Mind Webs - The Exhibition

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Welcome to a half hour of mind waves.

Short stories from the worlds of speculative fiction.

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This time the story comes from a collection put together by Harry Harrison called the outdated man.

We do Scott Edelstein's story, The Exhibition.

His name, according to his identity, number 555107023, is Wilson, Francis Howell-Markham.

There are eleven other Wilson, Francis Howell-Markham's also alive.

None of whom knows he exists and he knows none of them.

His profession, according to his identity, is PNT-IMP, an impressionist painter.

One of eight million nine hundred ninety seven thousand twenty living impressionist painters.

His economic classification, according to his identity, is Doho.

Meaning he's still on the allowance. Meaning he's an unknown. Meaning he's a failure.

Meaning his apartment walls are adorned by his own work calmly.

He's a tall, anky, tired young man with slightly slumped shoulders and lines reaching down from his nose to his mouth.

With thin, straight, long, yellow hair and a soft, urgent voice.

With sad features and a sagging walk with long slender fingers that move quickly and smoothly and deliberately.

He has been a painter for ten years and has painted one hundred and five oils.

Before he became a painter, he went to art school and graduated with honors.

Before that, he received an MA and a PhD from Michigan College.

Before that, he received a BA from Southern University.

Before that, he attended Academy and before that basic ed.

At this moment Wilson, Francis Howell, Markham, lies slumped in his armchair as sleep and exhausted his fingers wrapped around a number three paintbrush.

In front of him is his easel and on it is one hundred and fifth painting just finished.

A piece of WFH Markham, which is how he signs his paintings on canvas and another line added to his aging face.

One of the awakens he has to call the art center, division nine, and say to them,

I number five, five, five, one, oh seven, oh two, three have finished my hundred and fifth painting which is called Reluctant Sunset.

And then the computer will say in return, thank you for reporting.

We'll file this information. We wish you the best of luck in your career.

Then the circuit will disconnect and the computer will flip flop first this way and then that.

It will file the painting between Reluctant Soldiers by number four, one, one, three, nine, oh eight, eight, nine, one.

And the Reluctant Women by number four, one, eight, nine, seven, six, seven, seven, two, oh.

And also under number five, five, five, one, oh seven, oh, two, five.

And again is painting number one, nine, oh eight, oh five, five, nine, four, four.

And WFH Markham will go out of his apartment and will try to sell his painting to famous artists to hang on their walls.

And then perhaps he will go back to his apartment and eat, or perhaps he will stand in line to visit the park,

or perhaps he will try to find someone to calculate with, or perhaps he'll cry, artists do cry.

It's early afternoon and WFH Markham awakens dizzily.

He's covered with a sticky, odorous sweat of artistic labor and he does not feel well rested.

He exhales loudly and stands rubbing his eyes.

He looks at his one hundredth and fifth painting, which is taken over a month to finish.

He smiles inwardly, proud and satisfied with his creation.

But this, he thinks, is his greatest work.

And he feels inside that this will be the painting that will sell, that will make him recognized.

He feels excitement on top of accomplishment, perhaps this time.

He calls our center division nine and tells them of his painting.

The computer thanks him and wishes him the best of luck in his career.

He calls Jerome J. and Nathan.

Nathan's secretary of machine answers.

He makes an appointment for three o'clock that afternoon.

Jerome J. and Nathan can give him fifteen minutes he's told.

He thanks the secretary and hangs up.

He can feel it growing stronger and inner stirring, a combination now of yearning and joy.

Reluctant sunset is his masterpiece, the final product of a life of study and work.

It is all that is his life, all that is his environment, all that is his mind and soul, all that is good, all that is real.

He removes his clothing, goes to the cleanser in the corner of the room, stands under it and turns it on.

He feels the dirt and moisture being sucked from his skin.

Today, today is a beginning from across the room he stares at his hundred and fifth painting and smiles.

On his way to Nathan's home, Markham passes the open space art gallery for his sub complex.

Several of his paintings are on exhibit at the gallery are available for purchase and reproduction by recognized artists.

