A little love song early in the morning from this band called The Beatles. From the 1964 album A Hard Day’s Night, it features a bit of an odd structure in the introduction by John Lennon, and the rest is just nice harmonies and one mic.
From The Citrus Report
If you are going to start with Mingus, we suggest that you go straight to Live at Antibes, the brilliant, legendary 1960 recording. The 11-minute masterpiece that is “Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting” leads off the session, although we can’t find that version on the web. So just enjoy this. You will.
From The Citrus Report
Radiohead is having a webcast release party for their TKOL RMX 1234567 remix compilation, and its going on right now. As Pitchfork reported, “It’s webcast live from Corsica Studios in London, over at the Boiler Room website and Radiohead’s website.”
Thom is DJing, then Jamie xx vs Caribou will be on later as the night cap. UPDATE: Its over. We thought we were getting a delayed performance, but we can’t find it. Just know it happened and you missed it).
From The Citrus Report
Joakim Martinussen’s performance at One Night Only Gallery in Oslo, Norway caught our eye recently. Very simple. Very clever.
We, you, us, we are probably never going to see this in person, but an Aaron Horkey x Jurassic Park poster for Austin’s Mondo Movie Night? Epic. And Jurassic Park out as a trilogy on Blu-Ray this October 25th? Mega epic as well. People would sleep in a Supreme sized line for some Horkey…
From The Citrus Report
Jesse Small creates art work that is a unique combination of bright, fresh, contemporary ideas that hold a rich history in both form and in media. Some of his work encroaches on realms of design that he has vowed to take back for contemporary art, while some merge craft and utilitarian objects with technology and modern concepts in ways that challenge preconceived notions of these items. But no matter what the concept behind any particular piece, Jesse’s work is always a masterful display of manufacturing and laborious craftsmanship that goes unrivaled. —Ronnie Wrest / The Citrus Report
Ronnie Wrest: You recently set up a studio in Los Angeles. Is it nice to be back in southern California?
Jessie Small: I am constantly responding to messages the world sends me via mundane, daily life. For example, I created a series of figurines in Jingdezhen, China, inspired by the public-bus-muse. In France, I got an idea for an infinite porcelain chandelier from a hall of mirrors in the Nice city hall. Putting myself in foreign environments creates a lot more messages each day than I get now in LA, probably because of the shift in the flavor of the mundane. Is the function of my studio in LA to collect all these experiences and give myself a base to produce them? I never looked at working that way before. I’d rather collaborate with my circumstances than control them. My work delves into both antiquity and anti-antiquity, into the past and the future. LA is sort of crushed into a very bright singularity in the Now. If I get embraced here, it will be through mutual misunderstanding. There was recently a fire in my studio which trashed a lot of new work, so I am feeling very un-here at the moment. Fire can be very cleansing too, just as the ancients assure us, possibly meta-regenerative.
You lived and worked in China for a few years. Can you talk about this experience and how it impacted your work and your life?
Well, it helped me digest and purge western culture somewhat. Last month I visited the Royal College of Art in London and they killed me with that research-then-modify tactic. It reminded me of when I was coming out of Grad School, on the verge of China. I was just another product of western art school curricula. Referring to art historical figures living or dead in order to put ones own work into context never felt right to me… isnt the world at large where art is happening? Could art just be a thing first, then become art later?
Audience is everything to me, the final stage of meaning, and when I operated within Chinese society, I and audience were free from assumption and understanding. This new found freedom from cultural start-points (which usually become endpoints in a nanosecond) was poisonous because it stemmed from ignorance, though it only slayed the dull and dying theories I had dragged in from the west. I lived for 6 months in Jingdezhen, and then 6 months in Shenzhen. I made many trips by bus and train to the toy-manufacturing capital of the known universe, Shantou, on a goose chase for god’s toy maker, who I joined and worked with.
Living in China, I found my people, who made things and sold them, like me. I designed an egg-shaped mobile phone, cut a chinese army jeep into lace using an ancient plasma cutter, shared quarters with semi wild dogs, and gleefully used 300 year old public toilets. I walked through and in many cases spent days, weeks, or months working in dozens of workshops and factories. The strangest thing was coming back. My sense of value was completely obliterated, mainly because I had seen the squalid conditions from which our merchandise is born. I am a terrible consumer now. The Chinese thrifty DIY techniques are what I do instead (within reason of course, after all, I’m a Diva.)
In the past few years you have been working with metals and plastics. What brought about your interest in these mediums?
