by Vincent Mak
When he was only seven or eight years old, he would play all day with lumps of clay that were given to him in handicraft lessons at school or were bought for him by his mother; clay was the only toy that he ever pestered his mother to buy. His father left home when he was two and never returned, and his mother was always too busy making ends meet cleaning houses and offices. He was left to his own devices.
‘That’s a cute little elephant you’ve made, my love!’ ‘What a lovely prince!’ His mother lavished praise on his clay figurines in the precious evening hours between the time when she was back, exhausted, and when he had to go to bed. His teachers and classmates gasped with delight whenever he took out a new figurine from his school bag for them to admire.
But also, many times at home, he had glowered at an almost-finished work in his hand in a fit of anger.
‘No, this doesn’t look nice! I don’t like it!’
‘But, my dear, it’s lovely …’
Before his mother could protect his effort from himself, he had already ripped a whole day’s toil to pieces.
He grew up to be an aloof and quiet teenager. Everyone knew he was only interested in art, especially sculpture. When other students tried to get him involved in a game or invited him to a party, he would politely turn them down. When the students tried again – ‘Come on, don’t be a nerd for God’s sake’ – he would refuse again with more bluntness and an intimidating, fierce glint in his eyes that would drive home the message.
At the same time, his sculptures began to be placed in school competitions. He became determined to devote his life to sculpture.
But the world, with all its machinations, would not so easily let one individual escape its clutches. He soon learned that he should go to an art school to develop his talent, but tests and examinations stood in the way. He also learned that, even in his favourite subject, he was bound by rules of play. He once started work on an art assignment on Monday; the assignment was due by Friday, but on Friday he had nothing to turn in, having destroyed three drafts. He was given zero marks, a good dressing-down from his teacher (who genuinely appreciated him), and general ridicule from the rest of the class. He realised that he needed to compromise, at least outwardly.
He began to take pains to submit all assignments – art as well as other subjects – in time, and in the case of art assignments, he made products (he began to call those works ‘products’) that were calculated to score high marks. He approached public examinations in the same spirit and achieved excellent results – he was, after all, highly intelligent as well as creative. He was offered a place at the best art academy in the country.
He thought his time had come. ‘I’ll become a great sculptor!’ he told himself and his mother when he received the letter of acceptance from the academy. His mother, who saw her son as her salvation from a life of betrayal and disappointment, had long aligned her values with his.
He worked very hard at the academy, devoting all of his waking hours to his studies. But none of his efforts paid off. Teachers criticised his ‘lack of inventiveness’ and ‘heavy-handed treatment’ and gave him low grades. He asked himself: Why? Why? Why did no one like my works? Around that time, he came across an old painting in which a lonely, gaunt man carried a drawing of a lonely, gaunt candle with a faint glow. The image lodged itself in his mind, and he often had nightmares of himself as the man in the painting, sometimes waking up with a start in the early hours. He would then see, for a moment, that the lonely, gaunt candle was floating in mid-air in the murky penumbra in front of him.
He soon found out that, even at art school, he needed to make ‘products’. He changed his course and his grades improved. But he was deeply unhappy. He became a morose, frowning, cynical student.
After graduating from the academy, he rented a space in an abandoned factory in a rough part of the city. That was his home and his studio. He paid the rent and bought tools and material using his mother’s savings (he always insisted to his mother that he would return the money one day), survived on bread and water, and worked day and night in his quest for a masterpiece that would make him a great sculptor. But he was never satisfied with the numerous sketches and models that he made in preparation for the actual work.
Then there came one night – one sultry, windless summer night – when he was standing, sweating, in front of his drawing board, having just destroyed another sketch. He had not eaten for a day because he was too agonised to have an appetite, and had run out of money in any case. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a surge of emptiness inside him: he realised that he had no inspiration at all. He could not muster a single idea. He felt feverish.
A lone candle with a feeble wick of light floated aimlessly between him and the drawing board. The candle was now approaching him. He waved it away. Then he became fearful that it would burn down his drawing board. He took a deep breath with the strength of his whole body and blew off the candle.
He woke up. He was lying in front of the drawing board. Shafts of sunlight were streaming in – sunlight that was scorching and blinding to his just-opened eyes. He was covered in a cold sweat. Pangs of hunger ravaged his insides like the sharp spikes on a Catherine wheel.
He pulled himself together, ignored his hunger, and walked four miles to a popular gallery in the city centre that sold many works by local artists. He spent over an hour inside the shop, attracting unfriendly looks from the staff (he did not dress like he could afford to buy anything there), and made a note of the styles of the sculptures that were on display.
When he left the gallery, he absent-mindedly searched his coat pocket and found some spare coins. He used the coins to buy a loaf of bread and munched through it ravenously on his walk back to the rundown factory, his mind deep in thought.
When he reached his studio, he had made a decision: he would lay aside his masterpiece for the moment and made figurines that would sell, following the styles of the sculptures he saw in the gallery. He would make ‘products that will do’. Once he had earned enough money to pay for rent and food, maybe even had money left to pay his mother back, he would return to his struggle with his masterpiece.