None of his paintings has yet been bought.

Markham checks his chronometer, finds that he has a few spare minutes.

He sits cross-legged on the grass near the small display of his work and watches the passers-by, peruse his paintings.

A well-dressed middle-aged man, probably a recognized artist, glances briefly at Markham's paintings walks past.

Another recognized man examines the exhibit more carefully, engaging at each individual painting for several moments before moving on to the next.

At the last painting, he grimaces and turns away.

Markham thinks he hears a man sigh.

He grasps his most recent painting more tightly.

A young woman passes by next.

She's tall and striking and Markham thinks that she had probably been the model for many paintings by many recognized artists.

She looks briefly at the first painting on display and turns her hair bouncing against her shoulders.

Then walks past Markham's other paintings, disinterested.

Markham feels a brief twinge of failure.

Then clutching his newly finished work he rises and continues to Nathan's residence.

His hopes remain with him.

Nathan, pleasantly enough, says Alota Wilson, looks up from his easel and puts his brush down on the table beside him.

Says you've brought something for me to look at.

Markham smiles a ridiculous smile.

Jerome Jeremiah Neville Nathan is an abstract artist, one of twelve million five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred eleven abstract artists.

One of the most famous.

He is, in fact, one of the ten or twelve best known artists in the middle Atlantic complex.

And Nathan is noted for his willingness to look at the work of young struggling unknown artists.

He's always encouraging and many artists who have sold paintings to him have rapidly achieved recognition and then success.

When Markham brought Nathan as one hundred and fourth painting, Nathan had smiled and said,

this isn't bad, you know, this isn't bad, you may make it yet.

And he smiled again and very politely showed Markham to the door.

But no sale.

That was two months ago.

And that painting, or so Markham thinks now, was vastly inferior to the one which he now holds proudly in his slightly trembling hands.

Markham says, yes, removes the painting from its protective covering holds it out from Nathan to take.

Yes, it's my latest eye, I think my best too.

Nathan smiling removes his own work and progress from his easel.

Places it gently on the table, he takes Markham's painting and puts it on the easel.

He stands back, rubs his chin and examines it.

Anxious as always, Markham looks around the large studio, paintings cover the walls, not paintings of Nathan's own,

but those of other artists, other famous artists, and a few little knowns.

Markham imagines his own work hanging beside the work of such famous men and women.

He looks back at Nathan, who still smiling continues to peruse the painting.

Again, the feeling, the tremulous feeling of expectation.

Nathan says, interesting, your sense of perspective gets better and better Wilson.

Markham nods slightly in what he hopes is a humble gesture.

Nathan raises an eyebrow, sees Markham's eager expression and says, you're getting there.

WFH Markham, young, hopeful artist, waits impatiently for the verdict.

But you're still learning, Wilson. Your work's still a little gaudy.

You've got to learn to tone your colors down. You just can't seem to keep your painting in control.

Sorry, Wilson, but no.

Wilson frances how a Markham sits quietly, tiredly in his armchair.

His sense of accomplishment replaced by a growing sense of failure.

Every artist he's tried so far, Nathan, Mathwin, Samson, Fletcher, smile sweetly at him

and told him that he didn't want his painting.

There are three more artists that he can and will try tomorrow,

but he no longer hopes so strongly for success.

I'll admit it to myself, I'm a failure.

No, wait a minute. I go through this every time I get a painting rejected.

But I never work so hard on a painting before.

I don't know if I can do any better.

If my past isn't good enough, but knock on his door.

Sying again, fighting back what he realizes with slight surprise

are real tears. He shuffles to the door and pushes the admit button.

Sharon Linder, something a slightly spaced out writer

of what Markham considers to be overwritten emotional garbage is there.

She stands in the doorway smiling and fidgeting.

She likes him and comes down often from her apartment

two stories above for a visit.

They've made love two or three times.

Never do. Markham's real satisfaction.

Wilson, do you remember my book, Bond's Fellowship?

Yeah, what about it? Her smile becomes a huge, almost imbacillic grin.