Steel probably comes closest to the unreal, fabulous notion of drawing-in-space. n 1998 I found a stash of old metal army helmets at a family run scrapyard in KC. These were the genesis of what would become a library of sculptures, using a torch and then a plasma cutter to treat steel like paper. To find the lace in the steel. The helmets became unique, beautiful, and useless. I saw the flow of vandalism and decoration going both ways, like a tide, depending on what direction I ran the film.
I continue to work with steel, sometimes in a state of overwhelmed rapture. It is the nectar of Mars, my home planet and muse to which I always return. Being made of water, it is transcendental to hold a fire torch and, with the slow motion balet happening in my fingers, hand, and arms, feeling big chunks of iron fall clanking to the Earth, liberating an image or a mess. I can taste the electricity and the rust, my body is stained and scarred, but I am ever so grateful to be at the feet of Mars.
It’s funny you ask about plastics, because I am now running, screaming. Audience is everything (to me) and when they speak I listen. I know well some great theories about working in the void, putting oneself in a fiction that doesn’t script or completely disguises the Audience (like a teaching gig, for example.) We go into exile to concoct new concepts out of dust and tattered ends… and that isolation is sacred. Everything returns to my Audience, and I am deeply curious about their response to the gifts I create for them, for that is their rich gift to me. Their response is the mirror, the mirror is the gateway to truth and the secrets. If a mirror is made of plastic, you can twist and bend it until it is not a reflection anymore, but a distortion. A real glass mirror will break when a single lie is thrown at it. So, yeah, folks hated it. All the stuff I made of plastic, cant sell any of it. Plastic does not fit the deeply nostalgic vein of my work, nor does it fit the pantheon of antiquitous fine art materials. Plastic is to retro to smack of the future. Who am I to argue with this, having failed every test of a pure heart? Though I implore endlessly at times with the material gods to break loose of their chains, to be not killed by culture but free from it, they have no power over their captor. It is not I who will free them, I’ve not the power, and so I say, be gone with you plastic, be gone from this place!!
Some of the sculptures you create are constantly reoccurring in new ways. One of my favorites is the porcelain pac-man ghost. Is there a particular concept that has kept your interest in this object?
Initially the Ghosts were an effort to confront various demonic porcelain figurines in Jingdezhen, China that needed checking. Traditionally in China, ghosts are considered troublemakers, so there are several common shields against them. One is that each home should have a porcelain figurine to scare ghosts away. So I created a cute porcelain ghost figurine as a contemporary alternative. Few people were insulted by my slight to traditional superstition, most people understood the work as conversation between an ancient culture and a young, pop oriented culture. For me, the insight was not that my work was insulting or humorous, but both, independently communicative globally.
I had broken through the East-West culture barrier with something as generic and mundane as a Pac-Man ghost. No way I am putting that down. They are extremely versatile. When I show them in China, the audience focuses on the western aspects (pop, trend, technology,) and when I show them in the West, the audience focuses on the eastern aspects (porcelain, tradition, craft.) Very few things can mirror-play like this, so I am still learning from it. I just finished a series of Terra-Cotta ghosts that are sporting ribbon clusters and sheets for my show in NYC coming up.
Who are 2 or 3 artists or authors that have inspired you recently?
Lanark by Alasdair Grey. This is a dark diptych about a young artist, unable to finish anything.
Neuromancer by William Gibson.
“You think that’s air your breathing now?” -Morpheus.
Dina No. Dina is an artist living and working in Portland, Oregon. She created my favorite sculpture in the world, which is a mechanical typewriter with the letter blocks replaced by various teeth. Using carbon copy paper, one can compose sentences of little teeth marks, or ASCII art.
You have some graffiti in your past. Was this one of your early art influences?
I think of myself as having attended, thus far, three schools of aesthetic training. Fine art BFA and MFA, but as an essential prequel, a graffiti habit. The rules and regulations that are present in graffiti law are volumous. I learned much more about colors and composition from graffiti than art school. One time some cops were hassling me and a friend at the Venice Breakwater over some cans of paint, and we got into a debate with them. They couldn’t see that we were not territorial, that we wanted to be everywhere. Everywhere is not a street-corner. All-city was the phrase.
Manifestations of Graffiti in modern civilization may be human’s last great gift to the universe, so its fitting that bureaucrats would classify it as an offense. I got hauled in as a skinny, greasy 17 year old by a cop named Randolf. Amazing LAPD Officer Randolf. Came down off a fire escape after bombing some billboards in downtown LA. 4 am. Guy cuffs me, throws me in the car, and lectures me all the way to the station about Picasso, Matise, Renoir, all the French greats. Hard to believe right? It’s true. He said if I was a few months older I would be going strait to Juvenile hall. He kept telling me that I had talent, and that I should apply it in a “legal” way. So, I should say that Graffiti propelled me to art school, from getting arrested by LAPD Officer Randolf, but also by addicting me to the power of visual art, and I am grateful for that. Most contemporary art doesn’t hold a candle to the extremism and theories that really good Graffiti gushes into the world, everyday, for absolutely free.
