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The Maestro

'You can't imagine how glad I'm to see you again.' He said while he was walking beside me towards the entrance, trailing one of his legs along with obvious difficulty. 'I'd like to have a few words with you

I don't bother to enquire beforehand who exhibits there. I view each exhibition over there, and sometimes I view the same exhibition twice or even more times, till a new one takes place.

Thus on that certain Saturday morning I found myself before the broad entrance of that institute, contemplating the poster on its door. The painter's name seemed known to me, but it can't be him... It's a very common name although the combination of identical private and surname - no, it must be a coincidence, as simple as all that.

I went inside and as usual started to servey the walls. Big size paintings of equal size almost all of them, were hanging all around. Paintings in oil on canvas, was noted on the poster outside.

A strange technique, the background was done in a somewhat darkish monochrome hue, opaque like it was done with acrylic; as if he brought up from the abyss of oblivion that trend, which vanished right after it popped up - the 'Hard-Edge'. On those darkish backgrounds different shapes twisted and winded, like some colorful arabesques. I wasn't impressed at all and I guess that some more viewers won't be impressed, except those who "don't understand" as they usually define themselves; those who stare with puzzled eyes, awaiting for some hint whether to applause or to mock.

When I reached the hall's far end I turned around, the hall started to fill up with visitors - I had enough and was about to leave. As I moved towards the entrance I saw him suddenly, standing in the middle of the hall, as if he was blocking my way out - talking with one of the visitors.

He hardly changed, just the signs of the passing time could be noted; his gray temples, his wrinkled face, but still he looked younger then his real age. I was one out of many and I didn't think he might remember me at all. I didn't think of stopping and hanging around him, falling into reminiscences as if to deal with necromancy: 'do you remember the time?' and so on.

I was about to pass him and leave him behind, when he got hold of my arm and said: 'Shalom!' He even remembered my name. 'We haven't seen each other some years.' He added with a surprised smile.

'Some decades,' I replied.

'How are you and what are you doing?' He asked with much interest.

'I exist somehow.'

'You can't imagine how glad I'm to see you again.' He said while he was walking beside me towards the entrance, trailing one of his legs along with obvious difficulty. 'I'd like to have a few words with you, but you do see yourself what's going on here today.' He added with a note of pride.

We've exchanged a few more words and at the entrance when I was about to leave, he had me sworn to come and visit him the next day at four pm; right on time when the museum would open up. 'Before the arrival of my clients.' He remarked proudly.

I couldn't grasp what he found in me, but as I promised to visit him I went to meet him the next day. He was sitting behind a broad desk, which was put at his disposal no doubt, at the left far side close to the entrance. The hall was empty and his big sized paintings looked like tomb stones in an Arab cemetery, sprinkled with different colors.

His desk was covered with catalogues, booklets and various leaflets, which dealt with his previous exhibitions. As soon as our eyes met he called me to join him, I went over and sat beside him behind the desk.

'Were there any sales yesterday?' I asked with a smile of 'know how'.

'No,' he replied knitting his brow. 'Oh never mind, I haven't thought of selling anything here, I never sell in such big joints. Lots of visitors, a lot of noise and that's the lot of it. I didn't even think of exhibiting here, but they offered me a retrospective one, and having such an exhibition is more important than selling. But what about you?' He asked me after a short pause. 'Are you painting?'

'Almost nothing, nothing serious in short.'

'Can't you come out with some sort of an exhibition?' He went on asking as if he was driven by some guilty feelings.

'Not even in a group exhibition,' I answered with a short laugh. 'How do you find the extra time?' I asked trying to avoid his next comment or question, doing my best to push into my subconscious the little I've done, as if it was a forgotten drawer.

'I've retired don't you know? Teahing was very hard for me in the last years, I've lost my patience and my sickness has worsened - I simply yearned to retire! "Life behind the easel" that's my moto - drive, insight! My new works are a revolution considering my own stand point, I've changed I was reborn!' He added enthusiatically, pointing with his arm towards the empty hall, as if he was unfolding his works before my eyes.

Two old ladies attired elegantly entered, and hastened to reach us.

One of them some acqaintance of his introduced her friend. He shook their hands without rising from his seat, a bit frustrated by their barging into his thoughts. His acquintance picked two booklets off the desk. 'Sign it please,' she asked him. He signed their booklets without a word, ridding himself as fast as he could of their company.

'Those nudniks,' he muttered watching my face, 'will chase me up to my grave.' Life isn't easy, absolutely not, reality wears away vision. My pension is miserable and the little I sell are those reproductions.' He remarked with scorn. 'Original reproductions...' He added with a bitter smile.

This must have been the essence of the burden, which he wished to free himself from, and maybe that's why he wished to see me.

'Have you ever seen it?' He asked handing me a big size album. The album was full of paper clips that dealt with his numerous exhibitions, reviews, events, his entire life as a matter of fact. An authentic document was adhered to the album's first page; a passage licence to the incognito private in his majesty George the sixth army, and his cargo of twenty four oil paintings, bound for Cairo...

'You've exhibited in Cairo, that's incredible!' I exclaimed excitedly. 'The first Hebrew painter to exhibit abroad!' That's how we called ourselves at that time - Hebrews. 'They should have erected a statue for you, or at least set some adequate memorial for such an event! And what have our honorable colleagues of our association had to say about it, I wonder?'

'The assciation of beggars!" He muttered with bitterness. 'Do me a favor don't remind them to me, I've cut my ties with them some twenty years earlier; I don't know the current members and I haven't the slightest idea who they are.'

I parted with him moved and excited, just to think of it, a piece of history!

We haven't fixed another meeting and he didn't leave his address. Some two months later I've found a short article in one the paper's inner pages, reporting his death.

Haim Kadman 1986 © All rights reserved