I sold it to Claude Jameson for $500. I'm recognized now.

That's wonderful.

His own aching need for achievement grows suddenly stronger.

He has been recognized. Why cannot he be?

I'm so happy. I've always wanted this to happen.

Wilson, I think I'm going to cry.

She steps toward him and Markham sees that her eyes are indeed wet.

However, he feels no emotion toward her.

She has cried in this presence before, never for sufficient reason.

She puts her palms on his side and presses lightly.

Tears are now forming in the corners of her eyes.

Markham realizes that he's expected to reach out and hold her in his arms

when he makes no movement.

Sharon is not put off by his lack of emotion.

She circles her arms about him and rests her head on his chest, sniffling.

He feels disgust, not even hatred for her, only disgust and misery.

And he pushes her away.

Get out, get out.

Finally, she senses that something is wrong in him.

Wilson, what's the matter?

Get out, just get out.

I'll call you tomorrow when you feel better.

Take care of yourself, Wilson.

This, she says, with the end of Mark concerned as if she doubts his sanity.

She blows in the kiss, sniffs one last time and worries out the door.

The pit in the stomach has grown deeper and deeper.

He stands before the last door.

Being, too, the remaining three artists, too, might have bought his work.

Both said no with wide grins on their faces.

He's beginning to dislike faces that smile.

Hesitantly, with a perverse rising hope of the man who knows that he is just one chance

to avoid being doomed to failure, he knocks.

The door slides open almost immediately, a long, bony, surly face.

Stairs down at him.

I'm Mr. Kysonson, I call earlier.

Mark, is that right?

Markham?

Yeah, Wilson, Markham.

I've just completed a painting that I'd like to show you, and if he got time,

he's learned through past experience and dealing with carstance and to be humble

and polite no matter how obnoxious the man might become.

Come in.

Markham does.

Inside paintings cover the walls.

More are stacked on tables and chairs, still more rest on easels, uncompleted.

Well, you gotta show me what you're done or not.

I really don't have time to watch you stare at my walls.

I have my own paintings to work on, as you can see.

Markham hands in his painting.

Carstance examines the painting closely, frowning deeply.

He hands it back to Markham, and as him holds it up while he steps back

to look at it from the distance, he continues to frown.

Holding the painting tightly, Markham experiences the fantasy of the condemned man.

He imagines the frown and Carstance's face suddenly turning into a smile.

While the man walks coccally overpass him on the back and says,

Markham, I want to buy this.

Markham.

A lot lay into the tinge of annoyance.

Carstance has finished examining the painting,

and is now sitting on the edge of a chair, his rump and lower back,

brushing against a stack of framed paintings and prints.

Painful, worried anticipation, tense hope.

Markham, sometimes you'll really bother me.

You seriously expect me to buy something like this.

You've shown me some of your other stuff, and at least some of it wasn't too bad.

But this one is nothing but a piece of shit.

And if you can't realize that, then you probably never knew what you were doing in the first place.

Markham looks into the older artist's eyes amazed and hurt.

Carstance glairs back for a moment.

Then his mouth twitches slightly as he sees the unstifled emotion on Markham's face.

So don't cry.

You think I'm telling you this from my own benefit?

Face up to it, Markham. You're just not an artist.

Not a painter anyway.

All your work is way too subdued to confine.

If you want to be recognized, you're going to have to try some other field.

Markham's stunned.

Simply stairs helplessly silently into the other man's face.

Not at all deeply moved.

Carstance and stairs back.

Listen, Markham, I'm only trying to keep you from beating your head against a wall for the rest of your life.

I know talent when I see it.

I've bought dozens of paintings from new artists in the past couple of years.

And most of those artists have been doing very well.

But those people were painters.

You just aren't.

It's as simple as that.

Mechanically, Markham blinks his eyes, turns, walks to the door.

Carstance and says nothing.

Without looking back, looking back is too terrifying.

Now, nearly as terrifying as looking forward it.

He opens the door and shuffles out.

He clutches the painting tightly.

