Other Voices, Other Rooms
““Don’t smile, my dear,” he said. “I’m not a photographer. On the other hand, I could scarcely be called an artist; not, that is, if you define artist as one who sees, takes and purely transmits: always for me there is the problem of distortion, and I never paint so much what I see as what I think: for example, some years ago, this was in Berlin, I drew a boy not much older than yourself, and yet in my picture he looked more aged than Jesus Fever, and whereas in reality his eyes were childhood blue, the eyes I saw were bleary and lost. And what I saw was indeed the truth, for little Kurt, that was his name, turned out to be a perfect horror, and tried twice to murder me . . . exhibiting both times, I must say, admirable ingenuity. Poor child, I wonder whatever became of him . . . or, for that matter, me. Now that is a most interesting question: whatever became of me?” As if to punctuate his sentences he kept, all the while he talked, thrusting the brush inside the jar, and the water, c...ontinually darkening, had at its center, like a hidden flower, a rope of red.MoreLess
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