Postcards , livre ebook

Austin Macauley Publishers - Mark Heisenberg

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

86 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Postcards is the diary of a psychopath, relayed in a collection of interconnected short stories revolving around a central character at various stages of his life. In the opening story, he is a 40-year-old out-of-work actor who is trying hard not to kill his girlfriend, a successful young artist named Edda. The stories work chronologically backwards from there, which shouldn't work--but does. From the High art circles of Mayfair in his 40s to the bump and grind of the Nevada fight game in his 20s. From the grim local newspaper offices of north London to the leafy suburbs of Surrey and the strangeness of teen love. From the shocking antics of a full-blown sociopath in upstate New York to the heartbreak of Echo Beach... Each story has its own internal movement and characters until a picture emerges of an engaging lunatic at various stages of disintegration.

Sujets

Short story

Informations

Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers
Date de parution	29 mai 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528972963
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0175€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Postcards
Mark Heisenberg
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-05-29
Postcards About The Author Copyright Information © 1. Notes on Van Gogh Michelangelo Early life in Florence 2. So Report! 3. The Queen of England 4. Teen Spirit 5. A Feral Cat 6. Extracts from the Notes of a Murderer Holed-Up in a Bedsit in Camden Hanging a Priest Killing an Arab Cop (an arresting development) Tiredness and loneliness and moths and wasps and bees 7. Nevada 8. Echo Beach
About The Author
The author is a handsome man, charming, witty and modest, highly approachable and always available to meet for dinner. He has a keen interest in history, travel and engineering, on all scales – no one ever felt worse for learning about the Akashi Kaikyō Bridge or the Marie Antoinette Watch. His favourite animal is the African Honey Badger.
Copyright Information ©
Mark Heisenberg (2020)
The right of Mark Heisenberg to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528951081 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528972963 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ

You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.
– Nabokov
1. Notes on Van Gogh
Had a go at Van Gogh’s first Starry Night – Arles 1888 – in pastels. Turned out nothing like Van Gogh’s.
I can’t decide if I like first Starry Night or second, more famous version, Saint Remy 1889, more. Both outstanding. In his first version I wonder if the third light source from the left contains a face (if so, whose?) and if a low star towards the top right of the painting is in fact a heart… The two figures in the foreground of the first version detract from the painting. I can’t find anything to detract from the second version. One can imagine the artist alone, arms outstretched to the night sky.
No matter how much I look at Sunflowers I don’t understand why they are so revered. I know they should be taken in context with all his other work but I wonder if Van Gogh had never lived, and someone else painted the series today, purely as a one off, they would have the same, or any impact at all.
By far his most effective self-portrait is the 1890 one from Auvres. It’s not so much the artist’s troubled expression but the turmoil of the background that speaks loudest. The background invades the subject and the subject is powerless to resist. The extent of the levels of desperation and elation through which he interpreted the world – his self-destruction and the troubled beauty of some of his paintings – are undoubtedly what makes his work so compelling.
The fact that he was a largely self-taught painter; that he seemed to have no reference point from which to work, making his work highly original; that his career was so short-lived and that he was so productive make him in my opinion a pretty outstanding artist.

