once he sculpted a gigantic mole out of the rich moist loam
from the palace kitchen garden. The courtiers guffawed when the worms wriggled
out. Another time, he captured the Royal
Cook's likeness by squashing insects onto the canvas. The baffled Chef began
prising away the chitinous carcases to see what lay beneath. Alonso, about to
slap him, realised he preferred the staining left behind and instead shook the
astonished man by the hand. The
King likes Alonso's curious items: they appeal to the darkness inside him that
rages at the puzzle of things. Why do noses run in cold weather? Why does
coffee smell better than it tastes? Why does a room insist on more than two
corners? The King will say: "It's
geometry that matters above all. The shape is vital to what an object does. How
poignant that the dissolution of a knot could lead to the death of a warrior.
My grandfather's saddle slipped while he was riding by a river and he fell in
and drowned." "You
are right, your Majesty. We must attend to the form of things. The man fits the
woman and the spade divides the soil. The only real question is how difference
came into the world. If only everything were the same, there would be no
clutter." The
court artist will sigh, look around and shrug his shoulders. After all, it is
not his fault the world is how it is. Admiring
how Alonso felt about the world, the King once tried to emulate him. He
withdrew from the court and spent hours alone. First he concentrated on
sculpture, producing studies of hedgehogs by moonlight. Then he progressed to
painting and drawing, seeking to capture the flight of birds and the picnics of
gypsies. One day he shyly invited Alonso to see his work. Alonso was
circumspect. He did not want to offend a King; even an objective one. "Good
observation, your Majesty. I particularly adore the way you devote yourself to
details. The line of this duck's mouth reminds me of my Lord Rudolpho's
daughter when she detected the flavour of lime in last night's syllabub." "Ah,
but how do I know you are genuine? A King can never believe praise. His
subjects will lie if they think it will benefit. What shall I do to reveal
their true opinion? A King must always enjoy the best of material comfort, but
what of his spiritual armchair?" "Why
not hold a competition, your Majesty? You could enter your work under an
assumed name. Then if you won the competition, you would truly know that you
had merit. You would have escaped the snare of sycophancy." "What
a good idea, Alonso," said the King. So
a proclamation travelled the kingdom. At the end of the month, there was to be
an Art competition open to all people and any type of work. The prize would be
one ton of silver. All entries had to be brought into the great hall of the
palace for display. The hope was this would prevent any unduly large or
immovable objects being entered. The entries would be exhibited for one week
and then a winner would be chosen. The judges would be the Archbishop and the
Lord Chancellor. Both were renowned for their incorruptibility and greed. The
entire country was seduced by the news of the competition. Young girls weaved
the whiskers of their cats into true love-knots. Little boys laid out the oblations of stray
dogs into pleasing patterns. Industrious adults who had any talent, or thought
they did, began to draw, paint and sculpt. The lazy and the untalented began to
think of stealing or copying or getting others to do the work for them. Only
the scoundrels and the tricksters considered passing off everyday objects as
works of Art. From
the opening day of the competition, a multitude of entries were carried to the
great hall. As each piece was admitted,
the creator's name and address was recorded. Then a cross-referencing number
was placed by the object, so that nobody could take advantage of a beautiful or
famous name. At
first, occasional grubby individuals turned up claiming to be exhibits in their
own right. Although their motives were suspected and they began to stink the
hall out, they were admitted provided they did useful things besides being
themselves: such as catching fleas or picking up litter or cleaning the
windows. They scavenged off any exhibits foolish enough to use food as a
constituent. Their ablutions became
manoeuvres imbued with deep significance. Then a group of seven vagabonds
turned up and said they collectively constituted a work of Art. They gave the
name of the artist as Desperation and his address as the End of the Tether.
Grudgingly, Alonso decided they could be allowed in, whereupon they
congratulated each other on having somewhere dry and warm to sleep for the next
few days. A number was stuck to the
forehead of the tallest one and they were chained together. Soon all the
homeless people of the kingdom turned up. Alonso instructed the doorkeepers to
turn them away for they would have filled the space and left no room for
anything else. Some
artists were resented since they tried to use bits of the other exhibits as
supplements to their own creations. Sculptures in particular needed guarding in
case a finger or something more vital was torn off. Alonso threatened to ban them on the grounds
of vandalism. Then there were artists whose work operated through the neglected
senses. Lotabul, a blind monk from the nearby monastery, entered a flock of
sheep whose wool he had soused in lavender oil and which he insisted were to be
exhibited in a tent whose fabric was impervious to light. The idea was that the
sheep would only be apprehended through the senses of sound, touch and smell. The
piece was entitled: "Against the
tyranny of sight". From the beginning, this exhibit gave trouble: many of
the sheep were stolen and those that remained were troubled by strangers in the
night. Some
people came with dismantled works of Art which they intended to reassemble
inside the hall. Alonso watched uneasily as a sardonic lawyer had a small troop
of labourers carry in the elements of a house. It was rebuilt at the north end
of the hall. A day later, a merchant returned from a voyage and found his house
was missing and a writ for non-payment of legal fees lying in its place.
