I was so terribly acquainted with his face.
–They say if you love an artist, you’ll live forever.
–Well, that's very nice. Keep still.
I remember those same words, repeating over and over in my studio
and all over the city. I recall every place where
we shared this exchange through the years we cradled.
It's cemented in my mind, it's familiar. If i close my eyes
I’m sure i can still hear it resonating through the stuffed
out halls of our apartment. Because i do this often.
I remember him perfectly, as I knew him perfectly.
His face and his shoulders, mostly. His body as well.
I remember his legs and the exact position of his oldest
childhood scar over his knobby, pale knee.
I remember its color. I remember it looked strangely
white over his knees which, like his elbows, always seemed
to flare pink. Like he had been kneeling or laying over his elbows.
His shoulders were small and boney. I remember the line of his
collarbone curve up to the sides of his frame. I
remember the middle, the tip of his drained
sternum, looking hollow.
–¿What are you up to?
–Not much.
–Dont seem like it.
–Just a landscape.
–Let me see.
I remember that hands were thin and long, like spiders. I always
took special care to portray them correctly. He lifted the canvas.
I studied his movements, his protruding knuckles, the smallest
blemishes over the peaks of them. As a kid, his father wanted him
to become a wrestler. He wanted to be a dancer, or a painter. He became
a quiet musician, a mute poet, but mostly a half-alcoholic hermit
and slight banker like his old man. He carried himself with a great
posture despite his great stature. I barely recall that detail.
I remember he was awfully tall, ran in the family. It seemed less
prominent with a frame like his. Like a small woman,
ribs like a cats.
I remember how he was slow moving. He took my sketchbook
up to see it proper. I looked at the movements of his eyes. I
remember his irises so perfectly. Grey infested green. His left eye
had a small spot the color of dry moss right below the pupil.
His eyelashes were long and thick, but would drag down, like
silk fans. If you were to look from a matching angle, everytime he looked
at the floor it seemed like he was in a peaceful sleep.
I remember the way his muted waterline curved into his lashline,
and the way his eyelid seemed so thin. Under the light,
one could see his iris. His eyes were a dull flame, closer to
death than birth. I remember the way his eyelids folded as he
held my sketchbooks up, as to examine them better. He had an
ordinary face but possessed a strange beauty.
I remember how his skin draped over his sternum like wet
cloth over metal. Every part of his body was a ghastly
vision.
I remember it well. The exact way that his mouth curved.
He had a slight asymmetry. He slept on his right, so the right
side of his mouth would crawl slightly higher than the left.
From the center to the ends, they would go up slightly, at about
the same rate as his cupid's bow, perfectly brisk. Then, they
would bow lower, and end in a tiny smirk. The ends of his mouth
were dimpled and low. His lips were thin and their
edges were sharp.
–Its beautiful. youve outdone yourself.
–You always say that.
–I always mean it.
His teeth were rounded, damaged, small. But not too small
. I could not see many teeth when he smiled, his mouth
was not big. His forehead was high.
His cheekbones were the same. He was all angles, shadows
and cavities. High and mathematically correct. His chin into
his jaw, shadowing into his ear, shadowing into his cheekbone,
molding into his delicate, short nose. The tip casted a shadow
onto his philtrum. Carefully, it seemed. His eyes on each side
of his stout bridge, his lashes casting a shadow onto the whites
of his eyes. His eyelids shadowed into his temples, into his hair.
But I didn't have to look at him. I knew it all. I knew how
everything looked, at each angle and with every lighting.
I remember how he looked like laying down and on his feet.
Nude and fully draped. I remember the exact course his
blood rushed down his nose when he got too drunk or dehydrated.
After I cleaned him up, I ran my finger through that path as
he started fading into sleep. His hair, each curl, where it l
anded on his face or his neck. I remember which spines of
his protruded more than others, I remember how each bone
and muscle looked at each pose.
I could draw him, sculpt him from memory. I could, closing
my eyes, make an exact replica. I can, from thin air, pin the
exact dimensions and the exact placements. His high brows,
his stretched eyes, I could create a palette of every single color
on his body if you gave me a place and hour, given we were
talking daylight. Light source and color, given we were talking
artificial light. I remember how his legs stretched. Not muscular,
thin. Not soft, really. Solid enough for him to walk so much.
He walked a lot. The exact peach for his lips, exact blue, gray
and green for each strand of his iris, the exact brown of his hair,
the exact pinks id have to mix with the yellows to create
the perfect beige for his skin.
I remember him perfectly, i remember how thin his skin felt,
i remember how his ribs felt under my hand. I remember how
the exact weight of his skull when i lifted it to put a pillow
under his head, his habit of falling asleep on the table.
His arms crossed, right over left. His legs stretched and his feet
pointing up.
–It really is beautiful. You are very talented. I wish you could see
yourself like I do.
–I don't think I need to.
And its true. I didnt need to at the time. I kept looking at him.
I remember his natural scent and his favorite perfume over it.
I remember it after five minutes and five hours. I remember his
voice after a night out screaming, after a day in crying, after hot tea,
after a pack of cigarettes. I remember the cigarettes on his breath,
mostly when we slept together, which was not most days. I remember
the pattern he took when rolling in bed. I knew every passing
thought. If he wanted to have sex, I could tell from the night
before. If he was going to break
into tears, i could tell why and for how long and with which severity
a full day or two before it happened. I just knew him like that. I remember
it perfectly. I think I still do, at least. wherever he is.
