The Reality Seccesion

Feet moved swiftly through the narrow alley, eager to escape the hustle and bustle on the busy road. Perching myself on the cold, smooth floor, journal in hand, I penned down my scattered thoughts. The words flowed onto the page with greater proficiency than had ever come out of my mouth.

As it often did, my gaze swept around the place, eyes peeled for any oddity that could be put down in this book full of thoughts, ideas, reactions and emotions. A dusty door caught my eye. I must have been too distracted earlier and not noticed it. The explorer in me rose to peer through the glass. The only place clear of dust was an ‘open’ sign on the door. Tentatively pushing open the door, I glanced around. The interior was empty but for a single chair, and the path leading up to it the only spot that indicated the presence of a person having been there. A sign lay on the seat. It read ‘Travel through time.’ This seemed to be a science fiction store of sorts. Stealing a look around the room, I perched myself on the edge of the chair. For five minutes I remained there. Meanwhile, my mind wandered. First it went to the Klimt painting I had seen last night, ‘Baby.’ His paintings held stories in them, and the colours possessed a vibrancy I hoped to one day achieve. Schiele, his protégé, lived a short but meaningful artistic life. My problem, I was beginning to realize, was my inhibitions. Schiele and Klimt reveled in the natural beauty of the human body and glorified it in their work. Yet here I was, shying away from writing anything leaning towards topics more controversial than death and addiction, like desire. I devoured books that dealt with these themes, but could not write my own. Diverse characters endeared me to books, but the only ones I wrote were based on myself.

Lost in daydreams, a sneeze pulled me into reality. I scampered out of the elusive shop and onto the cobbled pathway. I stopped. I looked for Toronto’s famous glass buildings. There were none. European style flats replaced the buildings that could be seen from every angle. I eavesdropped onto the conversation of two passersby.

“Egon; Vincent, Edvard and Jan are coming for an exhibition soon. I hope your work is ready.”

The reply did not reach my ears, for my head was swimming. The chair said I would travel through time. I had read enough Tolkien and Rowling and Martin and Rushdie and Dahl to believe in the magic of the universe. My mind had been on Klimt, and so here I was, in Vienna it seemed. The exhibition indicated that the year must be 1908 or 1909, and that Klimt was already using gold leaf. I ran to the two artists I so idolized.

“Excuse me, I’m a bit lost.”

They both turned and observed me.

“You are not Austrian. Are you an artist?” Klimt said, breaking the silence. My paint-stained hands twisted nervously, and I could only nod. “Would you like to come to the workshop?” He was regarding me with a great interest. Again, I simply nodded.

On one end of the wall was ‘Kiss.’ What struck me more than seeing a masterpiece in front of me were the sketches and paintings that covered the walls. Dates long past popped out from the paper. Noticing my observation, Klimt said, “Keeping old work shows progress.”

My voice finally responded to the summons. “I keep all my old writing and artwork.” An old journal was always a joy to read. Strange descriptions aside, I still marveled at the imagination my younger self possessed.

“A writer?” Schiele was regarding me with great interest. “Have you written any books?”

“Only short stories. One has been published though, and one I gave to my school library.”

“Can I read them?”

These stories were over a century in the future, but I replied with a simple: “I’ll look for them.”

“What do your parents say?”

“They have always encouraged me.”

“They did not tell you not to be an artist, or a writer?”

“No. My ability to create makes them happy.” For a moment, Schiele was silent, his expression haunted.

“Do you have a good master?” He finally said. “I did not. Then I sought Gustav, and from him I have learned so much.” I scrutinized the seventeen-year-old artist who would accomplish so much in his twenty-eight years. How I longed for his confidence.

“I’m afraid I haven’t had a consistent one. But I take what I can from each teacher. When I was six, my teacher told me to avoid clichés. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but the word stuck.”

He nodded in agreement. “To not do what is typical.”

“Sometimes I find myself falling into that trap.”

“So you must break free.” Klimt said. “Come, paint.” His arm was extended towards a blank paper stretched along the wall. My heartbeat was loud and clear in the silent studio. To paint with someone I admired so much in the coveted Vienna Workshop was bizarre. I lifted the brush.

Working with my hands caused time to fly by. Like a story, I edited and polished the painting. My squinting eyes indicated the twilight settling in. Finally, I stepped back from the piece.

“See here, when you let your fears go, you produce wonder,” Klimt said.

“You have created for yourself,” said Schiele. This boy, at the same age as me, had the wisdom of Da Vinci and Hemingway and Ayn Rand and Salinger, because he knew the secret to creating. Salinger was able to put down his entire self, and though his ending was a tragic one, I could not help but admire the writer who wrote only for himself, believing in himself with such strong faith.

 It had been in front of me all along, and now I had finally discovered it.