“The selective use of data-that is what is required, as we established last week.
“And our friends the computer graphics people have been working hard! “Lights out for a double slide show, side by side, and let’s see what they have for us.”
The lights go down, the rectangles appear on the screen above the chalkboard.
“Ah, yes! Some of the smaller Irenes, I see, less polychromatic, more limited palette and-what we have here is what I would definitely term a limited success.
“And in fact, printed out on appropriately fine paper, properly matted, we would have a superb simulation of a-anyone?”
Pause for the replies, Armand nodding in the dark before replying, “Lithograph!
That is absolutely correct.
“Notice here the capturing of mood.
“Taking their clue from the lack of photorealism, concentrating on the entire composition, our computer friends have given us an excellent example of data selection to create a really striking rendition of the original.
“It lacks the impasto of the original, hence its resemblance to lithography, but I understand that there are machines-perhaps only a machine-that will give the user an excellent simulation of textured paint.
“What we see here, however, is a vast improvement over last week’s rather unsuccessful attempt to reproduce that which is, in current state of the art, not reproducible.
“Which leads me to the subject of today’s lecture.
“Composition.
“Within the context of what we have thus far agreed upon-or I have crammed down your throats, depending on one’s point of view-imagination is a selective reassembling of real elements.
“Again, for those of you who bothered to look it up, Mr. Webster seems to have fallen wide of the mark. He doesn’t even come close.
“Imagination and composition, therefore, are revealed as being one and the same thing, when they meet upon the field of artistic endeavor.
“Nor should this particularly surprise us.
“To imagine a thing means, quite literally, to form its image in one’s mind.
“And since the mind’s only stockpile of images is reality, how can we fail to come full circle and validly-I hope-conclude that composition is imagination-realized! “To realize, ladies and gentlemen, means to make real.
“Here, finally, our friend Webster comes into his own. And in fact, that is the first definition he gives to the-the term-to make real; to achieve; to bring into being.
“Which is exactly what we do.
“And look what progress we are making here! “To imagine means to compose means to make real! “And all the while, the process is working the other way! “First comes reality-again, the only material with which we have to conjure-then the process of selection called composition which, if successful, that is, if the image forms in our mind, we can then term imagination! “From the imagination, then, we go to physical composition, which, when finished, becomes the reality! “Michelangelo said it best.
“When asked the secret of his powerful sculpture, he replied, ‘The statue is already there within the stone; it is merely waiting for me to liberate it.’ “What a perfect description of the process of artistic creativity that is!.
“Is it any wonder, then, that the symbol of all creation, of the universe itself, is that of the snake eating its own tail? “A closed circle. A single, continuous, unbroken living, interactive process.
“To imagine is to compose in the mind is to order selected reality in the mind is to compose in reality is to form the physical image out of reality, that is, to physically imagine and thus come full circle.
“All art-I repeat, ALL art-is this exact same process.
“Music. Think about it. Think, for example, about the deaf Beethoven thinking about it, and you will understand at once…
Jessica is sucking Armand’s cock.
She is going to succeed in her plan-she knows this.
Armand himself convinced her that this is the case in his lecture earlier tonight.
Because the man has too much, too many creative juices flowing within himself not to create, not to get his ass in gear.
A year since his last exhibition-exhibition and sale to the bare walls, all in one-it’s been.
He is due, he is ripe, he is fucking ready!
And no question at all in her mind but that she is to be his next source of inspiration.
She can’t miss!
She has attached herself to his lectures as the footnote that cannot be ignored, cannot be divorced from the lectures themselves.
My gosh, she tells herself; the man has them dancing in the aisles, has them ready to run home, put up canvas, perhaps several, and work on into the night!
He has the musicians, the sculptors, the authors all, all! prepared to jump through their own ass holes out-performing their own greatest ~expectations.
And this he cannot do, surely, without some of the feedback’s rubbing off on him, sheer weight of general enthusiasm, emotional osmosis working in favor of his getting off his dead ass and making it happen.
He has no real choice, dammit!
And now, she is sucking his cock.
She is giving him her very best knob job, her tongue delving into the ruddy eye of his plum-like cock head, traversing the taut, rounded, warm surface, going round and round the thickly flared flange at the rear, examining in intimate detail the fish head juncture beneath.