Can you touch on how some of your current work still holds on to some of the early graffiti ideals?
Graffiti artists are examining the world quite differently than most pedestrians. We’re looking for perfect surfaces to write and paint on. The city is the canvass, but upon closer inspection there are millions of surfaces. A few of the surfaces are excellent for Graffiti, and become classics. When Santa Monica put in new bus stops, we would tag the 18″ metal poles that held up the benches. Great little spots that never got buffed. We were analyzing and getting excited by much more mundane environmental information than most locals would in their entire lifetime, looking for “spots.” This method of scanning existent reality is why I am working with forms I find in the world rather than invent new forms. It’s about showing people something that is obvious, using a different light, that they never noticed before. My favorite artwork is that which jumps out of the mundane, like a trap or a trick.
Much of your work overlaps into realms of design and utilitarian products. Do you enjoy pushing these boundaries of what “art” is defined as?
There is a group of contemporary sculptors, my seniors, working within the vein of design and public spaces. It has been a much needed “craft-check” for the fine art bracket. Andrea Zittel and Jorge Pardo are some of the bigger fish here. For me, this movement has been very inspiring, but I consider it excessively cerebral. We can call it a movement, or an ism, because it has a broad reaching cultural agenda that includes questioning and fomenting class struggle. Society desperately needs this right now. In contrast, my use of utilitarian forms is much weaker and less thought out. I’m unable to imagine a “sculpture” or what we might loath to call a “cool shape” or a “super shape.” The first thing people reflect back at my work is their pre-existing label for “it,” which turns out to be incorrect, because representation collapses into art. We label something as art when we think it is art, mainly because none of the pre-existing labels will stick. Believe me, if we could call it a “door” or a “cup” we would. And when we call something a door, we do so because we KNOW it is a door. As such, the art bracket widens as we claim to know less for certain. Eventually, you reach an infinite library, beautiful and useless.
I’ll be working at a residency in Vallauris, France in November-December. I’ve recently started working with a gallery in Paris, and I’d prefer to make my show for them in France. Now that I have divested myself of machines and a studio, I’m lighter than I have been in a while. It’s nice to have gone through a few cycles of studio-residency-studio-school-etc. Studio always keeps popping in, wanting to ground me and water me. As part of my counter-insurgency against the influx of Design and Architecture, I will need to acquire their skills. So, more school might be coming up soon. I have a few interviews for Public Art projects on the horizon, winning a project could dictate the next location. Right now, the next stop is NYC at Nancy Hoffman Gallery, September 8th, 6pm. September 8th, 6:01pm is a mystery to me.
More about Jesse Small at http://www.jessesmall.com/
From The Citrus Report
What everyone really wants to know… is what you eat for breakfast?
Coca Cola Classic.
You came up painting in the good old days before instant fame and gratification of the internet. How long have you been painting and what all has changed during your career?
When I came up you had to make graff a job. You had to hit major streets with multiple tags and fillins. I remember tagging on every paper machine on market like 3 tags on each side with mops. I would go out with tons of mops and paint and not come back until it was all gone. We use to do like 20 tags on each block and I was a kid coming up with older better writers. They took me under their wing and taught me the basics and i rolled with it. You honestly had to go out every night for months at a time and hit good spots that people would talk about and then your name and street cred would spread. I think I have been painting like 19 years or more and I have seen my share of changes, mostly when the graff mags hit and now the internet wave. The time and effort is no longer needed to most people when you can build a web site of your name and do 10 peices in all different styles with fancy paint and you get famous. You can blog your whole career and never do shit. I know people with big names that have done this shit. I think its time the people who have been around for years going to jail for graff and pouring tons of their soul into something so pointless should get some fucking credit. We risk everything just to get that tag up. When we know it might get buffed the next day. We wasted our lives to put letters that mean nothing on a train or some surface….
I can’t believe it’s for nothing… You have to enjoy the act of it or seeing that train roll by 2 or 3 or 10 years later?
Its crazy you work all these years to build a name and when you get the fame and everything you wanted it all comes with other bad stuff like people making fake stories up about you and trying to smut your name up so they can get attention. I guess its cool to see old freights going by. It brings back memories of a better time. When they go by you remember the night and what happen and who you were with. Each one has a secret story behind them that only you know. People don’t understand what it takes to do the things we do. I really don’t care about graff and trains like I said its more of what I went through to do it than the finished product. I hate all of my old stuff so most times I close my eyes when old ones go by….
