Meyer, Chris

English

Scholarworks@GVSU

I' ,, ,,, Sammy, Mr. Bojangles. of the glass eye Succumbs to cancer of the throat But Cameron is alive and kicking (Ohh. yeah) you left on a kiss (or you didn't) things are fuzzy seen through unwashed glass a haze of what? a longing fulfilled (or maybe just alcohol) i had wanted so long to taste your lips to feel you maybe this way wasn't perfect but it was 28 tuesday chris meyer Grand Valley State University 15 June 1599, Rome Wendy Withrow It is damp and dark in the corner where I sit. I inhale deeply the smells of working class sweat mingled with the pipe smoke that rises to hover above my head in a gray cloud. The light from lanterns casts deep shadows around the room and creates a welcomed niche of anonymity into which I settle. The noise from other anonymous patrons filters to me in waves. As I methodically pull from the bottle in front of me. the warmth spreads through my body and soothes me. I have just come from the Church of San Luigi dei Francesi. having been summoned there by the priests to discuss the commissioned painting I made for them. They brought me there to inform me they would not accept my painting. You see they are blinded by details and they miss the truth behind the scenes I paint. They are outraged at my depiction of Saint Matthew with dirty feet. It is unsuitable and sacrilegious for a saint to appear earthy, they say. Dirty feet imply work upon the land. a human activity, and therefore it casts Saint Matthew in a human manner. But it is nothing I haven't heard before. Most of my paintings have been objects of criticism at some point. Both the private patrons and the church have been strong opponents of me. They cannot even see the name Caravaggio without anger. When I was younger I was driven by my desire for realism. The world around me was stimulating and I was intoxicated by even the simplest elements of nature. The beggar outside my apartment was my favorite model and a basket kept me painting for months. I thought the chubby little boy next door was the most angelic image in all of Rome. So I happily painted what I saw and was content. But I realized I was the only one to see it this way. My patrons began rejecting my paintings one by one. My images were too honest for their tastes. Their idea of beauty is not what they see around them, but an idealization of reality. This constant battle I fight frustrates me to the point of madness. It angers me that they cannot see past these petty grievances to the real issues behind my work. I am angered by the aristocratic patrons in their cozy villas and smug lifestyles. I am angered by their scorn of me when I refuse to idealize them. to mask their wrinkles and scars. I am angered by the church for only accepting the wealthy as ideal images of Biblical devotion. I blatantly lay the emotional truth out on the canvas as my eyes see it. I bare myself. naked before Rome. and all I receive in return are meaningless criticisms of dirty feet and beardless Christs. The truth is where my vision lies. The church speaks flippantly of truth in all its hypocritical splendor. while I struggle alone in my studio for the same truth through the reality around me. But their truths are only words and my truth an honest vision. All I want. all I have ever wanted. is to be real. The simple workingman. wearing his worn clothing and tired eyes is the image I desire. The common folk I see in the fields at noon and in the taverns at night are the subjects Amaranthus 1998 29 

Tuesday

http://scholarworks.gvsu.edu/amaranthus/vol1998/iss1/21

Tuesday

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