The Unknown Art
“Whut”s dat?”
The two teenagers stared at one of the French exhibits that were brought for a month to the Contemporary Art section at the Brooklyn museum. Such art didn’t mean much to two black kids, although you could say they were literally immersed in it all day long. They were its blazing representatives, and they were Samanya and I, back in 1994.
“It sayz Paris Mont-something…Itz French,” said she. Later, when I was already in college, I found out that her name means “the unknown one”. And so it was with that girl.
“A bunch of cats ridin’ on an ol’ broken-ass bus, man. U sho dat aint NY?”
“It dont say NY, iz it? Da guy’s French – Duhbuffet. And dat sign on da bus – itz in French I think.”
“Yeah. Eau mineralee – sounds like the word dat my grandma sayz for perfume. U know she from Big Easy.”
“Kinda feel dat one. All those people walkin’ or ridin’ in couplez. No one iz out there, alone…” Samanya had the strange ability to darken her brown eyes at will.
“Whutz up, boo? Why u do me like dat? U trippin’ over dat fox Rakisha again?” The feeling of guilt that I had came over me again.
“I aint trippin’. Itz just I cant see whut u saw in her. U aint like ur boy Tylor.”
“Told ya itz over. Couldnt take her game no mo’’” Now I wonder how I could even think for a second that this can make her believe me. But I there I was, and I didn’t want to drive her away.
“Anywayz, dont u worry ‘bout Taylor. He went O.T. u know. Cuz of dat shootin’ last Friday.Somethin wrong wit those colorz? They shoulda taken better care of their stuff round here.” I would often stare at “Paris Montparnasse” later on, thinking about the faded yellow, grey and blue. They looked even paler next to the bright silhouette of Samanya, the unknown one.
“Colorz iz just fine dat way. Dem folks r smiling, but then again, they r like in pain or somethin’. “ She turned her eyes away from the painting and onto me.
“U had nothing to do wit it, did you? Those guys from da Bronx wont know ya? They cant. Uve got plans. U be leavin soon.” She wanted to look strong, but her eyes gave her away.
“Nah, boo. Neva went wit Tee dat night. Momz needed help wit lil’ CC. Trust me on this one. U know Id neva lie to ma ebony queen.” I really didn’t go. Truth is, I got cold feet. He was my friend, but I had to try my chances after high-school. Couldn’t afford to get stuck in the rut of beautiful Brooklyn. Much as I would want to say I did it for her, I did it for myself.
Samanya looked at the picture once again.
“Glad they brought us here. It aint da usual stuff u get in dem books. It different.”
Over the years at arts school, I grew a fondness for the works of Dubuffet. They have always looked like some alien graffiti. All his black lines have a strange hold on me, in them I see Samanya.
“I feel ya. And all those people goin somewhere in their automobiles.” Another instant of regret. It seems that back then, I couldn’t help myself from hurting her.
“U be gone one day. And me, I be stayin here. Mr Collins sayz a lot of good stuff about ya. Sayz u got sum great future. He knowz thangs.”
“It aint like itz gonna be foreva. Ill be back. Youll see boo. I cant be without ur hershey kisses now, can I?” And yet I could. I don’t know how I managed to do that, but her taste doesn’t come easily to me now.
“ I dont want ya back.” She said it plain and simple. In that intense moment, all there was , was the painting on the wall. People floating rather than walking, somewhere in between dimensions, heading who knows where. Probably home.
“Whut ya sayn’ Sami?”” I raised my voice in anger.
“Shhh. Keep quiet, or theyll be throwing us out!” when she meant something no force on Earth could contradict her. “U heard me. I dont want ya back. So ud betta not come n look for me. Ive had ‘bout enough from you. Us, together, it aint meant to be. “
“So whut am I suppose to do now, huh? “ All thoughts came rushing through my head. I thought of her skin. That couldn’t be right. I suddenly felt the need to get on that Parisian bus and leave her in the middle of the museum the way she did. Let her wonder why I was doing such a thing to her. Sit in a seat and watch her turn into a human speck in the distance.
“Think Im done wit this one. Ill go check out da one over there.” She swayed her hips over to the next exhibit, a couple of minutes before our teachers called on us to head home. What she saw in the unfamiliar painting - I never got to know.