What brought about the abstraction in your graffiti a few years back?
I had lots of people nibbling on the previous styles and I feel like my stuff just morphed into what ever it is now. I didn’t pick a day and say i will change my stuff on that date. I also felt bored and not challenged. My style of pieces formed from trying to do a style to cover up nasty graff on toyed out trains… in the dark. That explains the white I like to use and the stretched out letters, I wanted to cover space.
You started sharing your canvases on flickr a few months back. You obviously did not just start painting them; did something push you to put them out there?
I have been painting art for years i started doing that style when I was 13 in art class and I have sold a bunch to people that didnt know about graff , but liked my art. I showed a few to some friends and they said that people were probably ready to see them now. They were saying they would be more acceptable now that everyone likes abstract stuff. I posted a few unwillingly and 5 sold the first day. After that I have been posting a few a month and selling them.
While your canvas work is abstract it is really different from your graffiti in many ways. Do the two have an influence on one another?
I think they are two different passions of mine that stem from two different worlds. I don’t want to sell graff like I don’t want to draw some graff peice on a canvas and call it art cause its not. I will do a tag on them sometimes because people want a tag and to sell a painting I sometimes do that. I want my art to be art, not some stupid graffiti. I can explain it… I have like 5 different personalities. One is a graff writer, a fisherman, a criminal, and a family man. I cant figure it out… oh and a furniture hustler…
Which one is painting all your canvases?
Its the art fag oh I forgot to mention him.
I see similarities to many different styles of abstraction in your canvases. Have you had influence from Abstract Expressionism and Color Field painting?
I don’t look at art man. I just paint what comes out. I have no influences in my art work. I don’t type abstract painting into google and paint the same shit i see. I just fucking paint. I am not a college graduate, I cant spell that great, I didn’t go to art school or get a art kit from academy of the arts, ha, it’s just in my blood to be creative no matter what I do. I’m not very knowledgeable on artists and I’m not some art snob. I don’t care about it i just do it. Just like graff, I just do what i see in my mind and i try and take whats floating around at the time and put it on canvas. I also collect and sell expensive furniture from the mid 20th century. That may have some effect on my brain when im painting. I think if your around good stuff you will probably do something cool. Like hanging with rich people you probably will get rich. Im influenced by lots of architecture and buildings and interior design… but I’m not gay.
How did you get into the furniture thing?
About 10 years ago I was driving in Oregon and I saw a cool chair along the side of the road I stopped and grabbed it because I liked the shape. Then I did some research on it later and found someone famous designed it and I sold it for like a thousand dollars. After that I started doing it non stop and going hard. I cant reveal all my secrets to get this stuff but I have like 10 tricks up my sleeve and all of them work sometimes.
Who are a couple artists that influence you?
All Artists & Creators… Milo Baughman, T.H. Robsjohn-Gibbings, Hans Wegner, Gio Ponti, Tommi Parzinger, Edward Wormley, Andre Arbus, George Nakashima, Jacques Adnet, Jean-Michel Frank, Maison Jansen, Venini, Mies Van Der Rohe,, George Nelson, Karl Springer, Paul Evans, Eames (Ray and Charles), James Mont, Vladimir Kagan, Paul Frankl, Harry Bertoia, Harvey Probber, Jean Royère, Poul Kjaerholm, Jules Leleu, Tony Duquette, Paul Laszlo, William Haines, Jacques Emile, Ruhlmann, Felix Agostini, Walter Lamb, Edgar Brandt, Carlo Mollino, Gino Sarfatti, Gabriella Crespi, Gilbert Poillerat, Pierre Chareau, Poul Henningsen, Samuel Marx, Maria Pergay, Michel Boyer, Marc Duplantier, Paul Dupre-Lafon, Raymond Subes, Jacques Quinet, Florence Knoll, Eero Saarinen, Ico Parisi, Charlotte Perriand, Tétard Freres, Jean-Michel Wilmotte, Robert Crowder, Antoine Schapira, William Conklin, Le Clerc, William B. Durgin, Warren Platner, Torbjorn Afdal, James Prestini, Massimo Vignelli, Jacques Martin-Ferrieres, Louis O. Pearson, Eero Saarinen, and Jorge Zalszupin
You have been painting graffiti for almost 20 years. What do you think has allowed you to have this kind of longevity?
I guess just being consistant and not being afraid to try new stuff when you see people making a trend of something. I can always switch up to something new or something crazy to try and have an impact again and again. I stay true to myself and do this for me and for fun. I don’t care about people and what they think and I’m a fucking nut. I should have stopped years ago or never started painting at all. Its just honestly out of stupidity. Anyone with brains would never paint graff for this long for no return..fuck it though… its to late now.