And now, her head is bobbing up and down, up and down, the mighty shaft being forced in and out of her mouth, between her vacuuming lips, as she holds it erect from his stomach with the spread fingers of one hand.
Important that she get his creative juices flowing faster and faster, she tells herself, and one excellent way to do this is to get his vital essence up and on the move.
Nothing can happen now, of course, by way of his getting going; no, at the moment, she knows, all he wants is that next increment of sexual, voluptuous sensation.
Anything else, no matter how closely allied, no matter how analogous, will have to wait.
But surely not for very long, she reassures herself.
No, the pattern is set. And she sees in it a circle as closed, as complete as the one he described in his lecture tonight.
There are no choices here, really, she tells herself. He is as good as committed to action. His very soul is crying out, reaching out for the inspiration which it is her intent to provide.
Because she knows men, knows both their ambition and their sloth, and sees quite clearly both in Armand.
Okay, okay, granted, she is not necessary; still, she is convenient, is there, meaning here, is ready to hand.
So that he need reach no further, need not look beyond her to get what she knows that a part of him must have.
She is convenient-as was Irene, as was Darlene after her. And if Irene’, if Darlene, then why not Jessica?
Yes, why not Jessica with whom he has so very much in common, as opposed to these other two, the one both innocent and ignorant, the other the exact opposite?
Isn’t it time for Armand to settle down, to get practical, at last?
How much longer can the man go, subjecting himself to the vicissitudes of a chance which, admittedly, has treated him far from unkindly up to now?
She is so good for him, as is he for her.
They belong together on a much broader scale than they are now; surely he can see that.
Big deal, that she is in her twenties, he in his forties, even his late forties; the important thing here is that they are physically and intellectually suited to one another.
She would have to be a complete idiot not to capitalize on that.
And capitalize she will, she tells herself; she will milk the situation, will fucking loot the situation-and not for mere money, either.
Because Armand can’t give her what she intends to get out of all this; it takes a world, it takes the whole world of art to accomplish that.
Armand gets yet another big hit because of her- and then she gets one infusion of wealth after another, exhibition after exhibition, because of him.
He is not her goose that lays the golden eggs for her; rather, he is to be the catalyst, enabling her to lay her own golden eggs, one canvas at a time, valuable, because she, Jessica, Armand’s latest inspiration, is the one who painted them.
Vanna White, can make her own fortune on Wheel of Fortune turning letters, then hey, she can at least offer the people a little more than that ‘in exchange for undeserved wealth.
All right, so far her output has been uninspired, but so what?
They’ll be buying the name, the notoriety, not her admittedly indifferent daubings.
As a long-deceased blonde bombshell once said of her violin playing, You don’t look at how well the pussycat plays the violin, but rather at the fact that the pussycat knows how to play the violin at all.
And now, she is playing Armand’s cock, playing it as though it is some exotic, complicated flute, her mouthing, her tonguing full of exquisite nuances, each designed to bring forth a fresh flurry of lascivious sensation, to produce a fresh twinge of sexual electricity, to create that swell of sheer sensual joy within a man that makes him take a’ deep breath simply because he is alive, because he is who and what he is.
And now-ta-da!-deep throat.
She hasn’t done it much, but she has done it well, has discovered the trick of relaxing throat and neck muscles, of suppressing the gag reflex, of turning head and neck into a living tube for the total massage of the male sex organ.
And she does so now, much to Armand’s surprise and delight.
The full bore treatment, she is giving him-talented, versatile, intelligent, beautiful, sexy, grounded in the arts. Are you getting the message here, Armand? she asks him in her mind, prompting him to a realization of her image, the one she chooses to project-speaking of images, speaking of imagination and reality and the whole creative process.
And she is ready to go all the way this way; but not so Armand.
Because he would have her, would take her, his salami unwilling to accept even so delightful a substitute for the real thing.
So that he pulls gently back, from her.
At once, she is on her back, legs raised and spread, bent at the knee, round-heeled and at the ready.
And he is on her and in her at once, such being the urgency she has managed to inspire within him.
The urgency-and what else? she wonders.
The creativity, with herself as inspiration, perhaps even as soon as he has popped his nuts?
Well, perhaps that’s asking a bit much, she tells herself, but still, she has given him more than a little to think about; she is certain of it.
