“To the extent that they enlighten, all perceptions are revelation,” Armand pronounces.
“If the conscious motivation of the artist is to inquire through creation, is not the purpose of art to actively receive, to absorb the answer thus elicited? “By this same logic, ladies and gentlemen, if art is integral to the artist’s life, that is, if art is not thought of merely as a spectator sport where he himself is concerned, then it follows that his purpose is not simply to hear the answer to his inquiry, not merely to hear and understand it, but to be thereby-transformed! “The true purpose of art, ladies and gentlemen, is not the end product of the effort which produced it. That is a mere by-product, a residue of the process! “The true purpose of art lies in what the artist becomes as a result of having created it.
“Art leads to perception leads to revelation leads to transformation-transformation of the artist and, to a greater or lesser extent, of the world into which it is thrust, from mind to hand to the eye of the beholder.
“How often do we hear the query, ‘What does this painting say to you, what does that sculpture do for you?’ “And in the answer to that, my friends, lies the purpose of art.
“Thus do we come full circle.
“We begin with imagination, that of the artist, that of the observer, and we end with the transformation of the imaginer.
“That is the purpose of art, that is the impact of aesthetics.
“The painting is the discarded carapace, the shed skin of the artist as he was! “And the observer, seeing this evidence of inspiration becomes himself inspired, his imagination fired up, and he himself is thereby transformed as well.
“Too much, you say? “I ask, I expect, I claim too much for art? “That’s quite all right. You do well to doubt, to question me.
‘And we know. with whom lies the burden of proof, do we not? “You have, no doubt, noticed the gentleman in the bathrobe seated here on stage.
“Those of you familiar with bodybuilding will recognize the current Mister Galaxy, Steve Xenos.
“He has been kind enough to appear here tonight to illustrate, in clear and unmistakable form, to prove, if you will that the underlying, the fundamental purpose and deepest motivation of art is in fact transformation of the artist and, by osmosis of observation, of the observer.
“If you will, Steve.”
And Steve removes his robe, to reveal himself naked, but for a g-string.
And Steve at once begins a slow posing routine, to the awed, silent appreciation of the audience, as Armand continues, “Consider the imagination of the bodybuilder, which is, in the words of the military recruiting ads, to be all that he can be, this taken in the physical, the literal sense.
“The elements of reality are the parts and the whole of his body.
“The means is exercise, the medium flesh-bone, muscle, ligament.
“The product is, of course, exactly what you see-which is, ladies and gentlemen, nothing more than the residue of what you will see.
“The snake sheds his skin and becomes renewed, transformed, annually.
“But here, here! we see that which is transformed- what? Weekly? Daily? “No! Here we see that which is transformed moment by moment, as all the bodily functions are geared, along with the mind and the will, toward this very transformation.
“The body is its own masterpiece, transformation both the purpose and the action itself-to transform by transforming, always, always dealing with the output itself.
“Here, here! we see transformation in its purest form.
“Not the transformation of stone into sculpture, of paint into painting, but of the body, the physical being, into that which is greater than itself and which, in turn, is transformed-and so on and so on, ad infinitum, forever and ever, world without end.
“The scriptures tell us, ‘Now I see as through a mirror darkly, but then face to face.”
“And so it is here.
“Many of you take what I say-all that I say-metaphorically, as though I am casting similes, speaking in parables.
“But this is not the case, I can assure you.
“Because here, here! is the unvarnished reality,. is symbol, yes, but substance as well, is both symbol and substance combined into one unarguable-thereness! “Here it is! It is real, it is right here before you, it is what it is and not otherwise! “Let’s watch for a while, let us absorb the facticity, the reality of what we here behold!”
And Steve completes his posing routine, as though competing for the title.
He finishes and puts his robe back on, leaving the auditorium by an exit to the side of the chalkboard, to enthusiastic applause.
And only now does Jessica, seated in the audience, realize how she missed a chance, how, blinded by her own ambition, she overlooked what could have been a golden opportunity to have, for her very own, that which is the envy of every man, the desire, whether of fantasy or of active lust, of every woman here tonight.
For the very first time, she wants Steve, really wants him-now that it is probably too late.
“Transformation,” Armand continues. “Let’s think about that together here. Far too large a concept to be cavalierly, flung out, en passant, is it…
But Jessica doesn’t hear the rest of Armand’s lecture, her mind now turned to Steve-to Steve and to the possibility of hitching her wagon to that particular star in some way, now that Armand has apparently been inspired by a concept so esoteric that, try as she might, she cannot grasp it.
