Hans the Artist

Hans the Artist

Hans wanted to work. Desire for it was an ethos from the time of his upbringing. He worked from the earliest years and wanted to continue work in a special area. But what he worked at for many years folded like a tent. It went to a cheaper country, was set up by a new parent company based in Japan. One day the circus had gone, pulled up pegs and was gone. Not even a forwarding address left.

He sat around for days, if not weeks. Nothing showed, not even another circus. Then he forgot about a world which had occupied him for so long.

Like others - following the example of others, the well formed and developed society of unemployed - Hans looked for work. Along with thousands he applied for work. Special effort was put into applications. Only one was answered. Hans was told he was one of four thousand applicants. No luck this time but, “jolly, jolly won’t you win when the ship comes in. Just don’t go developing any questioning attitudes in the meanwhile.”

Six months went by. Hans was eligible for training assistance under a Commonwealth scheme so took advantage of a course in bar tending. He would do the course and work at bar tending till the recession was over, till the circus of his regular employment was back in town. The hospitality industry was the place to be. Everyone said it. But after the course Hans still didn’t get a job. Early morning lines with over a thousand people wound from the hotel door, lines filled mostly with younger workers who drew a lesser wage.

Hans explained it to the Job Centre. The officer was very accommodating. She liked talking with someone who was still eager, who wasn’t yet deranged from having run against brick walls, having too often been told to run against them by well meaning, ignorant busy bodies. A course in computing was offered. Successful completion of it wouldn’t yield immediate work. But when the recession was over (Hans pictured a tent being pitched somewhere near where he used to work) ... when it came …then ~ then! – he'd be the first in line.

The officer was good at her job and really thought she was doing Hans a good turn. She liked him.

It was a two part course. The first was introductory. An instructress in a whiplash support moved around the room. She yelled as she had yelled at school children before losing her job as a teacher, her tent having been burnt away in a political cost cutting action. She yelled at a man whose English was poor. The man had never seen a computer before but, as teacher wouldn’t conceive, couldn’t envisage, was an intelligent and experienced man nonetheless. She railed the class, railed the class, demonic in her inhibited movement!

Part two was sane. A different teacher proselytised the new age technics. She was careful with her explanations. Hans and his colleagues learnt something.

But no job. Hans went back to the old site and found no tent. He tried other sites ... nothing. Two qualifications and nothing. Soon held be qualifying for his Graduate Diploma in Courses, but nothing.

While checking out what had become a real life circus one day he met the whiplash teacher, as he walked along the cobbly streets. She drove a new car, a sporty one which almost ran him down.

News arrived of an uplift in the economy. Hans knocked at the door. The walls were just more tent flaps in the process of being packed and moved to far away places. Not a lot was left, mostly only signs saying, "no more workers required.” And people driving away from the facade in little sports cars like that of Whiplash.
Hans sat around on the vacant lot. There wasn’t a lot else to do.

Hans knew an artist so one day he went around his house and learnt how to paint. First he drew, then painted. Painting eased his soul, tremendously so. Sometimes Hans felt a lot of pain but soon realised he could paint it out of his system. This was what he was meant to do. He knew it. He could paint wild colours of joy also. A new knowledge delivered itself unto him. That of creativity. He was creative in his own very small way. His friend saw something which was frightening at first. But soon saw it for what it was, humanity’s semblance of life and quest of lyrical animation, the power to influence and inspire fellows, and so encouraged Hans.

Every now and then Hans went back to the old tent site and the other sites he was familiar with. New buildings existed, new tents which looked like buildings. At the doors were people handing out invitations. Inside was an endless field. Endless holes and endless mounds of dirt. Oh, it went on and on. Three people shovelled dirt from a hole. When a mound was scooped from the ground and a fell deep, three others filled the hole in, shovelling arduously beneath the big top. Sometimes the workers changed, swapped shifts. Hans watched. Following strict routine, every two hours the three changed with the three. Someone else dug the hole, someone else filled it in. And the groups spread across the earth. The entire field was covered with these groups. These groups toiled and worked to method, with intent to complete the task.

“Brother”, asked Hans of one, “what is it you do, brother?”

The man looked at him, “we work, brother, we work.”

Another of the party turned to Hans and said, “join us, brother.”

“Sorry, sister”, said Hans, "my life has meaning.” He left.

The workers watched after him but not for long. They were
ordered back to work: time, time, time!

Hans walked away, careful not to brush against the windy, moving walls, careful to avoid the only thing solid, an actual wall, which workers ran head first against during their lunch hour.

