I had a neighbor who lived with his partner at the back of my building. He used to chat with me whenever he saw me outside. The two men tended the jewel-like yard in back: they turned it into a garden complete with a tiny bird bath and neat lines of greenery. One afternoon, bored, I said to M___, "do you want to go have lunch?"
"Yes."
I followed him into his apartment. His partner was asleep (he worked nights) in the bedroom, door firmly shut. They had completely redone the kitchen and fitted it with new appliances. They had filled the apartment with arts and crafts furniture, and odd objects: artwork, pottery and glass. Every surface gleamed. It was spotless. There was even an old tombstone, smooth with time, sitting in the dining room like a piece of sculpture.
M____ was a photographer and had covered two large sheets of painted wood with his black and white photographs. They dwarfed everything in the living room and shut out the light. The impression was of a magic cave, silent and glittering, away from the noise of the city. M____ was a man, but had the face of a boy, with the palest eyes and blond hair that fell onto his forehead. His nails were shredded, torn, bitten, and twisted. I think he did this to himself. I think he suffered, but I suspect not for his art. The quiet rooms, the firmly shut door, the voice that was sometimes too loud, and sometimes too soft. If you leaned in close enough to hear him speak, you got a glimpse. But I never said anything. I didn't know how.
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