If they were still on speaking terms, she could have asked for an explanation; still,’ the only valid part of that explanation where she is concerned, the bottom line, would be that they are finished.
For the rest, she will simply have to wait and see what comes out of his inspiration.
To the astonishment of those over whose feet she must step, Jessica leaves the lecture.
Male and female created he them, Armand says to himself, as Steve and the sun-bronzed, muscular female bodybuilder writh and intertwine on Armand’s bed while he takes photo after photo of them, his camera whirring and clicking as he extracts one film cartridge and’ inserts another, sweating, red-faced, as excited, as aroused as are Steve and his partner.
The masterpieces that will come from this! He tells himself, now pulling back for the long shot, now zeroing in on the juncture of cunt and cock, zooming in to capture the lunging, plunging action of the meat piston as her cunt sucks Steve’s cock, the mighty boulders of his buttocks clenching and unclenching, big balls locked to the base of his cock, her ass hole clearly exposed beneath her articulated, working mouth of a pussy.
Flesh on flesh, flesh in flesh, intimate and yet depersonalized, idealized and yet with the reality of the physical contact, its thereness before him indisputable.
The play of the muscles, strutted, sweating, ruddy beneath the tans in their passion.
And the canvasses, the painting suggesting themselves to him now,’ one, two, three, right on up and up the scale of numbers, the task not daunting but eagerly embraced.
Naked, Armand works, so that his own cock is huge, is bobbling stiffly as he moves this way and that, now crouching at the foot of the bed, catching the juncture in intimate detail, now springing up onto the bed, standing there, his bare feet digging into the mattress as he gleans the overhead shot of the action.
The action and the action and the action!
The aura, the spirit of it! The generality, the universality of it!
Because, as in all things, as the real approaches the ideal, it becomes generalized.
Steve is not Steve, nor is the woman herself alone; rather, they are both of a type, are paragons of that type, the ideal of every man, every woman- and redefining themselves with every repetition of exercise, with every set, with every workout.
And now, in a workout of a quite different kind, they are transforming themselves, moment by moment, building and building the pleasure within those ultra-developed bodies of theirs, interacting with it, merging with it, as Armand envisions painting after painting, all in the surrealist mode now, all exploring in intimate detail the juxtaposition of flesh and iron, flesh and flesh, flesh and its own ideal, the striving for that ideal, the agony and the ecstasy, the frustration and the achievement and all points, all phases, all aspects in between.
They move unbidden, from position to position, in a kind of horizontal mixed couple posing routine.
So that now she is on top, giving full, physical vent to her lust, rolling her hips round and round, reaming her pussy with his wonder wand now, and now pumping, forcing the piston action atop him.
And now, they disconnect and reconnect, she lying atop him, back to chest, the insertion their most prominent feature, the look of sexual transport on her face and his making them look quite other than themselves.
And this is also valid, also a part of the truth of it all, Armand tells himself, capturing their expressions.
As it all comes together, as man reveals himself here as ultimately, exclusively a sexual, a sex- driven creature, his desire for transformation itself a part of that deeper, that atavistic desire.
And Armand will show it all, all! through his art.
Roll after roll of reference material, he shoots, as the muscular couple build toward climax.
And that too, he is most careful to capture in intimate detail, as well as in the long view.
And they do not disappoint, Steve’s muscles strutted and gleaming with his sexual perspiration as he swims upstream in the bed, humping his partner ardently, thrusting with each injection of his sperm into the depths of her hot, flowing cunt, even as her pussy lips convulse, again and again, milking him of his load in the throes of her series of multiple orgasms.
Were he not so busy recording the event, Armand would probably come in sheer empathy, he tells himself.
But he dares not miss any of this exquisite reference material.
But, on the other hand, he must, he must get closer to the action, must, must know, must more than behold, must feel, must, mustCloser and closer to the humping, pumping Steve’s ass comes Armand, jaw slack, drooling as he spreads the cheeks of Steve’s ass, as he seals his lips to Steve’s bung, as he works lips and tongue over his balls, down the pulsing, plunging shaft, tasting the mixture of jism and pussy juice which coats it, as he explores the juncture of pussy lips and cock with his flickering tongue, as he descends to the woman’s ass hole, coated with the overflow of mingled fluids running down from her pussy, running out of it as Steve holds her there, doubled up, mighty arms and shoulders holding her bent, impaled on his cock which continues to service her as the two of them come and come.
Only when the last spasm of the hot action has passed, Steve settling down on the woman, releasing the backs of her thighs so that her muscular legs descend on either side of Steve’s own legs, only now does Armand pull back, satisfied that he has captured within his own sex-fevered brain the essence of the action.