Will we get to see any of your canvases in a gallery anytime soon?
When I was only 16 I think I had like 3 art shows under my belt already. After that I went on a wild ride and now I’m back doing art hard now, so I hope some galleries will holler at me and understand who I am and what im trying to do and what I have done already. I’m selling my art, so I know a professional can do a way better job… I just wont hang out with idiots and kiss ass to get an art show. I’m not going to beg, but I think I deserve it and all my friends are famous off of this. I’m the only one that never sold out. Theres some really bad art in galleries because they kiss peoples asses and use everyone to get art shows just to be a artist. I know who I am so I don’t care what happens… I leave it in your hands.
So are these paintings going to be something you will be focusing most of your energy on right now?
I’m painting a ton lately but have been painting art sence I was 13 years old, so I’m not new to the art game and I have been around art and artists my entire life. My mom designs fabrics and is an interior designer. My grandma is a oil painter, my cousin Tyler does lithos and teaches art. I grew up with people like Barry Mcgee, Josh Lazcano, Rem, Margret rip, Sam Flores, Sope rip, Felon, Jase, Dave Schubert, Grey pvc, etc… I had art shows when i was like 16 but I was to young to capitalize on art. I didn’t know shit and I thought art was gay and I was selling out. I still think I’m selling out but I guess theres a time for everything. I may have waited to long and I have missed the curve I think, but maybe it will be my time now. I sit here waiting for a bone to be thrown at me but it dosnt happen so I have to paint alot and take it into my own hands and do stuff for my self but use my connections and friends I have made over they years…..”time will tell”…
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From The Citrus Report
AT the house of Naroumov, a cavalry officer, the long winter night had been passed in gambling. At five in the morning breakfast was served to the weary players. The winners ate with relish; the losers, on the contrary, pushed back their plates and sat brooding gloomily. Under the influence of the good wine, however, the conversation then became general.
“Well, Sourine?” said the host inquiringly.
“Oh, I lost as usual. My luck is abominable. No matter how cool I keep, I never win.”
“How is it, Herman, that you never touch a card?” remarked one of the men, addressing a young officer of the Engineering Corps. “Here you are with the rest of us at five o’clock in the morning, and you have neither played nor bet all night.”
“Play interests me greatly,” replied the person addressed, “but I hardly care to sacrifice the necessaries of life for uncertain superfluities.”
“Herman is a German, therefore economical; that explains it,” said Tomsky. “But the person I can’t quite understand is my grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedorovna.”
“Why?” inquired a chorus of voices.
“I can’t understand why my grandmother never gambles.”
“I don’t see anything very striking in the fact that a woman of eighty refuses to gamble,” objected Naroumov.
“Have you never heard her story?”
“No–”
“Well, then, listen to it. To begin with, sixty years ago my grandmother went to Paris, where she was all the fashion. People crowded each other in the streets to get a chance to see the ‘Muscovite Venus,’ as she was called. All the great ladies played faro, then. On one occasion, while playing with the Duke of Orleans, she lost an enormous sum. She told her husband of the debt, but he refused outright to pay it. Nothing could induce him to change his mind on the subject, and grandmother was at her wits’ ends. Finally, she remembered a friend of hers, Count Saint-Germain. You must have heard of him, as many wonderful stories have been told about him. He is said to have discovered the elixir of life, the philosopher’s stone, and many other equally marvelous things. He had money at his disposal, and my grandmother knew it. She sent him a note asking him to come to see her. He obeyed her summons and found her in great distress. She painted the cruelty of her husband in the darkest colors, and ended by telling the Count that she depended upon his friendship and generosity.
“‘I could lend you the money,’ replied the Count, after a moment of thoughtfulness, ‘but I know that you would not enjoy a moment’s rest until you had returned it; it would only add to your embarrassment. There is another way of freeing yourself.’
“‘But I have no money at all,’ insisted my grandmother.
“‘There is no need of money. Listen to me.’
“The Count then told her a secret which any of us would give a good deal to know.”
The young gamesters were all attention. Tomsky lit his pipe, took a few whiffs, then continued:
“The next evening, grandmother appeared at Versailles at the Queen’s gaming-table. The Duke of Orleans was the dealer. Grandmother made some excuse for not having brought any money, and began to punt. She chose three cards in succession, again and again, winning every time, and was soon out of debt.”
“A fable,” remarked Herman; “perhaps the cards were marked.”
“I hardly think so,” replied Tomsky, with an air of importance.
“So you have a grandmother who knows three winning cards, and you haven’t found out the magic secret.”