He went to his friend’s workshop. Upon entering he said, “brother! artist!”

His friend answered, “yes, brother artist! What is it?”

Hans said, "I am here to work.”

So Hans worked in the privacy and safety of his friend's home. He toiled for many months and years, worked at sketches that wouldn’t be peed on by a drunk as it hit the newspaper in the gutter by his feet, worked and worked and worked till elements of beauty appeared, dazzling the drunk, till a picture of beauty and mystery grew from the hands of Hans' skill, and graced and lulled and inspired the souls of brief humanity.

But he didn’t make a lot of money.

So one day he went to the Job Centre, swung like a Tarzan through the elastickie snide comments, and found the officer he earlier had spoken with, telling her he'd found meaning in his life, saying she needn’t any longer struggle with the formation of his work commitment. He worked hard, very hard. And contributed to the very souls of people.

She was glad, very much so, and asked how. “How?”

Hans answered, “I am an artist! An artist!”

The officer sought experience from her earlier training. The thing is to not upset them. Make them productive, productive in the new age, and send them on their way. It saves on her medical expenses also. Shrinks cost!

She said, “I have a course for people who wish to draw commercially.” She invited.

“I do not draw baubles! Let a drunk piss on ‘em!”, shouted Hans. He added, “no more courses. I do not desire a Graduate Diploma in Courses. I have found my way in life.” He was an artist.

She was confused. She provided Hans with an ADDRESS.

Hans left.

She’d have time to think about matters and visit her shrink.

Hans arrived at the ADDRESS, a familiar place.

A man at the blowing door said, “brother, you look lost.”

Hans answered, “brother, I am lost.”

The man pulled back the flap and showed Hans the way in. He took the ADDRESS and clubbed Hans on the back of his head and booted him with his foot towards the fields of work.

Hans looked around and met a face. “Brother”, said the woman, "glad to see you’ve returned.”

The man at the gate threw around the ankle of poor Hans a chain and put in the hands of poor Hans a shovel. And was contemptuous of Hans, worming words from his mouth. “Brother, dig, brother, and work. Work for your living, brother, and earn respect in society.”

Hans stood straight and tall and quickly. He shouted, “brother, I am an artist, an artist!”

The man said, “work, brother, work, and contribute to society. I piss on artists.” And let it flow across Hans.

The chain pulled Hans to the ground and darkness descended upon him. Art was not a sphere of language.

“Work, work, work, work, work, work”, sang the workers happily amongst themselves. (If you can imagine something like this being happily sung.) “Work, work, work, work, work. It’s off to work we go.” Oh, they whistled it.

Worker Hans whistled it. His companion, who helped him survive, she whistled it also. Many days and nights passed.

One day worker Hans turned to his companion and said, “worker!”

She answered, “yes, worker brother!"

He asked, “what is your name, worker sister!”

She answered, “my name, worker brother, is worker Patricia.”

Hans felt the artist’s pencil and artist’s break away blade knife in his pocket. Gone from his mind was the light of the artist’s direction but he was driven nonetheless. “Will you escape with me, worker Patricia!”

She said, “I cannot. for I must run against this brick wall, the actual brick wall, worker brother.” (Because it was lunch time - the only time workers were allowed to talk in obvious mumbles with each other.) “Anyway”, worker Patricia continued, "I like it here. Freedom is for drug addicts and criminals. Everyone knows it. TV and schools teach it.”

Hans said, “please yourself.” And he took off.

“Ooh, the error, ooh the error”, thought Patricia; and ran after him to save him from himself.

Hans was at the wall, behind a mound of dirt, earlier telling a supervisor he'd leave the mound alone and fill in the hole during his lunch hour. It would help him relax, he told the supervisor, and he had planned his escape. Now he hid behind the mound, taking from his pocket the artist’s pencil and drawing with it a door. Then, from his deep pockets, he took the artist’s break away blade knife and incised the wall, the tent.

Light pierced in, oh my God, light pierced in.

All the workers turned towards Hans, towards the light. All were stunned.

Worker Patricia was at his side and exclaimed, she exclaimed, “my name is Patricia! Patricia! And yours is Hans! Hans!"

Hans said, “yes”, and kissed her.

The place stirred with confusion, a new roaring of the working mind. Patricia called the workers.

They rushed to the opening and walked through the hole in the wall, which flapped and flapped in the wind. One by one they rushed out saying respectively, “thanks, Patricia, thanks, Hans.”

Patricia said, “I’ll see you around, Annie. I’ll see you around, Tommy.”

Hans was nervous. He wanted to get out.

