Robbie wants to talk about Meuse-Argonne. Ben does not.
βDo you ever think about it?β
Ben looks at him sidelong, sitting in the chair opposite, a glass in his hand. Whisky, watered down. Theyβre not princes. βThink about what?β he asks, though he knows.
βAbout the war. About everything that happened then. Everything that happened to you.β
He hasnβt drunk enough to have this conversation. If he had, he wouldnβt be here. He turns his head away. βNo.β
Robbie scoffs and lapses into silence for a moment, nodding his head to a question that hasnβt been asked. βYeah,β he says, after a while. βMy brothers didnβt want to talk about it either.β
βWho would?β
Robbie looks at him the way heβs looked at countless others--the way he looked at Ben, once, the first time. The reporter look. βSomeone whoβs seen things other people never will. Who canβt talk about that kind of thing with anyone else. Someone who thinks about it all the time, no matter how much he doesnβt want to. Someone like a friend.β
Ben sighs and shakes his head. βYeah, well some things are better left not talked about,β he tells him. βSome things you donβt want to carry.β
βI wouldnβt want to carry them alone, either.β When Ben doesnβt speak, he takes a long swig of his drink, letting the silence run its course. βI remember what you said, you know.β
Ben lights a cigarette. βI have a big mouth. Youβre gonna have to be more specific.β
βMore than once, actually. Iβm sure Janet can think of a fair number of occasions, too.β
βI donβt see what youβre getting at.β
βAbout not carrying on.β
βYeah, well, I think we can safely say that that ship has well and truly sailed--β
βNo, I donβt mean the Spider. You. You say it a lot. You say it like itβs a joke, but I donβt think it is. Thatβs why you take these cases, isnβt it? You donβt go looking, but you donβt back down. Because you know if something happens--β
He turns in his chair to face him fully. βJust where exactly are you going with this, Robbie?β
Robbie presses his lips together. βI donβt like the idea of you hanging around, putting yourself in danger hoping to be in the wrong place at the wrong time--β
βListen, you got the wrong idea--β
Β He doesnβt often get that look. Serious, unyielding. βI donβt think I do,β he says. βI get it, man. Maybe not personally, but I understand. You went to war and you came back a different person. A different man. And you donβt trust anyone anymore. When you met Ruby--β
Ben grunts.
β--you trusted her, and sheβs gone now, I know. You never got over it. But the rest of us are still here. Still pretty darn attentive, even. I donβt know if you know this, but IΒ amΒ a reporter.β
Ben tilts a hand. βYou might have mentioned it,β he says. βOnce or twice.β
βBen.β
βYou have two brothers, donβt you?β
Robbieβs expression changes incrementally. βJust one now,β he says. βCarl came back different too. Didnβt talk much. Wouldnβt do much. Mostly he just sat on the back porch staring at the trees, like he was waiting for something to come in. Maybe he was.β He presses his lips together. βHe never answered my questions either.β
βThe Germans kept him locked up all that time. He never told us what happened there. What they did to him.β
βThey didnβt do anything to me either, if you recall. I wasnβt in a POW camp.β
βNo,β Robbie replies, ever patient. βYou didnβt need to be. They still locked you up.β
Ben blows out a breath and stands up, digging another cigarette out of his pocket. He goes to the window so he doesnβt have to look Robbie in the eye. βPersistent, arenβt you?β
βMaybe I decided I want to hear this story,β Robbie replies easily. βTo ease the conscience of my good friend.β
βIβm not lying.β
βNo, and I think thatβs the hardest part,β he says. βYou think youβre alright, and maybe youβve convinced yourself that you are. But I hear you talk about yourself, man. I know how hard itβs been. And me and Janet, we donβt expect you to pretend.β
βAnd if I never stopped?β
He must be slightly drunk, or he wouldnβt have said it at all. The words slip out without his meaning to, and Robbie looks at him. Itβs dark in here, and heβs pretty sure Robbie canβt see his face, not properly--heβs too far away and the heavy curtains block most of the light from the street.
When Robbie speaks, he speaks very quietly.
