Chapter 3 - The girl in the studio and a bit more about the apartment

Chapter 3 (IV)

The apartment was squarish in its uniformity, but was filled by objects which I would grow to understand as more stylish, than square - in most senses of the word. Surely, the place was welcoming and no doubt veering around the corners of its labyrinthian and maze like hallways one could easily miss the turn-of-the century beauty, coupled with the quaintness and, in the low light, a dash of it’s characteristic mystique. This was mostly drawn from the outside, especially on a cool, windy day, and is perhaps what appeared to me to be the entire apartment sloping slightly to the left: an askewness, like Pisa, which often made it look like it was swaying back and forth, inch by inch with the breeze.

The apartment building was comprised of three levels. At the top was our apartment - two flights of stairs climbed skywardly by trudging feet and railing navigated simultaneously by hands filled groceries and fixed geared bicycles and, yes, occasionally school books required to accomplish what professors call “assigned work,” where in which you reached our plain, brown apartment door on which it possessed a plastic “5” indicating our apartment number. From the outside it was a palisade - imagined like a face: windows for eyes which glowed at night, a somber amber, and decorated with a crown of balconies wrapping around the building in the front and also in the back like dilapidating visors with chipped paint growing ever custier in the con of time.

One fact that made the building unique, was not its facade, its low rent dues, its idiosyncratic tenants, but rather a peculiar uniformity existing inside each apartment which with blinds drawn, remained hidden from the world’s view. From a street’s view into each apartment could be glimpsed, with blinds drawn, the unmistakable, stoic yet beatifically glimmering glass painting of a lioness which bedecked the walls, one for each apartment, of every unit in the building. Five in total. All five apartments had been decorated simultaneously - and thusly each one contained, in its unit - an exact copy of the same piece of hanging wall art, Its turquoise skyline, and the outline of a proud lioness nimbly proffered in black and gold leaf, lounging sedately, as lions do, in what one can only assume to be a backdrop of the African savannah.

It was early September and the whirlwind of classes began. Students swept into campus in droves, as if the campus were a popular beach destination; dreams of joining clubs and leveraging decisions about picking majors and areas of study swinging fully and rejoining the collective conscience as it had been at the end of last spring; in ways that made me believe summer vacation had never truly existed.

At lunch time, the room mates would speak glowingly about the mysterious painting which resided on our living room wall. From where did it come? We’d question. And more importantly, why was it so that five identical copies in five unique apartments were united only by the fact that they adorn the walls of the same precarious building?

I fancied into the art gallery once whilst on a break from class.

Stepping through entrance of the building, and making my way into the first corridor I noticed the hallways of the building’s art floor remained utterly silent. I clambered up the staircase, idle witness to the noisy squeak of my shoes. I noticed without a surrounding bustle of gallery patrons yearning to get into the exhibit, as had been the case at the end of the summer, this moment it was sans crowd. I felt the ambience was much different now. I approached the gallery’s entrance and aware of perhaps my meeting the professor who had so wowed me, his sculptures, his bravado and curious speech - I mustered up the courage, and closing in on the galleries facade where upon the door appeared labelled in golden font, “ Gallery B.” Like my apartment door.

I briskly peered through a small window located at about my eye line. Curiosity got the best of my wits, and not seeing much in lieu of the obvious artsy acoutremen, various sculptures about the floor and works of art hung characteristically on the walls - there were no students. I grabbed the door handle and applying pressure - it began to turn.

After even more applied pressure, I heard a “click” and a “knock” and suddenly the door began to open,

I waltzed inside where the innumerableness of the art over took me. Twenty feet ahead of me, was a large sculpture, of what appeared to me as stone or marble, whose figure was staring down at the floor.

I became lost in critique of the figures burly shoulders and ardent stoicism.

“Let’s not be like him,” I thought.

“..and wait forever.”

That what the artist in the green vest had said.

“You like Voltari?” The question rang from the corner.

It was a woman who, whom while working in the classroom, was unseeable from my position outside the classroom door. She was holding a bright yellow box kite, fiddling with one of the corners in an attempt equalize its shape into, well, a box.

Startled, I regained myself, my eyes darting around the room to see if anyone else had been working there.

My feet stopped dead in their tracks. I adjusted my self, took a deep breathe and answered.

“I do. but what’s he waiting for?”

“Oh. So you’ve heard.” she said.

“Heard?” I rejoined.

“He’s been “traveling” and working tirelessly late at night in his office. No one is really sure what he’s waiting for.”

I felt befuddled.

“Oh! You mean the artist’s name is Voltari!”

The woman hid behind the crescent moon of her unctuous smile.

“Yes Professor Voltari. He is our new art professor. Don’t you love his work?”

I composed myself further and grappled with this information. I felt a serenity in the company of this woman, an actual artist who could postulate the essence of Voltaire’s work. Still, I furthered closer to the statue while I had the chance. I noticed its base was square and appeared to be quite strong. Its mute stone material gave way to its stark gray surface. It both reflected and absorbed light, making it seem both cold and potentially electric all at once, like it could situate itself in its stuck position, frozen in time forever, or seemingly at a moments notice conjure the ability to animate to stand up and walk away.

As i was approaching the hulk, the woman spoke again.

“He’s been everywhere you know.”

“Oh?” I questioned.

“All over eastern Europe. His most recent travels have been in Africa. He says travel illuminates our conscience. Makes us care more deeply about each other as people.”

While she spoke I made small gestures with my hand, outlining the curve of the sculpture’s head and shoulders.

“Care about other people.” I thought. “And mostly ourselves.”

The room was echoing with the sounds of our voices.

I fancied a go at what I was really after.

“Does um… Mr. Voltari…Does he have office hours? Where he can meet with students? I’d love to interview him for my book.”

I peered at the woman in a judgmental way.

She safely and smoothly set down the box kite, wiped her hands clean on a small towel she had before her and as she looked at me, she threw her hand on her hip and said, “I’m not an expert, but knowing how he has been treating students lately. I’d say, at this point, you have a better shot at interviewing Jesus about his views on Christmas.”

I gleaned from her pointedness that she was not messing around and as she spoke, the smile I had procured made a swift one-eighty. I was left superficially downtrodden. I had entered the gallery unsure of what I was looking for, but up to this point I had, at the very least been aware of a kernel of curiosity bolstering in the back of my mind mind. “Who was this Volari?” Now, with THAT lead which I had originally kept frayed for the very purpose of stoking my own curiosity, had now been, by this woman, thoroughly torched beyond recognition.

Before, I wasn’t even quite sure what I was looking for, and now as soon as I had found that - suddenly it became harder than ever to acquire.