Finding where home had gone, he took up residence on the off chance it might
win the competition. Alonso upset him by explaining that in this event the
prize would go to the lawyer, as he was the artist. Downhearted, the owner
moved out but instructed his men to fire the advocate's house in the middle of
the night, so that he might suffer for his Art. Unknown
to the King, special arrangements were made for his entry, which was delivered
by a pliant envoy of a foreign country. Notice had already gone out to the
doorkeepers as to the name and address the King's agent would give - Mr.
Addlepate of Wonky Nose House, Crooked Shoulder Street. So, when these details
were recognised, the number allocated to the King's painting was discreetly
conveyed to the judges. Alonso knew of these arrangements but said nothing. Not
to arouse the King's suspicion, Alonso decided to submit his best sculpture. It
was of a maiden scrutinising a toenail in the palm of her hand. He was
especially proud of the girl's wrinkled nose. Late one morning he travelled on
the wagon that took it to the hall.
Having supervised its placement he sauntered among the other exhibits.
He bantered with the opportunist vagrants, throwing sovereigns to the ones with
the best excuses for why they were Art. He dismissed everything else he saw as
derivative or fawning. There was a predictable crop of busts and portraits of
the King. There were even some of the two judges. Out of curiosity he decided
to look at the piece that would win regardless of its merit and regardless of
the superiority of his own offering. He approached the work with indifference,
so that no one might suspect its importance. The
King's entry was an oil painting of a country scene. Alonso was shocked. It was
beautiful. It filled his mind with the heat of his adolescence. He could not
look away. For a little while, he moved among the figures in the painting,
walked in the woods with them and joined their meal around the campfire. When
he returned he felt foolish, for it was afternoon and he was standing in front
of a rectangle of coarse fabric covered in splotches of paint. The tramps were
jeering for they had taken his long stillness as a mockery of them. Leaving the
hall, he went to a public garden and walked across the flowers. He could not
leave off thinking. The
King's painting was a work of genius. It was even better than his sculpture. So
surely it was fitting that it should win? But the King would not succeed
because his piece was the best. He would only prevail because he was King. The
artist felt compassion. For although Alonso had been born to peasants and had
walked to school in his bare feet, all his progress had been due to his
ability. Of that he could be sure: he had no belief in luck. He was superior to
a King because he knew his true merit. But he would still lose the competition.
And the result would be just and unjust at the same time. He laughed and went
off to visit his favourite woman. On
the judging day there was a lively crowd in the hall. The judges, the
Archbishop and the Lord Chancellor, had an armed escort so that they could walk
about unmolested. The pickpockets enjoyed plenty and would have run off with
some of the portable entries, but were prevented by the guards. The performing
tramps gave up because the mob absorbed their antics in the general tomfoolery.
The artists who were exhibiting dirty baths, untidy beds and the suchlike were
distressed by yokels making proper use of them. The ones who were showing dead
or alive animals were drawn into extended haggling by tanners, butchers or
farmers. Those entrants who had explored the intriguing possibilities of light
and space were plagued by children who mistook their work for play areas. The
more enterprising of them resigned themselves to the misperception and charged
admission. The house built on the lawyer's instruction was commandeered as a
place where the judges could reach their verdict in relative isolation and
tranquillity. This left the field clear for the ordinary works of Art. At
five o' clock the winner was announced. It was Mr. Addlepate, of course. A call
went out for the man to step forward and claim his prize. But nobody came. There
was an awkward silence as everyone waited for something to happen. Finally, a
smile weakened the King's lips and he struggled up from the throne where he had
been surveying the spectacle. "I
confess that I am 'Mr. Addlepate'. I went incognito for I feared otherwise I
would triumph because of who I am. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to have
won." A
roar went up. The King was a popular winner. Especially as free drink flowed
for the rest of the day. Alonso passed among the rabble to hear what they said: "Life
ain't fair. The picture's rubbish. Everyone knew it was the King's." "I
like the picture and the King is a noble man." "Where's
my purse gone?" These
are an accurate sample of the kinds of things said. None of the common people
saw the King's picture was a masterpiece. Alonso smiled to himself and left.