βI think that would be alright.β
Ben says nothing for a long moment. βIβm sorry about your brother.β
He hears rather than sees Robbie swallow. βYeah. Me too.β
βMuch older than you?β
Robbie tilts a hand. βAbout your age,β he says, lips quirked. βBack then.β
βWell, thanks very much.β
βHe looked older,β he adds. βWhen he came back.β
βThat happens.β
βAnd like I said, he was different.β
Ben nods. βNobody wanted to believe what they saw, at Meuse-Argonne. The generals especially. They burned the whole thing down to the ground.β
Robbie says nothing.
βSome of them--my ranking officer included, by the way--never even set foot inside. They said they knew what was wrong with me. Theyβd seen it before, in other places. Said they knew how to fix it.β He looks up, lifting a hand to the curtains and parting them a little, looking down into the street below. βHow to fix me.β He turns to look at Robbie. βI donβt know what it was like for all those other people,β he adds, βBut Iβm willing to bet if it was bad for me, it must have been hell for them.β
βAnd it didnβt work.β
βI donβt thinkΒ electrocuting somebodyΒ has ever worked on anyone. My body was different, sure, but this was worse. I woke up and I wasnβt myself anymore. For a long while it was like I couldnβt even remember myΒ name. Naturally, because it didnβt work, they tried it some more. I was amazingly resilient, they said. I couldnβt speak. They reckoned that was a good sign.Β
βShellshock, they called it. They almost fried my brain trying to convince me that I was mad, that this would make me better. I wasnβt mad. My body was dying. None of them had seen the experiments the Germans were playing with. None of them believed me.β
βBenβ¦β
He points a finger. βYou wanted to hear this story, you have to put up with me telling it my way. Iβm not saying it because I want yourΒ pity. This is what happened. I was dying in a hospital bed and I was terrified. Hasnβt got anything to do with trying to spare your feelings. This is just what it was. And there was nothing I could do.β
Robbie doesnβt speak, which is a relief. Anything he says would be the wrong thing to say, and he still doesnβt reallyΒ wantΒ to talk about this, would hate for it to come to blows, verbal or otherwise. But he has to admit--itβs like turning on a tap. Once he starts, the rest of it comes easily.
βThey didnβt help me. Maybe that was their intention, but if so it was a goddamn funny way of going about it. The first step would have been to admit there was actually somethingΒ wrongΒ beyond what was wrong with everybody else--you know they werenβt a whole lot of help curing that either,β he adds, gesturing with a hand that is deliberately casual, despite the kindling anger in his chest. βI mean, your brother--β
He stops, biting his lip, but Robbie just nods, mercifully letting him off the hook. βI know.β
βThis was later. This was later, but itβs the part I remember the most clearly, I mean go figure. The first doctor who went at me--he knew, heβd seen it, the hell the Germans had left behind. But I donβt have any record of what he did. They burned the files, before I was transferred out of the field hospital to a real place, somewhere in Verdun. I only know that because I read about the fire later. It was Verdun where they tried to convince me I was crazy.β
Robbieβs silence is different this time--the calculated silence of a reporter, taking in the facts of the case, turning it over in his mind. βBut before that,β he says slowly, βin the camp, there was another doctor?β
βYeah,β Ben says shortly. βLike I said, they burned everything.β
βBut you remember.β
He needs another cigarette, so he lights one, turning away from the window. βYeah, I remember.β He takes a long drag of the cigarette, hoping secretly that it might calm him down, but he knows it wonβt. Heβs had too many ups and downs tonight already, and heβs drunk more than his fair share of watered-down whisky. βThink he enjoyed it, the son of a bitch. Never did find out what his name was.β
βBen.β
βYou. Asked.β He opens the window a crack to tamp the ashes, a habit he developed after he started seeing Ruby. It makes no difference anymore, but he does it anyway. It beats off the fury a little, forces him to take a breath. βIt was like--β His lip twists. He has to take another breath. βWhatβs the point, exactly, in asking me all this now?β
βWell. After Faber--β
βShe wasnβt that crazy.β He doesnβt mean to speak so bluntly, for once, but he does. Robbie blinks at him and he throws up his hands. βI mean, okay, obviously she was crazy, she tried to kill me. But she had a plan. She knew what she wanted from me, and it worked. I can accept that. Sometimes our jobs take us to unpleasant places.β
Robbie makes a face, but nods. βNo denying that, I suppose.β He meets Benβs eyes across the room. βThis doctor -- this other doctor -- he wasnβt like that.β
Nearly a question, but not quite. It doesnβt need to be. Heβs grateful for that.
