“No, that’s not right. Try again.” The artist grew angry with my unsteady hand and untrained eye. He yanked my paper from me and balled it up in his fist. “I don’t believe you,” he spat, before tossing my work on the floor where it coalesced with my previous work. Also less than satisfactory.
Then he continued: “That is not how you draw a woman.” The artist then labored over his own craft, explaining to me just how, exactly, one draws a woman. Then, at the end of the lesson, he took from his utility tray his most prized pencil and handed it to me. “Here,” said he, “this will help you.”
Thinking nothing of his words, I snatched his pencil and jammed it into my pocket.
Returning to my modest apartment – soggy with roof leaks and cooking vapors – I then tossed my book bag onto the drab carpet that carpeted my modest apartment.
The small room, nine-feet-square, appeared to be larger than it was because it contained nothing but a single desk and a single chair set against the wall. Everything else had been sold for scrap to support my fledgling career in art.
Dinnertime drew near.
The fact is, I hadn’t eaten anything all day. With a pale face, a wrinkled brow, an Adam’s apple that rose and fell, a hunched back, a sunken abdomen, and trembling knees, I thrust both hands into my pocket and yawned three times in succession.
My fingers found a pencil in my pocket.
“Hey, what’s this? A pencil. I don’t remember it being there.”
Playing with the eraser between my fingers, I produced another yawn.
My thoughts drifted to the gumbling in my stomach.
Without realizing it, I began scribbling on the wall with the pencil. First, an apple. One that looked big enough to be a meal in itself. I drew a paring knife beside it so that I could eat it right away. Next, I drew bread. Jam-filled bread the size of a baseball glove. Butter-filled rolls; a loaf as large as a person’s head. Beside the bread, then, a stick of butter as large as a brick.
“Damn it!” I ground my teeth and buried my face in my hands. “I’ve got to eat!”
Gradually, my consciousness sank into darkness. Beyond the windowpane was a bread and pastry jungle, a mountain of canned goods, a sea of milk, a beach of sugar, a beef and cheese orchard— I scampered about until, fatigued, I fell asleep.
A heavy thud on the floor and the sound of mashing crockery woke me. The sun had already set. Pitch black. Bewildered, I glanced toward the noise and gasped. The pictures I had penciled on the wall had vanished.
“How could it…?”
Suddenly every vein in my body was wide awake and pounding. I stealthily crept closer.
“No, no, it can’t be. But look, it’s real. The bread is smooth to the touch. Be bold, taste it. K, don’t you believe it’s real even now? Yes, it’s real. I believe it. But frightening. To believe it is frightening. And yet, it’s real. It’s edible!”
The apple tasted like an apple. The bread tasted like bread. The butter tasted like butter (not margarine). The sugar tasted like sugar. Ah, they all tasted like the real thing. The knife gleamed, reflecting my face.
By the time I came to my senses, I had somehow finished eating and heaved a sigh
of relief. But when I recalled why I sighed like this, I immediately became confused again. I took the pencil in my fingers and stared at it intently. No matter how much I scrutinized it, I just couldn’t understand what I didn’t understand. I decided to make sure by trying it once more. If I succeeded a second time, then I would have to concede that it had actually happened. I thought I would try to draw something different, but in my haste just drew another familiar-looking apple. As soon as I finished drawing, it fell easily from the wall. So this is real after all.
Joy suddenly turned my body rigid. The tips of my nerves broke through my skin and stretched out toward the universe, rustling like fallen leaves. Then, abruptly, the tension eased, and sitting down on the floor, I burst out laughing like a panting goldfish.
I tried to sleep, but I was unable. So I toiled throughout the night with my newfound tool. I drew a windowpane that looked out onto an expansive scene. It all materialized before me as if by magic. The world is at my fingertips, thought I, and I drew and drew, turning my modest apartment into a world unto itself.
Yet I was overwhelmed. There was so much to create, and all from the beginning. I had to fill this desolate land with mountains, water, clouds, tress, plants, birds, beasts, fish. I had to draw the world all over again. Discouraged, I collapsed onto the bed. One after another, tears fell unceasingly.
But what was I forgetting? My mind drifted to my art class and to the crotchety teacher. I thought about the woman he drew – perfectly proportioned, perfectly pliant. I cried out: “This is what I forgot. It’s time to begin everything from Adam and Eve. That’s it—Eve! I’ll draw Eve!”
Half an hour later Eve was standing before me. Startled, she look around her.
“Who are you?” Her voice was cold.
“I am Adam,” said I. “You are Eve.”
“Bullshit,” she retorted with authority. “I’m a crude drawing.”
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“No, you are Eve,” I explained. “I have created you. Look.” I proceeded to draw us a pair of wedding rings which materialized from the wall. I reached for her hand, yet she recoiled. I continued: “I created you just as I created these rings we are to wear.”
She held my gaze: “Do you wish to marry me?
“Of course.”
“Do you love me, Adam?”
“I do, Eve.”
She extended her hand. “Then come with me.” She gestured to the wall.
I hesitated: “But what of the world I have created for you?” I guestured to the rich foliage that populated my once-meager apartment. I guestured, too, to the sublime radiant sunshine that I also drew specifically for my Eve. “This is all for you,” I pleaded.
She shook her head. ”I do not want….all of this.” She gestured to my pencil. “Please,” said she.
I did as instructed and handed over to her my pencil.
I watched as she snapped the pencil in two and tossed it on the ground.
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