Rainer (Installment 2)
He had it finally. After eight hours of focus Peter could feel nothing at will. Lying out in the middle of the grassy plain it was the strangest emotion. No, it was more than an emotion. Adrenaline was rushing through his entire body while his mind seemed to combine with the wavy grass and silty earth around him.
An orange dusk in the faded crimson sky. An open solitary sky and freshly painted lighthouse. Peter Sebastian Wright stood up. He was transformed by a force he didn’t fully understand.
As Peter slowly walked over to the eroded escarpment the last sunbeams of the day glistened in the shine of mist in the air. His blank forehead was mixed with a combination of sweat and sea mist creating shimmer on his skin. The view was incredible. Seconds turned into minutes as minutes turned into hours until it dusk. On his left Peter could see all the way to the snow-capped mountains across just the invisible border. Looking to the west on his right stood the silhouette of a city in the distance, bright orange sunlight streaming through its translucent being. And of course, looming in front of him, was that long set of tall purple jagged peaks, rising straight through the clouds. Peter felt on top of the world.
“What we will do is going to be a revolution in even today’s modern art. Observe carefully.” These words came smoothly flowing out of Viktor Isanhov’s mouth as he, Peter, and Ruslan (Viktor’s two-year-old lab/border collie mix) walked along the gravel beach. Peter’s was so focused, his eyes seemed to burn with an intent to absorb everything Isanhov said. they sat down at the bottom of t he beach escarpment near a ancient twisted tree that had survived all the tempestuous storms of the channel. It was a cedar, weathered with damp mossy lichen on the north side, and rough half-upturned roots slithering through the pebbles. A giant magnificent beauty of longevity in itself. The cumulus clouds drifted by in an unearthly slow motion. It was just master, apprentice, and dog. The only living souls within miles.
“Peter, have you ever considered what happens when an artist goes beyond creating.” There was an awkward silence. “I’m not quite sure what you mean Mr. Isanhov. To me, you either have art or you have something else.” “You, Peter Sebastian Wright, are thinking far too conventionally. We, as human beings, have the potential to do anything, be anything, if we will ourselves to. I think that, barring the very basic laws of physics, humans can do extraordinary feats beyond imagination.”
“A large part of the interest and beauty of art can be its shock value, especially in modern times. Sometimes you, as a creator at the vanguard of society, have to break expectation. You have to diverge audience completely off the track they were anticipating.”
Even though last week’s actions were as clear as the sky in the Atacama Desert, Peter couldn’t help but feel that his emotions had become one mysterious blur surrounding him everywhere he went. He couldn’t make up his mind about anything and it didn’t seem like the weather could either. Peter had spent the whole morning strolling through town trying to figure out what made Viktor Isanhov tick. In those hours from the sunrise nearly till noon all aspects of life seemed to swirl around him at an exceedingly hurried (tempo, pace) while he slowly and meticulously pondered every dimension and aspect of Isanhov he had ever encountered. The duos, trios, and quartets weekend tourists rushed past each other in a futile attempt to capture the essence of the “island experience”. Boats at the (marina, docks) continuously pulled in and departed trying to achieve a seafarer’s paradise; “whatever that is” Peter thought.
The climate, deciding to invert its normal routine, started off clear with the sun pulsing mirages to the spot like a beating heart sending blood to the outermost reaches of the body. However, a fog layer had just drifted over the bay and city creating a silk-screen effect with the sun softly filtering through the mist. The weather was backwards. Yet to Peter, grounded deep from the root, it appeared to be just another concave event in an unpredictable time of his life.
Peter was in town to pick up Ethan and Rose Auvington. Many people and acquaintances had come and gone while Peter himself through life, but these two siblings were the only ones he could count as true friends. Some of Peter’s fondest memories, cooking and eating freshly caught crab on the beach or hiking along the winding trails he and Isanhov had walked, had been spent with them.