“Are they all outside?”, he asked Patricia.

She got up and waved over some more. “All except the supervisors.” She waved and was sorry, “Oops.”

The supervisors ran across the fields, ran and ran and ran. Angry were their visages, cruel, oh so cruel their dispositions.

Hans held to Patricia and Patricia held to Hans. They quaked with fear.

The supervisors ran upon them, jaws snarling like the jaws of beasts. Then ran into the flap, the hole in the breezy wall, through it, the light which had been let in, tripped and fell headlong into it, like into water, a deep pool, the deep end of the swimming pool, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, one after the other, splash, splash, splash. One after the other.

On their way out each said, “I’ll see you around, Patricia.” And waving and smiling, “see you, Hans, see you.”

Hans and Patricia stepped from the tent. As they walked the tent folded, folded and packed its way off into oblivion, no longer having the human concern and belief of cruel necessity to puff it into substantial existence.

Hans went to his artist friend, he and Patricia, still wearing their uniforms of industry.

“Brother”, said the artist friend, “sister”, he said, “un-clothe yourselves for fear of getting caught.” He sat them down.

As Hans tore the exterior of nonsense from himself and as the artist friend fixed them a light supper of dates and honey he said, “brother, artist, you would not believe where I have been.”

The artist friend said, “I think I would.” His whole being shivered to almost the point of exhaustion.

Hans said, "I have been a worker. I have dug holes, then filled them with the self same dirt. I have done this in order to satiate the wrath of Society. I have done this to maintain their puff of morality and sustain their tent of beliefs. But one day, brother, I looked into my Patricia’s eyes and remembered love. I discovered wonderful love in her beautiful eyes. With my artist’s pencil I drew a door upon the wavering wall and with my artist’s break away blade knife I cut a hole and let in the draughts of light, from which Patricia and I drank. Others followed. Soon all were released to pursue their purposeful lives. They were freed, across the land, across the land they ran. Running, running from the door, all ran, each with a name, each with a name of their very own.”

Hans's eyes were glad. But then he strained with the knowledge of a job unfinished.
He said with noble stance, "I must tell the official, the government official. The representative must know of a better way for the land, a better way for the people, that the puff of sadism has wrapped itself into oblivion. She must know.”

Off he went running to the Job Centre, leaving his artist friend groaning with exasperation and Patricia running after him.

At the office he told the good news.

The officer was saddened, despaired, exhaustively and irretrievably despaired. She sighed.

She said, “you must see a shrink. But then thought it unwise to complain of her shrink bills. "I ... You must see a shrink and be helped." She said, “we all must suffer. We are in this world to suffer. I cannot get a transfer. I cannot get a promotion. We must suffer. I wanted to be a dancer but I was too gutless and tight arsed to ever try. We must suffer, all of us. (I wanted to be a poet and fire fighter too. And a pilot.)” She checked herself, “emotion, open mindedness and ease of thought are getting the better of me.” She tied a knot, pulled it tight, held herself again in restraint and continued in a halted motion. “Anyway, there are no such things as artists. They don’t really exist. Nor Santa Claus, nor does the Easter Bunny...” On reflection she said, “...though there is an Easter Bilby. This is a fact, a fact. It has been nationally confirmed. I believe also there are orange bunyips but I am no authority.” And back on with things, “so if Santa Claus came here looking for a job I would fill out a slip of paper and ADVISE HIM TO AN ADDRESS.”

Hans shuddered; Patricia was behind him, panting.

“And if Santa didn’t want to work at the ADDRESS, but as Santa, then I’d have to send Santa to see a shrink.” Adding, “I know some good shrinks.” She took a piece of paper from her desk. “With the Easter Bilby it’s a different story.” She scrutinised Hans, “but you’re not the Easter Bilby, are you?”

Hans shouted, “I am an artist, an artist!”

She wrote away, “SAME PLACE AS SANTA”, and handed it to him. “Now go, go, away, away!”

But Hans would not move, oh no, oh no. Hans would not move. He stood defiantly, defiantly!

The officer got worried. She searched her experience and knew the best way to avoid more shrink bills. She thought, “make life miserable for him.”

She said, “and who is this?”, pointing to Patricia.

Hans was noble in his defiance. “This person is ... " But Patricia cut him from his words. “Oh no, Hans, do not, do not tell, oh do not.”

Yet he spoke, yet he would speak. Yet he would speak, no longer cringing, no longer. He would speak! Let it be known! Let it resound across the nation, high, high above the ears of mortal men, and let even God bear witness! He would speak! He did, saying, “this is Patricia and I love Patricia and Patricia loves me.” It was heard, he did speak.