Because Armand is an artist, after all, and therefore sensitive, therefore impressionable, especially by just such vivid images as she is bound to have inspired within him.
And Armand Fortuna, she knows, is not a man accustomed to letting images or inspiration go to waste.
Because she refuses to believe that the’ money ever had all that much to do with it, from his perspective.
And even if it once did, that is no longer true.
He is a millionaire many times over, she knows.
And, living as he does, he doesn’t need but a fraction of what he already has.
So that he is free, is absolutely free to open himself up to his own creativity which, after listening to his first three lectures, she is firmly convinced is utterly unlimited.
On the other hand, she has noticed that the great barn of a loft is absolutely empty, except for the now famous couch of Irene.
There is not a canvas, not a tube of paint, not a brush to be seen.
Only the high polish of the wooden floors and the easels standing empty, somehow eerie and threatening, like gallows awaiting the condemned, distinguish his loft from any abandoned warehouse.
It has always been night when she has come here, which, she tells herself, is just as well, lest she see the north light reflecting on bare-floored, bare walled, bare-pillared nothingness and become discouraged by the reality of the emptiness, lest she see in the loft itself a statement, a confirmation of Armand’s barrenness.
As it is, they cross from the old freight elevator to the apartment through the maze of thick, whitewashed pillars across the plain of the empty floor, gleaming dully from the low-wattage bulbs which dot the high ceiling in their metal reflectors, not a studio at all, but some interior-exterior surreal stage, mere transitional space between elevator and apartment which must be traversed as quickly as possible and not thought about at all.
He is fucking her and she realizes with a start that she is not responding, her mind wandering.
And she wonders if this is not how a prostitute distances herself from her clients-present in body, absent in mind.
Which is not really fair to Armand, she tells herself, as well as being not too smart.
He is quite a virile stud, in remarkable shape for a man of his age and profession, admirably well hung and with a genuine skill and enthusiasm for what Ovid referred to as the art of love.
Meaning sex.
Because Jessica is not deceived on that score.
Love, in the romantic sense, plays no part in Armand’s life.
Because it would be an absurdity, would run counter to the very philosophy he espouses, would serve only to trivialize it, to have the tail wag the dog, saying, in essence, Yes, I say these things, I preach the marriage of man to his own creativity, but in my own personal life, I do not practice what I preach.
Which is not, cannot be true in his case, she knows; otherwise, Irene would have been his forever and ever, world without end, no question.
Because one person cannot get that close to another without, in essence, merging with that other, without making that other a part of himself.
Which did not happen.
Which is quite opposite of what happened, Armand endowing, infusing Irene with her own creativity, awakening the spark within her.
So that Irene may well have come to him innocent and ignorant, but she certainly didn’t leave that way.
And leave him she did, becoming friends for the record, but strangers in the world.
Because people do not become that close only to drift that far apart without there growing between them a chasm of colossal proportions.
It is as though both of them are surrounded by the envelope, the armor.of their own creativity, as unable to get close to one another as, say, jet pilots, each flying his own aircraft.
And yes, she tells herself, she wants it to be that way between herself and Armand as well, wants to be in that position, that is, having satellited off of him, she wishes to shine in her own right.
She wants nothing of Armand save his reknown, his reputation, that temporary linkage required to launch her into the heavens, there to glow as brightly as does he himself.
Too much to ask?
Certainly not for Irene, certainly not for Darlene, and very, very certainly, in all logic and reason, not for Jessica, she tells herself, as Armand humps and pumps ~way on her.
Except He has to begin, has to get started, has to get it in gear!
Three weeks now, and a good long time before these last weeks, she knows, and he has done nothing, has created nothing.
This lecture series?
Well, yes, that is creativity of sorts, but not of the variety she requires.
Because that is nothing but looking into the mirror of his own mind, broadcasting the reflections of his thoughts.
And of course, students, faculty, press and public hang upon his every word, relishing-as well they should-the secrets of the created process from one of the very few living masters thereof, sucking up the words from his lips.
She has seen them, the tape recorders of the faithful, grasping for posterity his every syllable.
She knows that they need not bother, that already the university press will publish, revised, expanded and in hard cover his lecture series under some appropriately unifying title.
And this too makes her uneasy, apprehensive, as much so as his present lack of creativity in the artistic sense.
Because that will require time, energy and effort.
