Cornucopia

Word Count: 967

         By the light of diminishing candles, Arcimboldo stares at the blank canvas before him. He wants to capture the man with the stocky frame, his benefactor, his sponsor, but only a still life comes to mind. The man is like that: still, lifeless, merely a shell of a man who prances around Milan, pretending to be something he is not. It drives Arcimboldo mad to be dependent on the patronage of such creatures, but an artist must eat. The thought of food consumes him, as his stomach rumbles. He has not eaten proper food in days. He must finish his work, present it to the patron for approval, and receive payment on his commission, before he can afford to buy the sustenance he needs. Else, he will have to go begging again to his father, and he has promised himself that he would not.
         This is the humiliation of it: being dependent on the generosity of others, living off the whims of men. If he followed the mainstream, then he might be a wealthy man by now, but he has tried it without satisfaction. What good is it to please the buyer, when one is not pleased with the work oneself? Still, in his moments of greatest need, he has buckled and produced the odd landscape, the occasional seascape, a forgettable portrait of a forgettable person. No, he will not allow himself to make the same mistake. Not this time. Not for love of fame or money.
         But Arcimboldo is hungry and his canvas is too. It longs for the touch of paint on its bare surface, for the kiss of the colorful oils, the stroke of the brush. The canvas demands satisfaction, to be pregnant with meaning, to represent something other than sheer blankness. It beckons to Archimboldo to pick a color and begin his work.
         Weak from hunger, delusional, Arcimboldo begins the work on two apples, to represent two full cheeks. He is careful to get the dimension just right, to blend the colors, to make the apples of the cheeks come alive. Once the apples are set in paint, the rest follows: lips and eyes made of berries, white hair made of grapes, a fruit basket for a hat, a bulbous nose represented by a pear, a pomegranate for the chin.
         With great precision he adds the shadows and highlights which make the food real, until he can step back and see not only the food which he so longs for, but also the face of the fat banker who backs him.
         It has been hours since he started, and the dawn has risen to reveal the sunlight which bounces off the varied colors of his palate, bringing the portrait to life. Arcimboldo is weaker than he has ever been before, but satisfied in the good work work of his hands. His stomach rumbles with the sight of the painting, and Arcimboldo takes that as a good sign. Nothing left to do but sign the thing and wait for the paint to dry.
         He cannot wait that long to be paid. He cannot continue to live on stale bread and cheap wine. He rushes through the streets of Milan to find the banker, and tell him his painting is done.
         The stocky man is busy with his own affairs. He has little patience for the artist's demands.
         "Not now, Arcimboldo," he says. "I will stop by your studio this evening and then we shall see whether your work satisfies."
         Time has no mercy, it moves with the languidness of a snail. Arcimboldo decides to sleep and wait for sunset, hoping his dreams will dispel his hunger. He dreams of plump women, carrying trays of meat and vegetables, baskets of fruit, freshly baked rolls with melted butter, sweet cakes made of almonds, and wine worthy of Bacchus himself. In his dream Arcimboldo is sated to bursting, but when he awakens he feels the pangs of hunger again.
         He looks around his studio, disorderly as ever, canvases everywhere, humble furnishings stained by oils. He does his best to tidy up. He should have a woman in to help him keep the place in order, if he could afford such a thing, but such luxuries are still beyond his means. Women are beyond his means altogether. The thought of them reminds him of a different sort of hunger, one he feels just as deep.
         A knock on the door announces the arrival of his backer. Arcimboldo feels his heart quicken. Silly, really, he thinks, after all this time, to be anxious about the judgment of another. Surely, by now, he should be confident in his art. But a thousand thousand paintings never ease the painter's mind. Each presentation is like the first, the anticipation, the angst.
         He has nothing to offer the banker, no refreshment to spare. He offers only a cup of water. The banker refuses, eager to see the work.
         Arcimboldo leads the banker to the canvas, and presents his creation.
         "What is this supposed to be?" the banker asks.
         "It is a portrait," Arcimboldo says.
         "A portrait of what?" the banker asks.
         Arcimboldo proceeds with caution. He can tell from the tone of the banker's voice that his compensation may be at risk.
         "It is symbolic," he explains. "It represents your wealth and generosity. Your riches are the riches of nature, brought about through your enterprise, the planting of seeds, the nurturing of the trees which grow from your investments, the fruit those investments bear."
         Arcimboldo waits, anticipating he knows not what, hoping that his explanation has been sufficient to satisfy.
         There is silence as the banker brings his hand to his chin, squints at the painting, looks it over from every angle, and finally bursts into laughter.
         Arcimboldo's stomach rumbles.