The Childhood of art

Did perfection exist ? James had been looking for her for a long time. He thought he had found and incarnated her. Everything in his life had been like this. But he had only stuck to an image and not to perfection itself. James had become the caricature of the young first. That was before the accident. Since then, time had stopped for him. His old life gone, he was confused to find himself naked, rid of his illusions. He wandered the corridors of the hospital.

This is how Mickael met him. He was a photograph, driven by searching for flaws, imperfections and broken lines. The photographer had been touched by this man who did not know what path his life would take from now on. James was sometimes as if in slow motion, or even absent. In those moments Mickael had to bring him back to reality. Otherwise James could have slowly disappeared.

For the doctor, it was the consequences of his injuries. On the contrary, Mickael thought that James had simply become receptive to the world again – photosensitive as he said. Gradually, James et Mickael became friends. James left the hospital after several months. Since then, James has followed Mickael on his photographic walks.

At the end of that morning James had stopped for a few moments to observe the park, the light which, surprised to cross the fountain, leaked in all directions. And then he saw further the small round tables of a restaurant where they would probably go for lunch. Meanwhile Mickael looked at the photos taken since dawn. James bent down to look too and suddenly said ̒In the previous photo I think there was something on the ground. ̓

Mickael returned back and made the same observation. ̒You start to have an eye. What could it be? it's so small,̓ He said. James shrugged. ̒It's not far from here, just at the west entrance,̓ Mickael said. ̒So let's go,̓ replied James.

At this location Mickael had photographed an iron grid decorated with arabesques. The interlacks fascinated Mickaël, perhaps because they reminded him of the tortuous paths knew his thoughts and whose source, always escaped to him.

By approaching they understood that what they were looking for was a small notebook with black blanket. Mickael kneeling to pick him up. At the moment he was going to touch it a burst of wind brutally opened the notebook and turned his pages. Surprised, Mickael jumped. Then he smiles with his own reaction and firmly took the small block of paper. ̒There is no name inside,̓ he said. Michael was embarrassed to browse these notes, presumably those of a writer. The notebook was blackened by a lean, fine and difficult writing. The person who wrote it had to do it in a hurry.

Suddenly a group of children arose. One of them had a red bike. ̒Did you find a treasure ? ̓ he launched. ̒Oh, it's certainly someone's treasure,̓ answered James. It was then that Mickaël had an idea. ̒Listen. We will wait on the terrace there and you, if you see someone looking for this, you send it to us okay ? ̓ ̒And the reward for that ? ̓ he asked. James and Mickael looked at each other. ̒Canddies ? A bag like this ? ̓ Said James.

A little boy with knee skinned and scowled air walked, closed fists. ̒TWO !,̓ he shouted. ̒All right, you'll have three, okay ? ̓ replied James, making a gesture of appeasement.

Once the market is concluded the two men headed for the Italian restaurant they knew very well. They were already enjoying delicious antipasti with a glass of Chianti. James stopped at the bakery to take the promised reward for children. By coming out James whispered in Mickael's ear ̒He did not look conveniently this kid with tight fists ! He reminds me of someone but I can not remember who.̓

They settled on the terrace and traversed the menu, for the shape because they already knew what they would command. ̒Antipasti ? ̓ announced James on the tone of evidence. ̒TWO,̓ Said Mickael frowning and with a deep voice. They laughed and put on the table the notebook and candy bags. Soon we brought the plates and a bottle. Mickaël served the wine. They discussed art and childhood.

̒I think we have a visit,̓ said James. ̒Already ? ̓

A man was approaching, closely followed by the kid with scowling. They realized that the kid always had his gaze of steel and They repent not to smile. Once at the table the kid screwed them, as if he dreaded a bad blow. The kid grabbed candy bags without saying a word and slowly retreaded. Suddenly he turned around and ran out, soon followed by twenty children. ̒They are even more numerous, right ? ̓ ̒The booty attracted the coveties, it's like that̓, replied Mickael. ̒That's I know: James Cagney ! This kid makes me think of him,̓ said James

The unknown looked at them in turn, the gaze filled with incomprehension. ̒Can I take my notebook please ? ̓ He asked. ̒Yes of course. We are sorry. We have been forced to bribe the local public enemy to make sure you find your notebook. Take a chair and sit down. You have a little time, right ? ̓

Mickael asked another drink and served him. ̒I was afraid of having lost it.̓

̒Are you a writer ? ̓ ̒That's a lot. I do not live with my pen. For now that I live rather to write. And you ? ̓

̒I am a photographer and him is James. Let's say he is in the face of existential crisis. Does this presentation suit you James ? ̓ ̒Is pretty real. And you, how should we call us ? ̓

̒John Brown,̓ he said with a smile. ̒And with regard to existential crises, I think they are good engines to move forward. Without this I will have renounce to write for a long time.̓

Mickaël goes a sip and looked around, the thoughtful air. To tell the truth he was looking for his words. He had the impression that a truth was nearby, that he turned around and that perhaps this man, totally unknown to him a few minutes ago, had, otherwise a solution, at least some tracks.

̒The only good engine I had taken me into a ravine,̓ announced James.

Mickaël raised his glass ̒And you're alive. It's a miracle.̓

̒And you, what drives you to write ? ̓ asked James

̒I will tell you a story. Rest assured it will not be long. It was a tennis player whose name I forgot and had a fantastic forehand. But his backhand stroke was really catastrophic. He had many coaches and each of them sought to improve his weak point, in vain. The player was about to give up his sports career when a last coach presented. This one had carefully observed the player. So, unlike others, he made him work what he preferred and where he was the best, his forehand. He told him to use it as much as possible. This player has become a big champion.̓

After a silence he said ̒This is the problem I tried to solve. Why becoming a banker or car salesman when it's in the writing that I feel best ? That's why I think all these things are linked. It's not just a tennis case. Writing is an occupation of every moment, it gives meaning to my life and brings me inner peace. What can I ask more ? I just have to write and progress again and again.̓

Mickaël took his camera and said ̒Can I take a portrait ? ̓

He nodded.

̒This is my first portrait of writer,̓ said Mickael.

James then got up with his glass ̒Let us pause to toast in honor of artists and poets, to all those who sublimate the real. To those who bring down our interior barricades. To those who allow us to let fear cross us without reaching us. To those who make us accept our faults and bring some light inside. Thank you.̓

The other customers raised their glasses. The boss even offered them another bottle.

A little further the little boy with hard gaze watched the scene. Something had touched it, the words perhaps, and the benevolent atmosphere that radiated around the three men. He slowly loosened his fists before going away, a vague smile on his lips.