“I must say I have not. She had four sons, one of them being my father, all of whom are devoted to play; she never told the secret to one of them. But my uncle told me this much, on his word of honor. Tchaplitzky, who died in poverty after having squandered millions, lost at one time, at play, nearly three hundred thousand rubles. He was desperate and grandmother took pity on him. She told him the three cards, making him swear never to use them again. He returned to the game, staked fifty thousand rubles on each card, and came out ahead, after paying his debts.”
As day was dawning the party now broke up, each one draining his glass and taking his leave.
The Countess Anna Fedorovna was seated before her mirror in her dressing-room. Three women were assisting at her toilet. The old Countess no longer made the slightest pretensions to beauty, but she still clung to all the habits of her youth, and spent as much time at her toilet as she had done sixty years before. At the window a young girl, her ward, sat at her needlework.
“Good afternoon, grandmother,” cried a young officer, who had just entered the room. “I have come to ask a favor of you.”
“What, Pavel?”
“I want to be allowed to present one of my friends to you, and to take you to the ball on Tuesday night.”
“Take me to the ball and present him to me there.”
After a few more remarks the officer walked up to the window where Lisaveta Ivanovna sat.
“Whom do you wish to present?” asked the girl.
“Naroumov; do you know him?”
“No; is he a soldier?”
“Yes.”
“An engineer?”
“No; why do you ask?”
The girl smiled and made no reply.
Pavel Tomsky took his leave, and, left to herself, Lisaveta glanced out of the window. Soon, a young officer appeared at the corner of the street; the girl blushed and bent her head low over her canvas.
This appearance of the officer had become a daily occurrence. The man was totally unknown to her, and as she was not accustomed to coquetting with the soldiers she saw on the street, she hardly knew how to explain his presence. His persistence finally roused an interest entirely strange to her. One day, she even ventured to smile upon her admirer, for such he seemed to be.
The reader need hardly be told that the officer was no other than Herman, the would-be gambler, whose imagination had been strongly excited by the story told by Tomsky of the three magic cards.
“Ah,” he thought, “if the old Countess would only reveal the secret to me. Why not try to win her good-will and appeal to her sympathy?”
With this idea in mind, he took up his daily station before the house, watching the pretty face at the window, and trusting to fate to bring about the desired acquaintance.
One day, as Lisaveta was standing on the pavement about to enter the carriage after the Countess, she felt herself jostled and a note was thrust into her hand. Turning, she saw the young officer at her elbow. As quick as thought, she put the note in her glove and entered the carriage. On her return from the drive, she hastened to her chamber to read the missive, in a state of excitement mingled with fear. It was a tender and respectful declaration of affection, copied word for word from a German novel. Of this fact, Lisa was, of course, ignorant.
The young girl was much impressed by the missive, but she felt that the writer must not be encouraged. She therefore wrote a few lines of explanation and, at the first opportunity, dropped it, with the letter, out of the window. The officer hastily crossed the street, picked up the papers and entered a shop to read them.
In no wise daunted by this rebuff, he found the opportunity to send her another note in a few days. He received no reply, but, evidently understanding the female heart, he presevered, begging for an interview. He was rewarded at last by the following:
“To-night we go to the ambassador’s ball. We shall remain until two o’clock. I can arrange for a meeting in this way. After our departure, the servants will probably all go out, or go to sleep. At half-past eleven enter the vestibule boldly, and if you see any one, inquire for the Countess; if not, ascend the stairs, turn to the left and go on until you come to a door, which opens into her bedchamber. Enter this room and behind a screen you will find another door leading to a corridor; from this a spiral staircase leads to my sitting-room. I shall expect to find you there on my return.”
Herman trembled like a leaf as the appointed hour drew near. He obeyed instructions fully, and, as he met no one, he reached the old lady’s bedchamber without difficulty. Instead of going out of the small door behind the screen, however, he concealed himself in a closet to await the return of the old Countess.
The hours dragged slowly by; at last he heard the sound of wheels. Immediately lamps were lighted and servants began moving about. Finally the old woman tottered into the room, completely exhausted. Her women removed her wraps and proceeded to get her in readiness for the night. Herman watched the proceedings with a curiosity not unmingled with superstitious fear. When at last she was attired in cap and gown, the old woman looked less uncanny than when she wore her ball-dress of blue brocade.
She sat down in an easy chair beside a table, as she was in the habit of doing before retiring, and her women withdrew. As the old lady sat swaying to and fro, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings, Herman crept out of his hiding-place.
At the slight noise the old woman opened her eyes, and gazed at the intruder with a half-dazed expression.
“Have no fear, I beg of you,” said Herman, in a calm voice. “I have not come to harm you, but to ask a favor of you instead.”