βOh, he knew what he wanted, all right. It just wasnβt anything so endearing as a cure for his prematurely-aged son.β He shuts the window with a sudden bang that makes Robbie jump. βHeβd seen what the Germans were up to in that place and he wasnβt worried. He wasΒ fascinated. I only have snatchesβ¦ but I remember the way he spoke to me, whenever I was conscious. All their cruel ideas--theyβd try them here if they could, and theyβd do them very patriotically, you know? You do know,β he adds, brusquely, βYou know what this country is. You think about it every time they make you use the back door, for Godβs sake. Anyone who canβt see it is a damn fool.β
Robbie chews on his lip. βLot of people donβt see that,β he says at last, βbecause theyβre not the ones using the back doors.β
βWell, they should try being a PI, itβs one hell of a shortcut to the dirty underbelly of the human race,β Ben mutters. βEither way, he didnβt care if he hurt me or not. And he did hurt me. A lot. They cut me open and they took my blood and half of my kidneys, by the way, thatβs not a joke, Iβm damn surprised he was generous enough to leave me with both my lungs as well.β At Robbieβs disbelieving look, he laughs. βWhat? Are you thinking that I drink too much? Maybe I do, but I think Iβve earned it.β
βWho was he working for? The Army?β
βMaybe, maybe not. I reckon he probably was. Unfortunately for both of us, morphine doesnβt really work on me so well. Sβhow I know aboutβ¦ all of that,β he says, waving. βAnd he got a kick out of it too, so, good for him, right? I got Spanish flu at some point in between there and the fever nearly knocked me out, but that was a pretty good thing in my case. Not so much for all the blood loss and the shoddy stitches but I did okay.
βThen they zapped me around and I forgot who I was for a bit and when I remembered I still wasnβt really me, because I got bitten by a guy with a black widow for a thorax. Got an honourable discharge out of it and plenty of nightmares, and then I became a PI. The end,β he says, rolling his eyes and waving his other hand as he drags the curtains closed. βThere was this other guy in a stupid hat called the Spider, but you know all about him already. Interviewed that crumb for a pretty shoddy rag Iβve heard Janet uses to line her budgieβs cage, in fact. Probably not that exact article, though, that was pretty decent.β
Robbie levels a look at him. βJanet doesnβt have a budgie,β he says flatly.
βSure she does, she talks about it all the time. Itβs got some stupid name like Flipper or Dipper or Peter, something ridiculous like that.β
βDoes it make it easier, talking about this kind of stuff while youβre cracking jokes?β
Ben shrugs a shoulder. βWell, the whisky helps,β he says modestly, reaching for the bottle on the table. Robbie slaps his hand away.
βBen. Thatβs twice in your life someoneβs strapped you to a table and had a poke around in your insides. Youβre allowed to be upset about it.β
βUpset? Who said Iβm upset?β He reaches around Robbie with expert dexterity (courtesy of the alcoholism, not the Spider, thankΒ youΒ very much) to pick up the bottle of whisky and tops up his glass, then Robbieβs too for good measure. βYouβre a writer. If itβs not the story you wanted, go ahead and spin it whichever way you want.β
βIβm notΒ askingΒ because I want to write it down, Ben. Iβm asking because I worry about you. What they did wasnβt right.β
βDamn straight. Howβs a man supposed to get on in life without his second kidney?β
Robbie sighs and shakes his head. βI know it upsets you too,β he says. βYou justβ¦ gotta come to terms with it somehow.β Ben is not quick enough to prevent him snatching the bottle out of his hands a second time. βYou saved the city, man. You know this isnβt the way you should be celebrating that.β
βIβm not celebrating anything.β He leans forward to grab the whisky, but Robbie leans back, out of his reach. The sudden movement makes his head spin and he leans back for a second. βOh, Christ.β
βSee? Youβre still not okay.β
βDrunk. Iβm a little drunk, thatβs all.β
Robbie raises a merciless eyebrow. βEven spiders need their sleep.β Ben huffs out a laugh.