He made a batch of figurines and then went around galleries asking to put his works on their shelves for sale, with an agreement to share the proceeds. The gallery owners could all see the excellent craftsmanship and the popular stylistic features and were keen to do business with him. They had a good eye for their investment, as his works did not disappoint. With elegant, fashionable designs that were deft extensions of the styles of the displays he saw at the city-centre gallery, the figurines became a hit with buyers with a modest budget – people who wanted a bit of art to decorate their homes but could not afford to pay too much.
One day, as he delivered a batch of ‘products’ to a gallery, the owner smilingly asked him:
‘Someone saw your works and asked me if you accept commissions.’
A deal was promptly reached. And then another, and another.
He soon gave up making batches of figurines for galleries and invested all his time and effort on commissions, as richer and richer clients sought him out, paying more and more money for what he now called, even privately to himself, his ‘pieces’. He was now ‘on the map’. Critics and other self-styled arbiters of taste complimented his ‘lightness of touch’, ‘elaborate techniques’, ‘thoughtful twists on modern forms’, and even ‘philosophical weight’ – somewhat contradictory descriptions that made him even more talked about. He was interviewed, profiled, discussed in reviews and books.
He moved his studio to a posh suburb and learned to buy and wear clothes that befitted ‘a smart new kid on the artistic block’ (as one magazine article described him). He also began to take students, starting with a daughter of one of his rich clients. In fact, a bevy of daughters of his roster of rich clients showed more than an interest in art in their wish to become his students. He was very welcoming and had affairs with a few who were more to his liking. He also began to invite girls to be his models – girls he saw on the street, in shops, in restaurants – when in fact he never liked using live models. Some of those girls ended up with him, clothed and then not clothed, in his studio. Eventually, a rich client’s daughter became pregnant. The two were married hastily before her belly would become an awkward sight at the wedding ceremony.
He adapted quickly to the way of life of someone who had married into a powerful industrial dynasty, as his wife’s family was. He became a traditional family man, and the couple had several more children. He pursued bigger commissions, more fame, and more income. He was now living at the edge of the city in an impressive mansion. He was able to buy the mansion from a bankrupt aristocrat and refurbish it with the service of a renowned decorator, all without using one single penny from his in-laws. The mansion was close to the hills that bordered the city, and he built a studio at the foot of the hills within a short walk from his mansion. He designed the studio with a prominent architect; it had all the necessary amenities, including a small bedroom and a workshop the size of a small barn – a home away from his luxury home. He told visiting worshippers that he now had a ‘hideout for me to focus on my vision in peace’. All who came to his studio were duly impressed. His mother passed away around that time, having enjoyed several years living in his mansion with personal servants and in full view of his worldly success.
He once had a conversation about his career with a dandy who turned up at his studio from time to time, one of a number of people around him who seemed to have nothing to do except frittering away their families’ wealth, and being witty and refined. The dandy said:
‘I see that you work all day. Why so dull? Well, you know, your wife’s daddy is the second richest person in the country. Not the richest, granted, but almost the richest. Why don’t you take it easy? You don’t need to bother with so many commissions. You can do things you really like, things you really want to spend time on.’
His face clouded over momentarily; something buried deep inside had been disturbed and tried to break through layers of spiritual mud and soil that had accumulated through the years. Eventually, he scoffed and quipped:
‘Well, the things that I am doing now are what I really like. And I have a sense of responsibility, unlike you.’
He was also known to have a caustic wit which he would not refrain from using against any of his rich friends. The dandy was not in the least displeased. They had a lively little debate, and both found the conversation amusing. Soon they had changed topics and were discussing a famous vintage from Bordeaux that he recently won in an auction.
Decades were gone. He was celebrated in the country as the sculptor of his age par excellence. His children had grown up; the eldest son had been married for a few years. Many of his students had become established, in part because he generously opened doors for them. He was a loved and loving man.
The symptoms appeared imperceptibly. In the beginning, perhaps, there was the feeling of a dry throat. Then the dry throat became a light cough at night. The light cough soon became pervasive during work, at meals, in social gatherings.
He went to consult a physician – the most authoritative in the city in respiratory areas – who once commissioned a work from him.
‘My friend, I am sorry. I’ll do my best, but I need to tell you now. This is cancer.’
‘How are my chances?’ His voice was trembling.
‘As I said, I’ll do my best … OK, I’ll be honest … maybe six months to a year. I’m sorry.’
When his family heard the news, his wife broke into tears, and his children embraced him. But he did not cry. He was standing still with no outward emotion – the eye of the storm as the family became drowned in inconsolable despair.
After everyone had cried their due and fell silent, he announced:
‘Now leave me alone, as I need to work. I am going to the studio now. Tell the butler to take some food there for my dinner.’
His wife and children looked at him in astonishment.
