Read Online Object of Desire by William J. Mann - Free Book Online Page B

changed the morning Frank first took me hiking, insisting we get up early and pack a breakfast of trail mix and chocolate chip cookies and oversize canteens of water. Up into Tahquitz Canyon we trudged, deep into the folds of the mountains, where I saw not death but teeming life. The purple lupine and the yellow brittlebush, the beavertail cactus with pink buds, the apricot mallow, the bright orange mariposa lily. And everywhere blue lizards skittering and white-headed woodpeckers clattering. In the sky sharp-shinned hawks soared in great, swooping arcs. Our goal, however, was always to spot that most elusive of all creatures, venerated by the Indians: the bighorn sheep, with its massive curved horns and fleecy white rump. Yet not once in all our time hiking in the mountains—which from that day forward became considerable—did we spot one of the bighorns. Still, I trusted that they were there, pausing to sip from the same stream we waded through as the waterfall crashed behind us.
    Ten years had passed since Frank had moved to Palm Springs full time. At first, I came out only on weekends, not wanting to leave L.A., not willing to abandon my dream of making it as an actor. But a decade of walk-on parts and missed opportunities—not to mention a decade of working as a waiter, as a cabbie, and as a housepainter—was wearing thin. The biggest jobs I ever landed were a commercial for Gravy Train dog food and a non-speaking recurring role as a clerk on Matlock. And so, on a whim, I started to take photographs. Faces of friends, the Hollywood sign, palm trees in a windstorm. Then, equally on a whim, I began scanning the photos into my computer. With Photoshop, I altered them, outlined them, fragmented them, turned them into mosaics. No rhyme or reason existed to what I was doing. I was just playing around. When I printed a few of these manipulated photographs, I showed them to a friend who ran a gift shop in Beverly Hills, and she asked me if she could put them on greeting cards. I laughed, but I agreed—and the cards actually sold. I actually made some money. Not a lot, but enough to make me think maybe I could make more if I got serious. And so, four years ago, I moved out here full time, so I could take pictures and play with them on my computer. So I could, finally, become someone. An artist, they say.
    What did it mean to be an artist? Did it mean the tortured screams of Jackson Pollock, splattering his paint everywhere? Did it mean Vincent van Gogh cutting off his ear? Did it mean agonizing over your work, pulling out your hair as you tried desperately to express yourself? These were the questions I wondered about as I signed up for a summer photography class at CalArts. There I encountered a woman who considered herself a very serious artist. Her name was Thelma, and she had been an abused child and a battered wife and had spent a few years in a mental hospital. All her work, she told us, was channeled from those experiences. Her photographs of open mouths and dead birds contrasted strikingly to my sunflowers and Marilyn Monroe impersonators. “A searing indictment of the male hegemony of modern life,” our teacher called one of Thelma’s photos. About mine, she said, “Nice matte finish.”
    I accepted my limitations. “I’m no artist,” I told the teacher. “I just want to make things that look nice.”
    Only Frank seemed to get it. “Danny,” he said, looking at one of my sunflower shots, stripped of its yellows and pumped up with green, “that is probably the craziest-looking flower I’ve ever seen, but I sure as hell can’t stop looking at it.” It had hung ever since over our mantel. Frank had dubbed it his “green daisy.”
    But an artist? No, I wasn’t an artist, even though Frank insisted I was. He’d always been very sure of that point. I made art; ergo, I was an artist. I just laughed. Now Becky— she might have