βYeah, so they do. And you wonder why I hate it so much,β he adds, sinking down onto the other end of the couch. βYou wanted to know why I wanted to be an ordinary person so badly. Maybe--maybe Ben Reilly isnβt worth knowing all that much, but he lives a damn quieter life.β
βA stone that leaves no ripples isnβt all that much of a stone, Ben.β
He lifts his head up from where heβs been resting it on his chest. Heβs so tired. βWhat the hell is that supposed to mean?β
Robbie stands up. βIt means I think old Ben Reilly is pretty alright,β he says, picking up a blanket from the couch and shaking it out. βEven if he is a curmudgeonly old man sometimes.β
βHey, watch it you.β
Robbie ignores him, throwing the blanket out over his legs. βAnd maybe his friend was a little harsh before in saying he wouldnβt be worth knowing,β he says, stepping back, having somehow extracted Benβs glass from his hand without him noticing, βbut itβs only because deep down he knows he has it in him to be a good person.β
Ben lays his head back on his chest again. The blanket is nice and warm. βNo, I donβt think so.β
βYou already proved me right once.β
βIβll make sure not to make the same mistake again,β Ben grumbles. Robbie smiles at him as he picks up his hat and coat.
βItΒ wasΒ a pretty decent article I wrote about you back then, huh?β
Ben lifts a hand--half-lifts it. HeβsΒ veryΒ tired. βNot me. The Spider.β
βRight, right, right. The Spider. That asshole. Well, sometimes, if youβre lucky good stuff gets born out of the bad, thatβs all Iβm saying. Iβm not saying the H-word. I just think you can be brave, if you try.β
βNo-ope.β
βVery hard,β Robbie corrects. βVery, very hard. Iβm taking this with me, by the way,β he adds, lifting up the bottle of whisky. βItβs bottom shelf, and I reckon we can get something nicer now.β
βWhat the hell for?β
Robbie smiles. βTo celebrate my best friend,β he says. βAnd my new newspaper.β
Ben sinks back into the blanket. βNot worth it,β he mumbles, βYou only have one employee.β
βYeah, but heβs real good,β Robbie assures him. He sounds pleased. βGlad you didnβt deny it.β
βWazzat?β
βNothing. Go to sleep, old man. Iβll see you in the morning. Bright and early. Janet needs a new desk.β
Ben waves a hand at him. βIβll agree to anything if you bring me a new bottle of whisky in the morning.β
βDeal,β Robbie says. He lets himself out, as per his usual habit. Ben slumps back on the sofa and closes his eyes.
Glad you didnβt deny it.
Maybe itβs not the worst thing in the world, to have survived all that for this.
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the thing about mothers in fiction is that a lot of fandoms seem to be under the impression that the worst thing a woman can possibly do is be a bad mother. like they can forgive deadbeat dads easily but the moment a woman is a bad or even mediocre mother she's the devil incarnate to them. and then you're like "i like her and i think she's interesting" and they immediately go "oh so you think it's okay to be a bad mother (which is the most evil thing a woman can be)". and don't even get me started on how they react to female characters who are bad stepmothers
More 'please draw my bike as a horse' commissions from yesterday! Although a lot of bikes look similar in colours, it's always nice when people tell me about how they see their bike so I can pick out a breed and personality.
Horse breeds & backstories for these under the cut:
The first commissioner said they imagined their bike as stocky draft horse because the bike is built solid and super heavy and durable. I picked a Clydesdale:
Here's a Clydesdale draft horse! I went with a brown horse and brown bags with black tack, to match the style of the really strong and durable horses that pull carts. This one's in a more ceremonial get-up, similar to the drafts that pull parade floats and such. I hope you like him!
The second bike's owner said that the brake cables had been modified: "the bike brakes like sh*t and I always crash into others when they brake in front of me. It's a bit dangerous bike, but still love it". I went with a Thoroughbred.
Racehorse!! I think a bike with brake issues is very Thoroughbred coded. I gave them a bit of a mischievous expression and the hot pink accents on the bike for the saddle and leg wraps. I hope you enjoy!
They even drew my design afterward, which I think is so cute...