Michelangelo
The first time I took any notice of the name Michelangelo was when I heard the following story: When his statue of David was unveiled, he became the Time’s equivalent of a ‘superstar’, so much so in fact that the Pope commissioned him to design and build his death tomb. Michelangelo accepted the commission and was paid a huge amount of money by the Vatican in advance, whereupon he promptly disappeared with it to Sardinia.
Somewhat vexed by this, the Pope sent his soldiers to Sardinia to bring him back. Upon his return the Pope left Michelangelo in no doubt that ordinarily he would have him killed for such a transgression. ‘However,’ said the Pope, ‘paint the ceiling of my church, make a good job of it, and we’ll call it quits.’ And that is how the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel came to be painted.
The statue was David 1501-4, the Pope was Julius II (otherwise known as the ‘Warrior Pope’) and the story is apparently true. So Michelangelo was instantly elevated to the level of hero in my eyes. However, there was much more to him than that.
It would be difficult to introduce Michelangelo any more succinctly than he is introduced in the opening paragraphs about him in any Google search: Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564), Italian sculptor, painter, architect and poet, one of the most ambitious and influential artist of the Renaissance… And it is he, along with Leonardo da Vinci, who were the shining lights in an extraordinary artistic period.
Just about everything has been said and written about these two over the years – and rightly so – there is little new to add. All I will say is that it seems an incredible coincidence to me that two people of such ability should have existed in the same place and at the same time. Genius – true genius – is usually few and far between. And you would have to say that, purely through his breadth of interests and abilities in so many different areas, da Vinci is on a similar genius-footing to Michelangelo. To my mind though there is a subtle but telling difference between the two men, and that is the staying power to see a job through to the end.
There was also a third force at work in Florence in the early sixteenth century, and his name was Raphael. So rather than ponder upon the mysteries and whims of god, I have decided to compare Michelangelo to Raphael as painters.
Raphael, on balance, was a better painter.
We can now move on to Michelangelo’s true forte: his sculptures. The statue of Moses was… What I really feel like doing is telling you about the time a girl I liked took me to Sandgate for the weekend. It was a surprise, for my birthday, and it was a nice thing for her to do. At the time I remember thinking that. Her name was Edda. She was an artist, a painter, and she told me about the trip when I got home from work on the Friday afternoon. I was working as an extra in a new zombie remake being shot in Muswell Hill. It was autumn, October as I recall, and we drove down from London on a cold clear day. The roads were quiet. We’d beaten the rush because filming had ended early when a startled driver rounded a corner and drove into the lead. I suppose coming across a dozen zombies in full make-up isn’t something members of the public are used to when rounding a corner in suburban London. The lead had had to go to the hospital.
Anyway, Edda had this habit that used to amuse me. Sometimes, when I was driving, mostly when we were stuck in traffic, she’d put her arm across the back of my seat and idly begin stroking my neck. What used to amuse me was that she’d do it for no apparent reason. She’d be smoking a cigarette, or listening to music on the radio, or looking out the window, and she’d just do it. Sometimes, she’d run her hand up the back of my head, against the cut. I think she liked the way it felt, the resistance it offered. Occasionally, she’d glance across and consider what it was she was doing, as if I wasn’t there at all. It was the sensation of the short hair against her hand that mattered, its texture: as if everything that was important to her depended upon the way the hair felt against the palm of her hand. She wouldn’t say anything. She’d just do it. And I was never quite sure why she did it; which one of us it was supposed to calm. But it always gave me a small thrill. Her absent-minded attentions at these times were in stark contrast to the determination she displayed when trying to get her work shown at some-or-other art gallery. Whenever I think of these memories, I feel sad that I killed her.
The roads as we approached Sandgate were even quieter than those leaving London. It felt good to be out of the city. I think Edda had been upset by the behaviour of one art gallery proprietor in particular more than she was willing to let on. The guy not only rejected her work but had tried to humiliate her in the process. Quite why he decided that this was a sensible thing to do is anybody’s guess. Edda had something of an emerging reputation among London art circles, although I have to admit to being impressed by her reserve on this occasion. It was most unlike her. I remember her breaking the nose of a proprietor in Bloomsbury who had slighted her work to a much lesser degree than the one in Knightsbridge had. Edda’s outbursts were also in stark contrast to her appearance. You couldn’t imagine a less likely candidate than her to be breaking people’s noses. She’d had to use the edge of a picture frame to do it, but she managed it just the same. I suppose the best way to describe her to you physically would be to ask you to imagine a young Audrey Hepburn, though there the similarities between the two end. Edda could hardly be said to be demure. Perhaps it is for this reason that I used to enjoy the quiet, perfectly calm mood that caressing the back of my head used to instil in her sometimes when I was driving. She said something to me once that I have never forgotten. She said that watching me drive made her feel sexy. Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression here – that I’m some kind of sex god or something. I am, truly, a very ugly man. In fact, Edda used to say that that was one of the things that had first attracted her to me. And, if you ever saw me, you would probably agree with her appraisal. Because of my looks I am unsuccessful with women, always have been, and since Edda, ditto. As for her, well, she had more admirers than you could shake a stick at.
It may be that so far I have misled you when it comes to Edda’s artistic abilities