But then, she cannot believe that he can plunge himself into the mechanics of his own creativity and not actually produce at least some new examples of the works implicit therein.
So that perhaps it could work out for the best after all.
Maybe, just maybe he would be willing to use her as a model while he is putting the book together-and yes, why not?-dedicate the book to her!
She can see it now, can see the book’s pages opening. The jacket, non-representational, simply well arranged script-title, author.
The inside flap of the jacket, critical raves in brief, then a blank page, then a page with the words, centered in caps, FOR JESSICA.
Yes, that will definitely do it.
And her pussy is sucking his cock now, is milking it, is servicing it with all the articulate talent of a working mouth.
Which causes him to go faster and faster, responding to what he takes to be her response to him which, in a manner of speaking, is correct.
Because Jessica has translated this particular vision of the future into a fantasy, has reassembled the elements of reality in her mind in such a manner that she is indeed aroused, aroused in the physical, the sexual, the emotional sense.
And one arousal is as good as another, whatever turns you on, and like that, right?
So that, seeing her role as his muse, his inspiration as the key to what it is she is trying to accomplish, the first step on her path to fame and fortune, yes, hell yes, she is excited, as who wouldn’t be?
And she responds to him, her body, her pussy.
So that she joins him on his trip up, up, up the rainbow of his sexual arousal, latching onto it, getting with the program, making it her trip as well, in perfect allegory to that which she intends should happen in the real world.
Because now she truly sees, truly believes in what Armand preaches, which is that, ultimately, fantasy and reality are actually reality and reality, once the creative process is well and truly underway.
And is she not in essence creating here?
Is she not moving, acting, living in accordance with her vision, her imagination?
Is she not, actually, doing that which Armand himself preaches?
And therefore-oh blessed enlightenment!-has he not himself given her the key to her success?
Has he not virtually shown her the way, given her a lock on her project?
A cold, a manipulative way to look at her relationship with him, perhaps, but then, she feels that he would somehow approve, that in retrospect, he will approve of what she has done.
Yes, it’s all coming together for her now.
All. that is required is that she get closer to him, that she stick closer to him.
Her problem is not that this isn’t working, but that it’s working too slowly.
Once a week, what the hell is that?
What about evenings, week-ends, all-nighters?
What about… lunch?
What about, instead of waiting for him to get started, counting on him to kick this thing in the ass, she gets her own in gear.
If you’re gonna manipulate, dammit, manipulate!
Once a week is not manipulation; once a week is a hobby, a pastime, is only slightly more involved than the people who attend his weekly lectures- many of whom, she is certain, would love to hit the sheets with Armand Fortuna, some of whom have already done so in their minds, in their imaginations, in that world within their minds which, as Armand so aptly points out, is far, far more potent, far, far more real than any of them ever suspected.
But not, she reminds herself, more real than they suspect now.
So that there is that factor as well.
If she could go up to him after that first lecture, determined to act on her impulse, on her imaginings, what is to stop any of his audience from doing so-even if it takes the form of absolute gush, of some sweet young thing coming up to him and saying, “I just had to tell you how utterly fantastic I think you are!” ~ To which Armand would reply-what?
That she is too kind, or some such meaningless rubbish?
Perhaps.
Or-and in the midst of the heat of passion, she, actually gets goosepimples at the thought of this- the lightning could strike, the great man could look at the SYT (sweet young thing) and bingo! Instant Irene replay.
And that, Jessica vows, must not be allowed to happen.
It has thrown her off, this last thought.
So that now, Armand is reaching his peak alone, is reaching it, is soaring beyond it-alone.
So that all she can do is fake it, counting on her muscular control of her vagina to make him believe that it’s happening for her as well as for him, mechanically rather than reflexively contracting, again and again, as he shoots wad after wad into the depths of her pussy.
Fakery, yes; but fakery with a certain talent, a certain sexual athletic ability not to be found in your normal, everyday piece of ass, she tells him, silently.
And all in a good cause, which is herself.
Armand humps her all the way, then collapses on her, clinging to her, eyes closed, head resting on one of her breasts.
She runs her lingers through his’ hair on the back of his head, curly with the dampness of his sexual sweat-and her courage fails her at the sense of the power within that skull, at the sense of the vitality which flows within him.
Next week, she tells herself, next week she will have the nerve to expand their relationship.