Makel

Makel 

Oil on acrylic plate 

80 x 60 cms 

[Lost to improper storage, which resulted in a loss of the oil paint's properties]

Excerpt from the book "Retratos" ["Portraits"], final work from the BA Fine Arts course at FAAP:

I arrived home smelling of paint thinners.

Before heading off the the University, a bath would do me good. Undressed, waiting for the water to heat up and staring at those grimy tiles thinking of nothing in particular. It is usually in those moments of apathy that I have one of those fraction-of-a-second epiphanies. I remembered Makel. Not her face or body in particular, but her. The feeling that the entity of her caused in me. Her personality. With regards to the image, only a few flashes of those dark curls and the beautiful body. And then this sharp and palpable feeling that she never existed. Or, if she did, that she was never mine. Then what were those two years? The steam fogged up the mirror when I opened the door to head for the bedroom. The sound of the shower hissed in the background, a light murmur. On the corkwood board, where I hung among other things the picture of Lilly, I searched for a trace, any undeniable proof that Makel had one day been mine. There were pictures of her lazily lounging on the grass at the farm, or smiling coyly in casual clothes that same day, and some older ones of us both embracing. Puppy love stuff. Yes, those two years had indeed happened.

But then, why was I looking at that face in the pictures with this bizarre feeling of unlikeliness? Nothing, nor anyone replied. It was a feeling that this girl had never entered my circle of acquaintances, being nothing but a familiar face in the midst of so many faces I was exposed to every day. A feeling of unrealness. Further dissonant was the fact that nobody had, up to that point, left so many vestiges, so many traces and so much tiredness.

Makel had been "one of those things in life" which separated me from Tinkerbell. And the strong, proud and loft "someone" who had echoed in Lee. It all began in school, when I told Tinkerbell not to worry, that Makel was but a good friend. But Makel wasn't content in being just a good friend. She was never content with the simple things. She was another type of those women, though just as dangerous, compelling and mysterious. Several months later, I had bid farewell to my girlfriend to spend two years with a Makel that dazzled me in no time. Reliving these memories is like running a finger through scars on the surface of the soul. I know the instrument that caused the scar because of its shape and the event, with its own pain, comes to memory as if it were happening that very moment. Often, if such an event was a masochistic pleasure, it feels to me now like a thoughtless foolishness. Why subject myself and other to being hurt like that?  Why leave Tinkerbell?

Vestiges, traces, scars. Traumas: Makel began to paint because I painted. She joined a studio and learned a series of tricks that I didn't know or which I had learned on my own. In no time, she was doing things I couldn't do. And she challenged me, though she would not admit it. I still hold in my studio the first canvas from a triptych I was trying to paint. There is a house on the hill behind the woods. I never finished it: somewhere along the way, Makel went to the studio and told me I was painting the trees wrong. Despite the few attempts to continue that painting, I never made any significant progress.

She had that power. She new full well what to say and how to play the game to get whatever she wanted. She knew that people react in very specific ways to very specific stimuli. All of that was drizzled with pride and stubbornness to match my own. And though she swore she never used those tricks on me, how could I be sure? We make a scene one day at the farm, in the wee hours of the dawn when everyone else had gone to sleep. Giving some sort of final word on the matter, she stormed outside dressed in pyjamas to sit on the backyard bench. Cool night air just above 10ºC. Fog. And her queue for me to go fetch her outside and apologise. Laconic, I left a blanket at her side, and while she refused to come back in unless I apologised, I went back in, to sleep on the couch. I do not play that sort of game. She woke me up some time later, deadly cold and burning with rage. 

Why did we fight so? Makel didn't live here. She lived an hour's ride away. I remember coming back from parties almost asleep: the car drove itself. I suppose also we fought a lot because of being brought up in different ways. She wanted the provincial dream: to marry young, before finishing college, moving in with me, without the parents. Having a kid or two. No more parties: you're too caught up with your friends and not paying enough attention to me. Dependence: I often said that if the world were to end and we were the only survivors, it would all be the same to her. 

Because of those fights, we broke up once. I wanted to break up. But it would never happen unless she wanted it. And in fact, after a few months going out as "just friends", I was back in that situation. Curious: the deepest wound in all of this wasn't even caused by her. 

On day, my mother called me over. She asked me if I intended to marry Makel one day. Pause for thought. I told her it wouldn't be a bad idea, but that it wouldn't happen anytime soon. And she quickly replied that perhaps Makel didn't see it that way. Minutes later, she had drawn out an absurdly unrealistic panorama where Makel was only biding her time, waiting for the right moment to get pregnant on purpose and force me into a premature marriage. Mothers will protect her young. Even if that means unloading onto them all of their nightmare at once. That brief scenario of hers included Makel's provincial dream, her capacity to divise strategies to het what she wanted, and an added spice: the allegation that I had no capacity whatsoever to avoid or even notice such sordid plans. Oh, how naive of me... I never believed that Makel was really able to do all that. After all, it was completely illogical of her to cast away her future as a lawyer only to force me into marriage. But paranoia spawned a new logic, which didn't take that into account. And fearing this unreal scenario could leap up and take me by surprise, I said my goodbye to Makel. This time, for good. 

It wasn't long until there was a substitute. Men are easily drawn to women like Makel. One of those types of women. This boy had his physical similarities with me. We were of the same model, or perhaps the same brand. Actually, he was an old acquaintance of mine from school, who had been drawing closer to Makel since back then. I swear I wouldn't mind if I hadn't been feeling so alone. If I didn't feel she was somehow still mine. But most of all, I wouldn't have felt so bad if he hadn't been so much better than me. He gave her everything she ever wanted, did her biding and accepted playing her game. He lived without his parents, worked for a computer company and earned well, even at my age. Oh, the first sleepless nights I spent, with a wounded pride and raging at the world! And unable to communicate for about six months, for I had come to learn how to communicate with her alone throughout our time together. 

But one day it was over. Every addiction fades, if you keep off from it long enough. It is all a matter of learning to live again after the storm. Seeing that the world is more than that. I thank all the people who came to take her place and be better than her. Many people who now smile at me from my paintings.  

In fact, the months after my rehabilitation were a battle of prides. She showed me how happy she was with her new boy and the increasingly solid plans they had of spending the rest of their lives together. I showed her how happy I was partying with so many beautiful people who still wanted to make the most of their youth. Both wanting to show the other how life was better now and at the same time feeling some nostalgia of the little things between us. What is I had... What if the other person had...  

One day, I decided to paint her portrait: a scar that would be visible to others. Her, on the restaurant where we used to sit and talk of trivialities. And then the phone rang. It was her, telling me unceremoniously that I should be the first to know that she was engaged... 

It bothered me. And I knew not why. Today I realize perhaps it was because everything that happened was being flung at me with a resounding "it is over" followed by muffled silence, dramatic pause. I didn't want her anymore, but it pained me to realize that I would no longer have her again, or even have the remote possibility of having her again. Nevermore. Whatever the importance she had in my life. And what's more: she was engaged to him. Obviously, I never told her that. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of my discomfort. Calmly, I hung up the phone and continued my painting. I felt better already...