Steve stands up, offering the woman his hand, which she accepts.
As the two of them shower together in Armand’s cinderblock, plastic-curtained shower enclosure, Armand, ignoring his own hard-on, sketches furiously on a spiral-bound pad, making visual notes on the series of paintings he intends to create.
Yes, this exhibition will be as great a success as his others, he knows.
In the others, his works spoke of the individual’s experience, calling out to the viewer to recognize, to see in themselves, in their memories, the moods, the attitudes, the realizations so clearly and diversely expressed by Irene.
With Darlene, he spoke to his audience of their lusts-for power, for fame, for fortune, for every experience catering to the senses life has to offer.
Yes, to speak to the individual of his and her own past and desires, each viewer beholding in each painting a personal reflection, whether experienced or desired, whether of thought or of action.
But now, he will go the other way.
From the specific to the general, reaching down, down, down into the depths of our drives, our desires, our dreams, our yearnings, devoid of the veneer of civilization, shown naked, bared for all to see.
No longer, Yes, I remember this, but rather, Yes, I have always known this, this is not personal but absolute truth.
To speak to human nature rather than individual experience-this will be his triumph, this will be the first paintings in today’s world to go the other way, to break through the present obsessive preoccupation with the individual, to reach back and capture once more the archetypes, the shared imagery which lurks within us all.
And Jessica?
Armand smiles at the thought of her, of her petty, obvious ambition.
Too late, Jessica, he tells her; she is, was at best a more mature, more intelligent Darlene.
But that’s been done.
Blatant ambition, unabashed selfishness, raw greed has been captured on canvas, the canvasses sold off, the model catapulted to fame and fortune.
Time to move on, which Jessica understood far too slowly to avoid being hurt-if she was in fact hurt, if she was not actually too cool, too calculating to be hurt by having taken a shot that didn’t work out.
He wishes her well, actually, Armand reflects, lying back on the bed, ignoring rather than avoiding the wet spot. On balance, she would have been a much better model than Darlene, a much purer, more mature example of what Darlene represented-what she still represents on the soaps.
And yes, he could even have turned out better paintings with her for inspiration, he supposes-except that the paintings themselves are unimportant.
So no, he has lost nothing there, has gained, has realized his insights, has achieved his transformation, or rather those particular transformations which accrued to that inspiration.
The bemuscled couple emerges from the bathroom and Armand is struck once again by their completeness.
Living works of art they are, the exception to the rule of end product as the discard, the negative of the artist’s transformation.
Because when the artist himself is the medium; when he is both subject and object of the process, there is no discard, no residue-unless it is a picture of himself, some BEFORE version-before, and therefore inferior to now, given that there can never truly be an AFTER, not so long as development continues.
“You uh, you need us for anything else tonight, Armand?” Steve asks.
“No, no, Steve. Oh, and I won’t be at the gym tomorrow. I’ll be here instead.”
“I figured. Come on, Doreen, let’s blow this dump.
“Geez, Armand, not for nothing, but have ya given any thought, any consideration at all to that unit that’s open in my building?”
“Steve, as you might have gathered, at the moment, I have other concerns to address.”
Steve shrugs and turns away, by way of reply.
Quickly, Steve and Doreen dress.
Armand, still naked, pauses beside his desk, picking up two checks, handing them to Steve and Doreen.
“For this kinda loot, I’m available anytime,” Doreen says, adding quickly, “as a model, that is.”
Making it clear that she is a bodybuilder and model and nothing else, notwithstanding the scene here tonight, a thing which Armand did not misunderstand to begin with.
“Of course,” he replies, “and thank you for coming.
“And Steve, thanks for everything.”
“My pleasure,” Steve responds. “I learned a lot.”
“Oh yeah?” Doreen says. “When was that?” They all laugh and Armand sees them to the elevator.
And now, he stands there in the vastness of the darkened loft, the blank canvasses stacked here and there against the pillars.
Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow, he will begin. It will begin. TomorrowHe hits the light switch and the empty aisles of the loft gleam, the polished wood of the floor reflecting the lights.
The large canvasses, he will begin with, he tells himself.
But first, a pitcher of iced tea, super-strong, he must have.
Never mind tomorrow, never mind time of day, day of week. It is time to begin, is what time it is.
And he needs no sleep, he needs no sex, he needs no reflection, no contemplation, no composition, not even the photographs.
What he needs, he tells himself, is to work, to create-to create and create and create and thereby transform himself.