The last one is a tribute to a bike that the owner no longer owns since they got a car. I wanted something springy and elegant:
The Kent Northwoods Springdale feels like a very classic, elegant sort of bike, so I went with an American Saddlebred. These horses have a really distinct, really high head + neck carriage. They've got five different paces, including a special type of pace called the 'rack', and they're shown both saddle-seat and in halters around the ring! It felt like the right vibe. This one has a simple halter and a show cinch on. I hope you're happy with it!
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"The Fayum Portrait Painters (1stβ3rd century)" by John Berger
They are the earliest painted portraits that have survived; they were painted whilst the Gospels of the New Testament were being written. Why then do they strike us today as being so immediate? Why does their individuality feel like our own? Why is their look more contemporary than any look to be found in the rest of the two millennia of traditional European art which followed them? The Fayum portraits touch us, as if they had been painted last month. Why? This is the riddle.
The short answer might be that they were a hybrid, totally bastard art-form, and that this heterogeneity corresponds with something in our present situation. Yet to make this answer comprehensible we have to proceed slowly.
They are painted on wood β often linden β and some are painted on linen. In scale the faces are a little smaller than life. A number are painted in tempera; the medium used for the majority is encaustic, that is to say, colours mixed with beeswax, applied hot if the wax is pure, and cold if it has been emulsified.
Today we can still follow the painterβs brushstrokes or the marks of the blade he used for scraping on the pigment. The preliminary surface on which the portraits were done was dark. The Fayum painters worked from dark to light.
What no reproduction can show is how appetising the ancient pigment still is. The painters used four colours apart from gold: black, red, and two ochres. The flesh they painted with these pigments makes one think of the bread of life itself. The painters were Greek Egyptian. The Greeks had settled in Egypt since the conquest of Alexander the Great, four centuries earlier.
They are called the Fayum portraits because they were found at the end of the last century in the province of Fayum, a fertile land around a lake, a land called the Garden of Egypt, eighty kilometres west of the Nile, a little south of Memphis and Cairo. At that time a dealer claimed that portraits of the Ptolemies and Cleopatra had been found! Then the paintings were dismissed as fakes. In reality they are genuine portraits of a professional urban middle class β teachers, soldiers, athletes, Serapis priests, merchants, florists. Occasionally we know their names β Aline, Flavian, Isarous, Claudine β¦
They were found in necropolises, for they were painted to be attached to the mummy of the person portrayed, when he or she died. Probably they were painted from life (some must have been because of their uncanny vitality); others, following a sudden death, may have been done posthumously.
They served a double pictorial function: they were identity pictures β like passport photos β for the dead on their journey with Anubis, the god with the jackalβs head, to the kingdom of Osiris; secondly and briefly, they served as mementoes of the departed for the bereaved family. The embalming of the body took seventy days, and sometimes after this, the mummy would be kept in the house, leaning against a wall, a member of the family circle, before being finally placed in the necropolis.
Stylistically, as Iβve said, the Fayum portraits are hybrid. Egypt by that time had become a Roman province governed by Roman prefects. Consequently the clothes, the hairstyles, the jewellery of the sitters followed the recent fashions in Rome. The Greeks, who made the portraits, used a naturalist technique which derived from the tradition established by Apelles, the great Greek master of the fourth century BC. And, finally, these portraits were sacred objects in a funerary ritual which was uniquely Egyptian. They come to us from a moment of historical transition.
And something of the precariousness of this moment is visible in the way the faces are painted, as distinct from the expression on the faces. In traditional Egyptian painting nobody was seen in full-face, because a frontal view opens the possibility to its opposite: the back view of somebody who has turned and is leaving. Every painted Egyptian figure was in eternal profile, and this accorded with the Egyptian preoccupation with the perfect continuity of life after death.
Yet the Fayum portraits, painted in the ancient Greek tradition, show men, women, and children seen full-face or three-quarters full-face. This format varies very little and all of them are as frontal as pictures from a photo-mat. Facing them, we still feel something of the unexpectedness of that frontality. It is as if they have just tentatively stepped towards us.
Among the several hundred known portraits, the difference of quality is considerable. There were great master-craftsmen and there were provincial hacks. There were those who summarily performed a routine, and there were others (surprisingly many in fact) who offered hospitality to the soul of their client. Yet the pictorial choices open to the painter were minute; the prescribed form very strict. This is paradoxically why, before the greatest of them, one is aware of enormous painterly energy. The stakes were high, the margin narrow. And in art these are conditions which make for energy.