The Countess looked at him in silence, seemingly without comprehending him. Herman thought she might be deaf, so he put his lips close to her ear and repeated his remark. The listener remained perfectly mute.
“You could make my fortune without its costing you anything,” pleaded the young man; “only tell me the three cards which are sure to win, and–”
Herman paused as the old woman opened her lips as if about to speak.
“It was only a jest; I swear to you, it was only a jest,” came from the withered lips.
“There was no jesting about it. Remember Tchaplitzky, who, thanks to you, was able to pay his debts.”
An expression of interior agitation passed over the face of the old woman; then she relapsed into her former apathy.
“Will you tell me the names of the magic cards, or not?” asked Herman after a pause.
There was no reply.
The young man then drew a pistol from his pocket, exclaiming: “You old witch, I’ll force you to tell me!”
At the sight of the weapon the Countess gave a second sign of life. She threw back her head and put out her hands as if to protect herself; then they dropped and she sat motionless.
Herman grasped her arm roughly, and was about to renew his threats, when he saw that she was dead!
*****
Seated in her room, still in her ball-dress, Lisaveta gave herself up to her reflections. She had expected to find the young officer there, but she felt relieved to see that he was not.
Strangely enough, that very night at the ball, Tomsky had rallied her about her preference for the young officer, assuring her that he knew more than she supposed he did.
“Of whom are you speaking?” she had asked in alarm, fearing her adventure had been discovered.
“Of the remarkable man,” was the reply. “His name is Herman.”
Lisa made no reply.
“This Herman,” continued Tomsky, “is a romantic character; he has the profile of a Napoleon and the heart of a Mephistopheles. It is said he has at least three crimes on his conscience. But how pale you are.”
“It is only a slight headache. But why do you talk to me of this Herman?”
“Because I believe he has serious intentions concerning you.”
“Where has he seen me?”
“At church, perhaps, or on the street.”
The conversation was interrupted at this point, to the great regret of the young girl. The words of Tomsky made a deep impression upon her, and she realized how imprudently she had acted. She was thinking of all this and a great deal more when the door of her apartment suddenly opened, and Herman stood before her. She drew back at sight of him, trembling violently.
“Where have you been?” she asked in a frightened whisper.
“In the bedchamber of the Countess. She is dead,” was the calm reply.
“My God! What are you saying?” cried the girl.
“Furthermore, I believe that I was the cause of her death.”
The words of Tomsky flashed through Lisa’s mind.
Herman sat down and told her all. She listened with a feeling of terror and disgust. So those passionate letters, that audacious pursuit were not the result of tenderness and love. It was money that he desired. The poor girl felt that she had in a sense been an accomplice in the death of her benefactress. She began to weep bitterly. Herman regarded her in silence.
“You are a monster!” exclaimed Lisa, drying her eyes.
“I didn’t intend to kill her; the pistol was not even loaded.
“How are you going to get out of the house?” inquired Lisa. “It is nearly daylight. I intended to show you the way to a secret staircase, while the Countess was asleep, as we would have to cross her chamber. Now I am afraid to do so.”
“Direct me, and I will find the way alone,” replied Herman.
She gave him minute instructions and a key with which to open the street door. The young man pressed the cold, inert hand, then went out.
The death of the Countess had surprised no one, as it had long been expected. Her funeral was attended by every one of note in the vicinity. Herman mingled with the throng without attracting any especial attention. After all the friends had taken their last look at the dead face, the young man approached the bier. He prostrated himself on the cold floor, and remained motionless for a long time. He rose at last with a face almost as pale as that of the corpse itself, and went up the steps to look into the casket. As he looked down it seemed to him that the rigid face returned his glance mockingly, closing one eye. He turned abruptly away, made a false step, and fell to the floor. He was picked up, and, at the same moment, Lisaveta was carried out in a faint.
Herman did not recover his usual composure during the entire day. He dined alone at an out-of-the-way restaurant, and drank a great deal, in the hope of stifling his emotion. The wine only served to stimulate his imagination. He returned home and threw himself down on his bed without undressing.
During the night he awoke with a start; the moon shone into his chamber, making everything plainly visible. Some one looked in at the window, then quickly disappeared. He paid no attention to this, but soon he heard the vestibule door open. He thought it was his orderly, returning late, drunk as usual. The step was an unfamiliar one, and he heard the shuffling sound of loose slippers.
The door of his room opened, and a woman in white entered. She came close to the bed, and the terrified man recognized the Countess.
“I have come to you against my will,” she said abruptly; “but I was commanded to grant your request. The tray, seven, and ace in succession are the magic cards. Twenty-four hours must elapse between the use of each card, and after the three have been used you must never play again.”
The fantom then turned and walked away. Herman heard the outside door close, and again saw the form pass the window.