The unknown one. I can picture her now. A powerful woman, unbending to no one’s desires but hers. She can let you take her in your arms, but she’d never let you bend her. I can almost see her lips turned up in a proud smile. But the taste of her – that I cannot recall.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Review of Miryana’s “The Unknown Art”
ReplyDeleteThe Unknown Art is yet another undeniable proof that Miryana is a great writer with a lot of potential. However, it also makes it obvious that she has struggled with the task, which is no surprise, as it is the hardest one yet.
The first line in the story pretty much sums up what is about to follow. I appreciate the fact that the dialect of the children is expressed on more than one level. In addition to the realm of sound it is backed up by visual elements such as “Z” instead of “S” (the Z generation), “da” instead of “the”, etc.
On the other hand, I find the way the children speak largely overdone. At times they sound more like cavemen or Jamaicans (which they obviously are not), rather than “the blazing representatives” of 1994 Brooklyn:
“It different.”
“U be leavin soon.”
…
The vocabulary of the two characters has “hardcore ghetto” written all over it, yet the narrator speaks fluent dialect-free English. I find it hard to believe that he has rid himself of it completely.
Overall, I would have enjoyed the story a lot more if this element was not present, or at least not to this extent. It bothered me the entire story and prevented me from getting into it. You could say it was the main theme (hence, the theme of my review).
This task does not predispose to a big unexpected twist and I did not really expect one, but it was hard for me to decipher what the story was actually about before I reached the concluding lines.
The ending is wonderful, yet a different beginning, describing the girl or at least putting her under the headlights for a while, which would put us on the right course, would have given me the correct expectations and mindset, which would have completely changed my reading experience.
In conclusion, I think that the story has little to do with the painting, which was more of a nice background for it than the main topic. The writing was great at times, but I just couldn’t connect with any of the events or characters and that was a deal breaker for me.
Review “The Unknown Art” by Irina Hinova
ReplyDelete“The Unknown Art” is an intricately written story that proves to be quite deep. Its strength lies in the powerful language, especially in the things that have not been stated explicitly. What I especially liked is the way the painting is not only a part of the setting but it also bears a symbolic meaning in the narrator’s life.
As it goes on, the museum scene is developed in both directions – the past and the future. Three time frames are interpolated into the scene: the present - the two black kids discussing the painting, the past – their social background and other previous events from which much information about their relationship is inferred, and the future – later developments in the Narrator’s life, who is actually speaking “now”, so in fact that is also the present in the text. This interpolation is achieved very deftly through the speech of the characters, which, full-blooded and colourful, is one of the story’s main “attractions”. The difference between the narrator’s voice and his teenage “I” is striking – and that speaks volumes about the distance which separates his teen life and his present. This distance now stands between Samanya and him. The shift of viewpoint in the beginning from 3rd person to 1st person is like a cinematographic close-up to his memory. There is a bitter-sweet feeling in his tone when he describes his “boo” from his present viewpoint. He admires her strength of character, when at the time she hurt him with her “I dont want ya back.” This moment is the climax of the story. The boy knows his girlfriend will suffer when he leaves and is slapped in the face when she actually states that she can do without him. Later on, he has not really missed her much but he has grown to fully appreciate and admire her pride and mysteriousness. With a few short sentences Miss Tashkova has presented a deeply psychological experience of a painful realization:
“So whut am I suppose to do now, huh? “ All thoughts came rushing through my head. I thought of her skin. That couldn’t be right. I suddenly felt the need to get on that Parisian bus and leave her in the middle of the museum the way she did. Let her wonder why I was doing such a thing to her. Sit in a seat and watch her turn into a human speck in the distance.
It is Samanya who has left. And probably that is why the narrator still reminisces about her. I don’t suppose she does that too. She is “the unknown one”. The title wonderfully mingles her image with that of the setting of the whole scene – the painting. This mingling symbolizes the way art can be meaningful to different people – with or without an arts degree. Here the two types of people are present in one – the narrator. He has learned to appreciate art professionally, it is no more “unknown” him, but Samanya has remained unknown.