Jessica stands before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, looking at herself, turning her body this way and that.
How could Armand have thrown her out?
How could he have resisted her in any way?
Check the ass, check the face the boobs, the bod, the legs. Perfect!
And then, like a bolt from the blue, the bullshit.
Going in another direction, and like that, she was, she was-and reality sets in.
What she was, was obvious, transparent.
What she was, was a smart-ass, pseudo-intellectual graduate student who actually thought she could make an impression on, could have influence over, could play with the mind of probably the greatest artist in the world today.
What she was, was side meat, a piece of ass, a way of passing the time until his next inspiration.
She wanted to inspire him? What a laugh, when all the while, inspiration meant only that he would want her out of the way, ASAP.
She was lower than low priority; she was no priority.
Still, she tells herself, she need not come away from the experience empty-handed.
Because Steve, being a strictly physical kind of guy, would be bound to be attracted to her.
True, he probably had more offers than he could handle-but from how many people who have done what they did?
So yes, hell yes, she has a claim there, she figures. And, since he is a friend of Armand’s-real ass hole buddies would be her guess-who knows?
Perhaps she could still see Armand, from time to time. After all, it couldn’t hurt her own career any to be known as a friend of the great man, friend. and former-never mind.
That would be pushing it.
Plus, if her relationship with Steve should take off, then she herself would want to minimize her recent adventures with other than Steve, right?
But now, she tells herself, Wait. Fall back, kiddo. Regroup.
Because the situation isn’t all that cut and dried with Steve, any more than it was with Armand. And there is no reason for her to make the same mistake twice.
She should go after Steve-if she goes after Steve-more casually, that is, as something to do sometime when neither of them has anything better to do, or maybe anything at all to do.
She’ll join the gym, seeing them both there, no doubt.
And Steve will ask her out, remembering, knowing what she has to offer, knowing and appreciating much more than did, than does Armand.
And that is the way she will end up with Steve, end up having her picture taken with Steve, end up becoming known as his girlfriend AND acquaintance of Armand Fortuna, as well as being “an artist in her own right”.
Because she knows that she has what it takes, knows that she can turn herself on practically at will.
And now, if proof of that were required, she pulls her vibrator out of the drawer of one of the nightstands flanking her bed.
An element of reality, she tells herself, mimicking Armand’s lecturing voice, in her mind.
By means of masturbation, she tells herself, using the vibrator as the medium, she shall proceed to create a happening here.
She lies down on her bed, raising and spreading her legs, bent at the knees, as though this were the moment of insertion for Armand, or Steve, or whoever.
She turns on the vibrator, its simulated cock head and shaft buzzing, the sound reverberating off the waits of her bedroom.
Lightly, she touches the tip of her tongue to the shimmering head, then plunges it into her cunt, guiding it in, in, into herself, the buzzing becoming all but inaudible.
And now she fucks herself with the vibrator, rubbing her breasts with her other hand, feeling the warmth of her arousal begin to permeate her whole body.
In and out, in and out of herself, she plunges the vibrator, her thoughts turned, not upon Armand or even upon Steve, but upon the picture of herself using the vibrator, upon her own sense of completeness, upon the arbitrary nature of all others outside herself.
Because this, this is the true expression of her sexuality, she realizes. She wants, she needs, she ultimately desires only herself.
So that her orgasm becomes the true artifact, the desired result of her creativity here, incorporating no other.
Insert vibrator B into slot A and manipulate until orgasm C is achieved.
And now, she feels her juices flowing, feels herself becoming hotter and hotter, feels her face and chest flush, feels her nipples go erect and stiff, the glands beneath them becoming still firmer.
Higher and higher she rises, up, up, up the rainbow of her arousal, through level after level of sexual pleasure, each deeper, more thrilling than the one before.
And now, she abandons herself to herself, to her physical self, to her own voluptuousness, her own sensuality, to the picture of herself fucking herself with the vibrator, a closed universe of one.
And she knows that she will succeed, that she will go all the way like this, that nothing, nothing, nothing will interfere with her, that she will produce ,a masterpiece of an orgasm.
And now, she is coming, her hot, juicy cunt sucking the vibrator, milking it of the ultimate pleasure with the powerful contractions of her multiple orgasms.
And she is zooming and soaring through the rosy empyrean of her private sexual universe, until, at last, she drifts slowly back down to earth.
And tosses the vibrator angrily onto the floor, pressing a knuckle to her lips, tears welling in her eyes at the realization that this was no masterpiece and that she is not, after all, transformed.