He rose and went out into the hall, where his orderly lay asleep on the floor. The door was closed. Finding no trace of a visitor, he returned to his room, lit his candle, and wrote down what he had just heard.
Two fixed ideas cannot exist in the brain at the same time any more than two bodies can occupy the same point in space. The tray, seven, and ace soon chased away the thoughts of the dead woman, and all other thoughts from the brain of the young officer. All his ideas merged into a single one: how to turn to advantage the secret paid for so dearly. He even thought of resigning his commission and going to Paris to force a fortune from conquered fate. Chance rescued him from his embarrassment.
*****
Tchekalinsky, a man who had passed his whole life at cards, opened a club at St. Petersburg. His long experience secured for him the confidence of his companions, and his hospitality and genial humor conciliated society.
The gilded youth flocked around him, neglecting society, preferring the charms of faro to those of their sweethearts. Naroumov invited Herman to accompany him to the club, and the young man accepted the invitation only too willingly.
The two officers found the apartments full. Generals and statesmen played whist; young men lounged on sofas, eating ices or smoking. In the principal salon stood a long table, at which about twenty men sat playing faro, the host of the establishment being the banker.
He was a man of about sixty, gray-haired and respectable. His ruddy face shone with genial humor; his eyes sparkled and a constant smile hovered around his lips.
Naroumov presented Herman. The host gave him a cordial handshake, begged him not to stand upon ceremony, and returned, to his dealing. More than thirty cards were already on the table. Tchekalinsky paused after each coup, to allow the punters time to recognize their gains or losses, politely answering all questions and constantly smiling.
After the deal was over, the cards were shuffled and the game began again.
“Permit me to choose a card,” said Herman, stretching out his hand over the head of a portly gentleman, to reach a livret. The banker bowed without replying.
Herman chose a card, and wrote the amount of his stake upon it with a piece of chalk.
“How much is that?” asked the banker; “excuse me, sir, but I do not see well.”
“Forty thousand rubles,” said Herman coolly.
All eyes were instantly turned upon the speaker.
“He has lost his wits,” thought Naroumov.
“Allow me to observe,” said Tchekalinsky, with his eternal smile, “that your stake is excessive.”
“What of it?” replied Herman, nettled. “Do you accept it or not?”
The banker nodded in assent. “I have only to remind you that the cash will be necessary; of course your word is good, but in order to keep the confidence of my patrons, I prefer the ready money.”
Herman took a bank-check from his pocket and handed it to his host. The latter examined it attentively, then laid it on the card chosen.
He began dealing: to the right, a nine; to the left, a tray.
“The tray wins,” said Herman, showing the card he held–a tray.
A murmur ran through the crowd. Tchekalinsky frowned for a second only, then his smile returned. He took a roll of bank-bills from his pocket and counted out the required sum. Herman received it and at once left the table.
The next evening saw him at the place again. Every one eyed him curiously, and Tchekalinsky greeted him cordially.
He selected his card and placed upon it his fresh stake. The banker began dealing: to the right, a nine; to the left, a seven.
Herman then showed his card–a seven spot. The onlookers exclaimed, and the host was visibly disturbed. He counted out ninety-four-thousand rubles and passed them to Herman, who accepted them without showing the least surprise, and at once withdrew.
The following evening he went again. His appearance was the signal for the cessation of all occupation, every one being eager to watch the developments of events. He selected his card–an ace.
The dealing began: to the right, a queen; to the left, an ace.
“The ace wins,” remarked Herman, turning up his card without glancing at it.
“Your queen is killed,” remarked Tchekalinsky quietly.
Herman trembled; looking down, he saw, not the ace he had selected, but the queen of spades. He could scarcely believe his eyes. It seemed impossible that he could have made such a mistake. As he stared at the card it seemed to him that the queen winked one eye at him mockingly.
“The old woman!” he exclaimed involuntarily.
The croupier raked in the money while he looked on in stupid terror. When he left the table, all made way for him to pass; the cards were shuffled, and the gambling went on.
Herman became a lunatic. He was confined at the hospital at Oboukov, where he spoke to no one, but kept constantly murmuring in a monotonous tone: “The tray, seven, ace! The tray, seven, queen!”
From The Citrus Report
We opened our new gallery show last night at FIFTY24SF Gallery, See You in Croatan, featuring collaborative works and concepts by Spanish artists, San and Escif. The two took their road show to the gallery, with various inspirations and artworks about the trip and the process of collaboration featured in the gallery. It is definitely a great show to spend some time with, with intricate details and story lines in each portion of the show. Really great stuff.
All photography by Patrick Kawahara
Posted by FIFTY24SF Gallery