His hands feel empty, but his burden is ten years heavy.

Slowly, he realizes that he's back in his apartment in the armchair staring at his easel.

On the easel is reluctant sunsets.

Wilson tries to remember how long he's been sitting finds no answer and gives up.

He considers getting up and eating something.

Rejects the idea.

He feels no desire for food.

Sex.

He thinks of Sharon, but shivers and disgust.

Recognized.

She's no longer merely the loud tacky girl upstairs who wants his body and he sighs deeply and shivers again.

He rubs his hands back and forth on the chair.

He's more than tired.

Empty.

Empty.

He stands up virally and rubs his forehead.

He picks up a brush and fingers it absent mindedly.

Tonight, tonight, he will begin a new painting.

He must.

Each time, after returning with an unsold painting, he forces himself to begin a new, next time, next time.

You're just not an artist.

He will begin again.

He must.

He must.

He must.

Racked by pain and failure, he falls back into the chair.

The paintbrush falls from his trembling fingers.

He lifts his hands to his face and begins to cry.

Now below the crowd, babbles excitedly.

He waits patiently for the audience to grow larger.

He smiles coldly.

It is quite a crowd, 2,000 breps, 3,000 people.

He is called a police center, division 4A.

Several hours before a notified aid of his intentions.

And it, in turn, has done a good job of spreading the word around to the general public.

The huge, bouquet of faces stares up at him.

Anxious, expectant, waiting.

He has waited long enough.

At his first movement, a tremendous chiver shoots through him.

And he thinks for the 20th time, is this the solution?

Can't I keep trying and trying and someday, maybe I'll make it?

Then again, he hears the words.

You're just not an artist.

No.

Am I just trying to spite the world?

Am I getting back at society for not making me a success?

Who am I trying to revenge?

Who am I mad at?

Nathan?

Carstensen?

Sharon?

Myself?

Five stories below, the crowd begins clapping furiously.

And he thinks it's too late now, partly in fear, partly with relief.

He must go through with it now.

He smiles again, feeling alone and empty, but somewhat excited.

He waves down at the crowd.

The throngs cheer for him.

He begins.

Buckets of paint and several brushes of various sizes rest beside him on the rooftop.

He picks up a large brush and dips it into the bright blue paint.

As the thousands gaze up at him, he paints his face blue.

Again, the crowd cheers for him.

He tosses the brush off the roof.

Hundreds of hands reach greedily to grab it.

The noise of the crowd increases as someone catches it.

He begins to take off his clothes.

He removes his shirt, tosses this too to the crowd.

And he paints his chest of fiery red.

Mexy removes his pants and undershorts.

Paints his left leg green, right leg orange, and his genitals are deep purple.

For some reason, which he himself cannot grasp, he feels compelled to fold his pants

and underwear in a small pile next to the paint.

Finally, finally he picks up a can of black, pours its contents over one arm, then the other.

Dripping, he holds his arms up for silence.

The crowd faces turned upward like young bird seeking food, becomes quiet.

Silently, the policeman pushes the crowd back to give him room.

With a mad flourish, he lifts the cans of turpentine and splashes the fluid all over his body.

He walks to the very edge of the roof, looks down.

He is not afraid nor regretful nor unhappy.

I wonder if people will appreciate my paintings after I die.

So many artists were scoring during their lifetimes and when they died, their work became famous.

He picks up the matches, takes one and strikes it.

He watches it flare for a moment, then looks down at the crowd one final time.

And again, he smiles and he ignites himself and hurls himself off the edge of the rooftop.

The crowd orders a great gasp as the body bursts into flames and begins to fall.

My God, it's beautiful.

Yeah, but is it art?

That story was the exhibition by Scott Adelstein.

It appears in a volume edited by Harry Harrison titled The Outdated Man.

Michael Hansen speaking, reading with me this time Jim Fleming and Louis Strauss Baugh.

Production engineering for Mindwebs by Steve Gordon.

Mindwebs comes to you from WHO Radio and Madison, a service of University of Wisconsin Extension.