Free A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall by Will Chancellor
Authors: Will Chancellor
German.
âIâm Swiss, but I grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut. Halâs Swedish.
âWith a student visa that expired four years ago, but donât tell anybody.
At armâs length, Kurt poured the last drops of the bottle into his mouth. He looked around as if he might throw it, but settled with holding it aloft. After a minute, Hal replaced the bottle and then helped himself to a seat at Owenâs side. Owen glanced at the blue-green scribbles on Halâs arms and the one professional tattoo of a tarot card: THE TOWER . A yellow lightning bolt struck the top of the inked-in tower, setting it ablaze and throwing two figures forward toward the ground.
âWe saw you in the park yesterday.
âI go there in the mornings to write.
âYou attract attention. Have you ever acted?
Owen studied the speaker. Eyes like faded denim, uneven and almost yellow in places. When Owen looked closer, he saw an erosion in Kurtâs eyes that suggested he had witnessed some horrible things and caused a few more. He wore his hair shaved at the sides and long on top, as did Hal. Hal looked up from the cigarette he was rolling on Owenâs fatherâs Loeb edition Odyssey , vol. I.
âStill reading that? Youâd probably get more girls if it was in German.
âI read the verso. The Greek.
âWhat?
Kurt answered for Owen:
âHe means he doesnât borrow his opinions.
âMy fatherâs sort of Greek.
âAmericans are all âsort ofâ something, Hal muttered.
Owen thought of explaining that were it not for his motherâs intervention, he would have been named for a dictionary: Liddell Scott Burr. A momentâs hesitation, and Hal was up trailing a girl out the front door. Kurt rolled closer, until his face was inches from Owenâs.
âHal pretends heâs an asshole sometimes.
Owen remembered their first encounter. The word stung.
âWhat else does he do?
Kurt pinched his nose a few times, sniffed.
âWhat does he do? Why divide who you are from what you do? Thatâs an American schizophrenia thatâll go away if you live in Berlin long enough. Berliners define themselves with verbs, not nouns. Hal plays music, but heâs not a musician. He throws parties, but heâs not a promoter. He takes pictures, but heâs not a photographer. Well, he would say heâs a photographer, but his real contribution is his presence, you know.
âHe acts, Owen said.
âThatâs closer to the truth. So who are you, Owen? Why are you in Berlin? What do you want to accomplish?
Owen finished his glass of wine, giving Kurt time to ask another question.
âAre you an artist?
âYes. Well, Iâm trying to be.
âPerfect. Iâm looking for an outsider artist to collaborate with.
âWhatâs an outsider artist?
âIn Berlin, anyone who asks that question!
Kurt laughed hard at his own joke and looked around for someone who might have heard it. Not finding anyone to connect with, he continued,
âA young outsider artist is someone who doesnât have connections. If weâre talking about someone over forty, âoutsider artistâ is just a euphemism for âcrazy person.â And you canât really collaborate with those guys. Theyâll bite your hand, literally, and sue for all sorts of made-up shit. But someone like you, if youâre any good, brings something new and vital to a project.
Owen squinted.
âLook, you can be another one of these mopey guys who has a âshowâ in a coffee shop, or you can get serious. Collaboration is the best way to make connections. Itâs kind of the only way. No curator is going to include you in a group show until you have a platform. Unless wrinkled balls are your thing. In which case, I see the birth of a bright star.
Kurt smiled and hit Owenâs leg.
âSo letâs talk alternatives. Iâve got a booth to myself at Art
âIâm Swiss, but I grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut. Halâs Swedish.
âWith a student visa that expired four years ago, but donât tell anybody.
At armâs length, Kurt poured the last drops of the bottle into his mouth. He looked around as if he might throw it, but settled with holding it aloft. After a minute, Hal replaced the bottle and then helped himself to a seat at Owenâs side. Owen glanced at the blue-green scribbles on Halâs arms and the one professional tattoo of a tarot card: THE TOWER . A yellow lightning bolt struck the top of the inked-in tower, setting it ablaze and throwing two figures forward toward the ground.
âWe saw you in the park yesterday.
âI go there in the mornings to write.
âYou attract attention. Have you ever acted?
Owen studied the speaker. Eyes like faded denim, uneven and almost yellow in places. When Owen looked closer, he saw an erosion in Kurtâs eyes that suggested he had witnessed some horrible things and caused a few more. He wore his hair shaved at the sides and long on top, as did Hal. Hal looked up from the cigarette he was rolling on Owenâs fatherâs Loeb edition Odyssey , vol. I.
âStill reading that? Youâd probably get more girls if it was in German.
âI read the verso. The Greek.
âWhat?
Kurt answered for Owen:
âHe means he doesnât borrow his opinions.
âMy fatherâs sort of Greek.
âAmericans are all âsort ofâ something, Hal muttered.
Owen thought of explaining that were it not for his motherâs intervention, he would have been named for a dictionary: Liddell Scott Burr. A momentâs hesitation, and Hal was up trailing a girl out the front door. Kurt rolled closer, until his face was inches from Owenâs.
âHal pretends heâs an asshole sometimes.
Owen remembered their first encounter. The word stung.
âWhat else does he do?
Kurt pinched his nose a few times, sniffed.
âWhat does he do? Why divide who you are from what you do? Thatâs an American schizophrenia thatâll go away if you live in Berlin long enough. Berliners define themselves with verbs, not nouns. Hal plays music, but heâs not a musician. He throws parties, but heâs not a promoter. He takes pictures, but heâs not a photographer. Well, he would say heâs a photographer, but his real contribution is his presence, you know.
âHe acts, Owen said.
âThatâs closer to the truth. So who are you, Owen? Why are you in Berlin? What do you want to accomplish?
Owen finished his glass of wine, giving Kurt time to ask another question.
âAre you an artist?
âYes. Well, Iâm trying to be.
âPerfect. Iâm looking for an outsider artist to collaborate with.
âWhatâs an outsider artist?
âIn Berlin, anyone who asks that question!
Kurt laughed hard at his own joke and looked around for someone who might have heard it. Not finding anyone to connect with, he continued,
âA young outsider artist is someone who doesnât have connections. If weâre talking about someone over forty, âoutsider artistâ is just a euphemism for âcrazy person.â And you canât really collaborate with those guys. Theyâll bite your hand, literally, and sue for all sorts of made-up shit. But someone like you, if youâre any good, brings something new and vital to a project.
Owen squinted.
âLook, you can be another one of these mopey guys who has a âshowâ in a coffee shop, or you can get serious. Collaboration is the best way to make connections. Itâs kind of the only way. No curator is going to include you in a group show until you have a platform. Unless wrinkled balls are your thing. In which case, I see the birth of a bright star.
Kurt smiled and hit Owenâs leg.
âSo letâs talk alternatives. Iâve got a booth to myself at Art
Similar Books
Father With the Naughty Bride
Valerie J Aurora
The Chocolate Mouse Trap
JoAnna Carl
Mail Order Menage
Leota M Abel
The Servant's Heart
Missouri Dalton
Blackwater Sound
James W. Hall
The Beautiful Visit
Elizabeth Jane Howard
A Crossworder's Holiday
Nero Blanc
Emily Hendrickson
The Scoundrels Bride
Indigo Moon
Gill McKnight
Titanium Texicans
Alan Black