The official said, “copulation. You both copulate. You both copulate regularly, yes? Copulators! Copulators!" Then finished by yelling it, her conviction driving her from her seat, “God damn Copulators! Artists that copulate! God damn!”

Hans was bemuddled by the words.

Patricia saw ill omen.

The Job Centre official sat down, calm, quite calm now, thankyou, and with something to hang a regulation or two on. “Copulating artists”, she said bemusedly. Five hundred forms she pulled from beneath her table. Twisted and maligned were the paths to be traversed on these forms. “This has to be completed in triplicate and this", pulling another from the endlessness of paper, “has to be taken to the Dole Centre. I hope you know where that is. A hundred and seventy three blocks from the edge of this suburb. Then you wait while they process this other form, form 19 as you can read. Then bring back form 312 which relies on the processing of 45 which relies on the processing of 79 which relies on the processing of 19. Then...” She talked with authority for two hours. Then she said, “and tomorrow ... and with next week.” Before finishing two days later with, “don’t forget your advice. WHERE SANTA GOES. Which you wouldn’t earlier accept. Submit to the shrink or be cut from benefits. Artist?! Next you’ll be telling me it's a free country.” She waved him away and turned her attention to Patricia. “Now for you, Miss Copulator.”

Hans jumped to the fore, emaciated from the two day ordeal as he had never been, not even at the ADDRESS, shouting, “enough.”

This worried the officer. She drew on her experience and training and desired no longer to spend so much cash on a shrink. She repeated to herself, “just push them in the right direction.”

She said, “ya didn’t really think I’d make ya do all that, did ya?” She said, “we’re just trying to help you. Remember Santa works at the ADDRESS even though he’s Santa. Then no shrink for Santa.” And she thought, lucky Santa. “Mr Artist can work ... “

Hans would not let her finish. “No more!”, he shouted, "no more! I am an artist, an artist!”

The officer said, “the national concern tries, it really does.” Then she appeared sad and frightened, remembering one of the last lessons of her training, ie, how to justify malicious conduct on her part, saying, "ooh" (once), and "ooh" (twice) and briefly and limply pointing out the enemy, Hans. The office stopped, all officers looking upon the diminutive figure of a man who hadn’t eaten for days. The office personnel fabricated the requisite office fear saying “ooh” (saying it all together). Saying it of a man tiny relative to the machine of their government and corporate resource. The officer pulled nine hundred forms from her desk. “I’m going to have to cut you off. No more money, no more money for you.” She began filling in the forms, “on the streets, hungry, crazed and at the behest of nice police officers’ shrapnel. Enjoy it.” Laughter rang from the entire office; fingers pointed at Hans and Patricia. Oh, it was lots of fun. Then the officer fell beneath the forms. “Which means I’m going to have to fill in all these forms. How lucky for me!” Laughter stopped, no laughing matter; supervisors expect too much, even if they are the grandest patriots of the hierarchical age and always right.

With one eye on the papers and one on the phone book she looked for her shrink's number and called him for an appointment.

Hans and Patricia looked at one another. They couldn’t do anything but leave the office.

They walked to Patricia’s house and kissed. Although Patricia was twenty six she had to go inside. If she was back after twelve, she’d better have a gold ring with a jewel to show for it. They kissed, puckered and kissed, and said farewell.

Hans fled his home and lived on the streets. He walked, hungry and alone, one day finding a used bus ticket upon the path of his woe, a ticket which would take him to his artist friend, the home of his artist friend, where he might eat a meal, and hear of news relating to his fair and lovely Patricia. He used this ticket and, unskilled criminal he was, got caught. He writhed to be free, shouting, “I am an artist, an artist! Why won’t you let me work?! Why won’t you let me get on with my life and live with some meaning?! I have something which I must do!” But purposeless fools cringed cynical and barked like stroppy drunks. They would not let him free. To consummate the lot of poor Hans and to fulfil the learned official's prophetic murmurings, there arrived the police, who pulled from their hips guns, pointing these despotic sneers at the artist Hans and jailing him.

Pulling from his pocket as he was dragged to the chomp, chomp, chomping blue van, he, poor Hans, the artist who contributed beauty, deposited vaults of beauty into the souls of humanity, fought for years so as not to be peed on by a drunk, fought to be free from the shower of pee that washed over him at the place where holes were dug, the artist Hans, mover of human emotion, he, Hans, pulled from his pocket a photo of Patricia, whom he loved, and would need to love and think of while bound during the ensuing days and nights.