Later he walked among the courtiers to see if well born men could recognise the
picture's value. What did my Lord Rudolpho have to say? "The
poor poor King. He genuinely believed he had won by merit. Even a fool can see
the picture is juvenile and badly wrought. What say you Alonso?" "I
think the picture has its own special quality," said Alonso. "Well
said Alonso! Always the diplomat. After all, we have our position to consider,
don't we?" The
King came in and asked my Lord Rudolpho of the merit of his painting. "Sire,
your work was magnificent. That is why it won the competition." Other
courtiers joined in with their adulation. The King began to frown - the more
praise that came his way, the more he doubted his talent. But he knew there was
someone who would tell him the truth, whatever the consequences. Someone for
whom the calling of Art dominated everything else, even the need for security
and position. He beckoned Alonso towards him. "I
wish to speak with you privately, Alonso. Come to my library at ten." The
King departed. Shortly
before ten, Alonso finished off a glass of red burgundy and headed towards the
library. When he got there the King asked him to sit down and they faced each
other with their knees almost touching. The King looked at Alonso as the pig
looks at the slaughter man. "What
did you think of the painting Alonso?" "Your
Majesty, it is painful for me to say what I must, but you are an objective
King, a very rare thing, and it has always been my duty to tell the truth, in
life as well as in art. Your painting is mediocre, neither remarkable nor
poor." "I
knew it. Then the contest was a charade?" "Yes,
it was fixed for you to win. I could do nothing about it. For a King's prestige
matters more than his substance. Can men be ruled by someone who fails? No,
once you had entered the competition, it was necessary for you to win,
regardless of your picture's merit. The survival of the monarchy depended upon
it." "Does
my work have no value at all, Alonso?" "It
does, your Majesty; but only as a warning not to stray from your duty. As a
picture it has no value. We all have our paths in life and must stick to them.
You were destined to be King and I was meant to be an artist. We must keep to
our corners, whether great or small. We cannot frustrate Geometry. It is sad
and it is true." Alonso
bowed and went away. As he skipped along the palace gallery towards his own
chambers, he smiled at the paintings that hung on the walls. It was for all Artists
that he had told his lie. If it ever came out that this King had produced a
masterpiece then there would be no stopping the other monarchs. Every one of
them would start painting and every one of them would be told they were
generating gems. The currency of Art would be fatally undermined. It had been a
matter of keeping the profession safe from outsiders. For this it was worth
denying one glorious work. When he reached his room he poured himself another
glass of Burgundy. Now
the King wanders the gallery and looks wistfully at the pictures that he
prefers. They prick his creative being but his feeling of duty compels him to
let things be. Besides he would only produce mediocrities that would induce his
courtiers to lie. Alonso feels quite safe. There is no chance of his Majesty
ever picking up a brush and creating more masterpieces. He knows his proper
place. And as for the marvel that he produced for the competition, this is kept
in an obscure corner that no one ever visits. It gathers dust. When
the time is right, when both the King and he are dead, Alonso's memoirs will be
published. These will reveal that the neglected painting was actually done by
him at the bidding of the King. Only then will it be looked at anew by future
fools and recognised as the wonder it truly is. And Alonso will have the
credit. His name will live forever. He will be a King of Art. He smiles happily
in his sleep, turns over and dislodges the cat at the foot of the bed.
The Sorcerer's Song and The Cat's Meow is an author's triumph and a reader's delight...
What a wonderful, free-falling storytelling ride to get to the end of a fantasy that's about
as close to purrfect as you can get.
M. Wayne Cunningham - ForeWord CLARION Reviews
A well-plotted story with vivid and riveting description of characters and settings, as well as an intense page turning battle,
the book is a delight to read.
Tracy Roberts - Write Field Services
A cat and her sorcerer, a beautiful dream weaver, an evil voodoo priest,
a bunch of man-sized rats, an army of really big bugs, a crazed randy rabbit,
some dwarves, dragons and angry three-toed sloths, New York City, the woods of Maine,
the sands of Arabia and the mythic lands of Avalon all come together for the wildest
most epic adventure you’ve ever read!!!!