I want now to consider just two actions. First, the act of a Fayum portrait being painted, and, second, the action of our looking at one today.
Neither those who ordered the portraits, nor those who painted them, ever imagined their being seen by posterity. They were images destined to be buried, without a visible future.
This meant that there was a special relationship between painter and sitter. The sitter had not yet become a model, and the painter had not yet become a broker for future glory. Instead, the two of them, living at that moment, collaborated in a preparation for death, a preparation which would ensure survival. To paint was to name, and to be named was a guarantee of this continuity.
In other words, the Fayum painter was summoned not to make a portrait, as we have come to understand the term, but to register his client, a man or a woman, looking at him. It was the painter rather than the βmodelβ who submitted to being looked at. Each portrait he made began with this act of submission. We should consider these works not as portraits, but as paintings about the experience of being looked at by Aline, Flavian, Isarous, Claudine β¦
The address, the approach is different from anything we find later in the history of portraits. Later ones were painted for posterity, offering evidence of the once living to future generations. Whilst still being painted, they were imagined in the past tense, and the painter, painting, addressed his sitter in the third person β either singular or plural. He, She, They as I observed them. This is why so many of them look old even when they are not.
For the Fayum painter the situation was very different. He submitted to the look of the sitter, for whom he was Deathβs painter or, perhaps more precisely, Eternityβs painter. And the sitterβs look, to which he submitted, addressed him in the second person singular. So that his reply β which was the act of painting β used the same personal pronoun: Toi, Tu, Esy, Ty β¦ who is here. This in part explains their immediacy.
Looking at these βportraitsβ, which were not destined for us, we find ourselves caught in the spell of a very special contractual intimacy. The contract may be hard for us to grasp, but the look speaks to us, particularly to us today.
If the Fayum portraits had been unearthed earlier, during, say, the eighteenth century, they would, I believe, have been considered as little more than a curiosity. To a confident, expansive culture these little paintings on linen or wood would probably have seemed diffident, clumsy, cursory, repetitive, uninspired.
The situation at the end of our century is different. The future has been, for the moment, downsized, and the past is being made redundant. Meanwhile the media surround people with an unprecedented number of images, many of which are faces. The faces harangue ceaselessly by provoking envy, new appetites, ambition, or, occasionally, pity combined with a sense of impotence. Further, the images of all these faces are processed and selected in order to harangue as noisily as possible, so that one appeal out-pleads and eliminates the next appeal. And people come to depend upon this impersonal noise as a proof of being alive!
Imagine then what happens when somebody comes upon the silence of the Fayum faces and stops short. Images of men and women making no appeal whatsoever, asking for nothing, yet declaring themselves, and anybody who is looking at them, alive! They incarnate, frail as they are, a forgotten self-respect. They confirm, despite everything, that life was and is a gift.
There is a second reason why the Fayum portraits speak today. This century, as has been pointed out many times, is the century of emigration, enforced and voluntary. That is to say, a century of partings without end, and a century haunted by the memories of those partings.
The sudden anguish of missing what is no longer there is like suddenly coming upon a jar which has fallen and broken into fragments. Alone you collect the pieces, discover how to fit them together, and then carefully stick them to one another, one by one. Eventually the jar is reassembled, but it is not the same as it was before. It has become both flawed and more precious. Something comparable happens to the image of a loved place or a loved person when kept in the memory after separation.
The Fayum portraits touch a similar wound in a similar way. The painted faces, too, are flawed, and more precious than the living one was, sitting there in the painterβs workshop, where there was a smell of melting beeswax. Flawed because very evidently hand-made. More precious because the painted gaze is entirely concentrated on the life it knows it will one day lose.
And so they gaze on us, the Fayum portraits, like the missing of our own century.
β John Berger, Portraits : John Berger on artists (Verso, 2015)
added pics for the very different experience of looking at a Fayum mummy portrait on the mummy
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Something SO cunty about the stage productions of lm where the barricade is on the revolve and turn it 180β° to reveal Enjolras hanging upside down. 10/10 would recommend to a friend
Like I know it's devastating but it serves SO HARD
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