He walked, a lone man, briskly out of his mansion and turned into the country lane that led to his studio. The country lane was a narrow sandy path between a stream and a forest. When he was sure that he was safely out of sight, he slowed down and staggered into the forest.
He could not control himself anymore and had a prolonged coughing fit. When he could finally stop coughing, he looked at his blood-spattered handkerchief, crouched down, and stared at it with a silent, fiery gaze.
The sun was setting by that time. There was an eerie purple glow among the trees. He stood up and could hear the chirping sounds of insects and birds in the enveloping darkness. For the first time in decades, he saw in front of him the candle in his youthful nightmares – the forlorn candle with a slender flame.
Memories flooded back. Suddenly, all that he had achieved became a tedious dream – his best-selling figurines, his commissions, his rich clients, his conquests, his family, his mansion, his dandy acquaintances … He was again the fresh graduate from the academy – arrogant, cynical, perfectionist, visionary, with his mind wholly engrossed in creating the eternal masterpiece that would be the summit of his art – the summit of Art.
‘I must make amends when there is still time.’
He muttered to himself as he resumed his walk. When he reached the studio, he saw that his butler (who travelled by car via another route) was already there.
He ordered the butler:
‘Leave it in the anteroom. I’ll eat later.’
Then he disappeared into his workshop.
He did not sleep throughout the night as he tried to recall the vision of his youth. In the morning, he announced to himself that his masterpiece would be sculpted in granite – that unyielding, weather-proof stone, the stone that could withstand time and history, the rise and fall of lives and societies. He had thrown down the gauntlet at cancer: he would pip death to the post with his sculpture.
He immediately set about making a preparatory sketch for this final, redeeming work. After several drafts, he came up with a sketch that he felt should realise his inner vision. He made a clay model of it and spent two whole days adjusting angles and patterns on the model. Then he put the model into the small kiln in his workshop.
He was expecting a miniature version of his granite masterpiece. What came out of the kiln, however, was disappointing. He could see in it all the tricks and bad habits that he turned into business selling points throughout his years of success.
‘No, this doesn’t look nice!’ he cried out.
He smashed the model into pieces, and had another bloody coughing fit.
By then it had already been four days since he stepped into the studio. During those four days, his family visited him regularly, his friends came to see him, his physician called on him twice, and his butler delivered meals to him regularly. He talked curtly to his worried wife and children, turned away his friends, asked his physician to give him only drugs that would not incapacitate his ability to work, and asked his butler to bring him only cold dishes that he could eat whenever he liked.
He continued to make new sketches and tore up many half-finished ones. Fewer and fewer sketches made it to the stage of a clay model, and even if a sketch did become a clay model, the model would be destroyed without exception. He coughed incessantly, and his sketching paper often became stained with blood. But he persisted.
He did not realise that a whole year had gone by until his eldest son and his daughter-in-law took his newly-born grandchild to visit him. He chuckled and said, casually:
‘Maybe I am not allowed to die before I finish this damned work!’
His words were followed by a harsh cough – he had swiftly turned his head away from the infant.
His wife and children had pleaded with him many times to leave the studio. But by then, they could also see that his work was keeping him alive, and sighingly allowed his obsession to take over his life.
When news broke out about his condition and behaviour, the whole country thought he had gone mad. Small crowds of strangers appeared from time to time outside his studio – people who wanted to catch a glimpse of him as if he was an exotic caged animal.
Years flew by. Apart from his coughs, he developed no other symptoms. He did not become better or worse. He did not even age. He stopped seeing people, including his family, refusing all from entry to his studio. He ate less and less and then finally stopped eating. His physician’s medication had long been forgotten.
His wife passed away; his grandchildren grew up, then his children died. Then his grandchildren also died. The great-grandchildren, when they grew up, did try a few times knocking at the door of the studio, which had now been covered with tendrils and encrusted by heather. No one ever answered, although they could see, from a small, moss-covered window overlooking the workshop, the faint outline of a figure pacing to and fro in front of a drawing board. They could also hear the unmistakable sound of harsh coughs.
Then his great-grandchildren also grew old and died.
To this day, he is still working in his studio at the foot of the hills. Legend has it that he, together with his sketching paper and drawing board and modelling clay and tools and everything else inside his studio, has been cursed. Outwardly, what was once a sleek construction is now completely obscured by dense foliage and has become an indistinguishable part of the evergreen of the hill, part of a cloak of life that has existed since time immemorial and will continue to exist beyond civilisations. His coughing has been muffled by so much foliage that the world outside cannot hear it anymore. And he will continue to live on without the need for food, water, and air, forever coughing blood that disappeared upon being exposed to the stale air, forever making a sketch and ripping it to shreds, forever making a clay model and smashing it to pieces – only for the shreds and pieces to come back together again for his re-destruction – forever fuming, forever frustrated by his attempts’ imperfection, forever torn by the guilt of the transitory life of worldly compromise that he has left behind, and forever trapped in his own private hell of the pursuit of an impossible masterpiece that would supposedly be his salvation.