CAMERA OBSCURA

Light pierced the room at the top of the tower. Through an ox-eye lens mounted high in an aperture, color and shape rinsed the opposite wall. The artist sat to one side in the dark, watched the light play over the stone. He held a prism before his eyes.

RED. Poised on a dais in an underground hall, flanked by rippling banners, a man exhorts his minions while naked women writhe glistening in cages. The rows of troops packed tight on the benches sit impassive, their shaved heads slick with sweat, hollow sockets scabbed. The man’s face, shrike-beaked, trembles as he rages: “Up from immolation, forged and flung refashioned high on delirium’s vapor trail, I rode a moonshot rocket to our empire's dark metropolis. Out in the courtyard, the chopblock dripped. The blade flashed once in the furious sun. Miraculously restored, catgut stitched fresh chewing my sutured throat, I plunged a stake into my brother’s eye, fled to the floodlit launch pad. Somewhere, on an empty tray, my spilled blood cooled, congealed. I would not go alone, so from a clutch of maidens snatched my accomplice. At the mouth of the airlock I turned to see the mob, torchlight leaping, swarm the desolate steppe. Back on the surgeon’s table, as ether swirled my skull and needles pierced my festering flesh, I’d seen a face—a woman shackled. And so I mobilized for the coming war.”

BLUE. Through cascading waves of air, I pursue the elusive goddess until my wings melt. Abandoning them in an ashcan, I wander the crystal city. Ice vendors stand on every corner. Glassblowers toil behind gleaming windows. When I reach the harbor, a battalion of drowned sailors marches from the bay. Uniforms in tatters, gray faces plump, they sing “Battle Hymn of the Republic” like a dirge. On a passing galleon, I see the goddess striding the deck with nine leashed panthers. I dive from the pier. Slicing the frigid water, I find the rocky bottom encrusted with diamonds. Then an undercurrent swallows me whole, jerks me like a rag toward the open sea. As the galleon’s hull recedes above, I’m plunged into strobe-lit reverie, a frenzied flashing catalog of yearning and regret. The goddess cackles. Suddenly I’m jolted from the current by a passing eel. I ride its spine to the surface, where I’m cast out, bedraggled, to land on shore. I roll to one side, cough a clear stream of water onto the stones, then lift my gaze to the sky.

YELLOW. Blond golden sun, we shout and leap and tumble, grateful for the flaxen thread of music endlessly spun forth by your sly and cunning instrument. Although the night sends us its orphans—chalky, pale-lipped, shivering in snow—and cities topple, burning, through our sleep, still you draw us forward. We will gambol like children to your Piper Pied, for we know no better balm exists for the pain that rends us than your unceasing song. And yet you go unmarked by those who most should hear you. You’ll have us know you don’t deign to care—away with pomp, with phony reputation. The unacknowledged player plays his part . . . so the world grinds on. The clock condemns such work. But once upon a time you blew a tune so full of warmth and light that the blind man saw, the devil took fright, and the poor little match girl came in forever from the cold.

GREEN. See the savannah. Note its lush grasses. A swarm of girls pours over the farthest hill, laughing in cotton dresses; a flock of birds fans out in the sky. Flapping shapes rush over the bright ground. Today is a day for rash fantasy. The girls come prepared, carrying fistfuls of pinwheels, hula hoops, paper streamers, cotton candy, feather boas, painted masks. Piling these about in the grass, they gather in circles, clasp hands, and dance. Fee-fie-foe-fum, abracadabra, fiddle-dee-dum. Rooty-toot-tooty, skip-to-my-loo, rum-ripple-fruity, shoo-fly-shoo. Suddenly a vast shadow falls over the girls. They stop their singing and turn back to the hill. A towering giant rises, step by step, over the horizon. The girls squeal with fright. Tears stream down the giant’s cheeks. He carries a doll in his hands. One girl steps forward, blinks up at the giant. “Why are you sad?” she asks. The giant roars, shaking his toy. “Broken!” he booms. “Come closer,” says the girl. “Kneel down. We have dolls. What game would you like to play?”

PEACH. In a tropical grove lush with flowers, humid, rank, you walk alone, naked, head held high. Moisture beads on your breasts. Stripes of sunlight slide across your body as you move among the trees. I’m hiding nearby. You are an avatar of beauty, ripeness made flesh, a carnal incarnation. Your languid grace attracts the eyes of tigers, lizards, pythons. Parrots raise a flapping clatter. I’m watching you. Primal in your innocence, aglow with joy, you sing. Here the night itself is held at bay. You won’t escape. And so you turn, untroubled, toward the thickest tree. Its mighty forked branches, dripping moss, draw you to their touch. You dream a dream of honey, sweet surrender, and spread out on a bed of leaves to raise your own forked tribute to your Lord. You rub the lamp with oil. You pray the genie finds you—quickly, quickly! Yes, I’ve got you now.

BLACK. Spitting blood is not my idea of fun. But here I kneel, bent over a chamber pot, my apartment bare and cold. Furnished by strict necessity, this room still holds sufficient company for my solitary vigil—bed, table, wardrobe, chair. (My taste runs to the spartan.) Through the windows I gaze out across the moonlit spires to the icy stars beyond. The floor boards freeze beneath my skin. As convulsions rack my gangling body, I ponder the absurdity of my condition. My lung relents. Flat on my back, I stare up at the sculpted ceiling, ornate as any wedding cake. A ring of filigree touches the molding on each wall precisely at its center, a geometrical theorem made manifest. The plaster circle thus described suddenly dissolves, and I’m granted a vision of a cloud-decked firmament. An orchestral uproar fills my head. Flaming text unrolls behind my eyes. I read the words in silence, then open my mouth to set them free.

WHITE. The moon wears your face tonight. The city itself, silver-spangled, breathes an air redolent of your perfume. Mama sleeps on the divan. You are our patron saint of light! A thunderbolt burns hotter than the surface of the sun. When the bars on your window stripe the starfield with shadow and your fingers stiffen, remember then your poor blind Papa—and do not cry. A sunny meadow lies always within your ken. You have only to murmur, “Minerva, direct me.” Then you’ll be free to sail above us, spilling kisses like poker chips while tipping us, pretty, your ever-sly wink. But also I know how kisses aren’t all you sometimes long to loose. “Let the rootrace be rutted, just once!” is your cry. “We’ll see how they take it!” Answer—not well. (I, too, am in that number. The grocer, the drudge, the scribbler of scribbles are all one. The Emperor of Insects yet reigns.) But your innocence, angel, is disclosed by this fury. You once bore our true image when, at Xmas dinner, you donned the rags of the Little Tramp. Do you recall how your trousers sagged, your duck feet waddled? And how a pale rose blossomed from the corner of your lapel?