Jowita

According to a jointly developed sales strategy, at six in the morning, people were still dazed by the dream that, while buying cucumbers, tomatoes, and lettuce at the market, they might have mistakenly purchased, as if for dessert, a stylized view of the city. Sitting on fishing stools, we were eye level with our potential customers. It wasn't an ideal situation for establishing interaction, for the eye-to-eye contact essential in the sales process, as marketing experts say face-to-face.

Jowita's paintings weren't perfect either, which didn't mean she couldn't paint at all. The works for sale were of the sweet variety; I included in this category everything that old ladies hung in their kitchens or above their marital beds, saying, "How sweet!" There was something sweet about them: the colors, the deer gorging itself on lusciously sweet and frighteningly green grass, the girl's profile accidentally captured on a bright golden beach; everything was seething with icing, oozing and sticky. I didn't share my observations, and besides, the girl was quite reserved about the matter, saying as we stepped out onto the street, "We'll sell shit anyway."

The morning was cool, and once again there wasn't a single cloud in the sky. The heat was still lurking, still brooding, but with every second it made it increasingly clear that it would give everyone a hard time that day too.

Jowita uttered her first full sentence about two hours after waking up; like me, she was the anti-lark type. "Actually, everyone's hungry, rushing for breakfast. Once they've had their fill, they'll definitely come back. It's hard to think about art on an empty stomach."

I didn't have the strength to respond; from under my heavy eyelids, I managed something resembling a nod. We waited. I sat a little behind, longing for a bed, or at least something to revive me from my morning slumber—coffee, a strong kick, or something. And surprisingly, my silent prayers were answered. My gaze suddenly came upon a sight that was not so much shocking as strange and joyful. My eyes, with an unfamiliar fervor, captivated me by the almost tangible, naked breasts of a girl spread out before my eyes.

At my fingertips was "Diana After a Bath," the likes of which Boucher himself would never have painted. Jowita looked like a hunting goddess refreshing herself in the crystalline waters of a stream, despite the fact that the market scene, the bustle of shouting vendors, and sweaty Far Eastern traders, lacked any sensuality. Even the white lace cups of Vietnamese bras, hanging in neat rows, lost their erotic undertones next to the flirtatiously smiling embodiment of male desire. The magnificent Venuses of Titian or Giorgione lacked such effortless charm, ardor, freshness, and naturalness; they could have learned a great deal from her. As if hearing my thoughts, Jowita leaned forward so that her twin hills pressed against each other, locked in a dangerous embrace, inviting and challenging. I turned my head away, but not for long. I didn't want to be caught looking; on the other hand, I wanted to look. The voice came to me as if from the afterlife.

"Do you like them?"

What the hell was she talking about, I replied, just in case.

"Oh yes, they are very beautiful.

" "You really think so. You have no comments, no reservations.

" Her directness encouraged me.

"Well, I'd have to take a closer look at them, touch them...

" "Touch?" She looked at me as if I'd said something inappropriate.

"Touch, yes, and what's so strange about that?

" "I've never heard of viewing paintings by touching, but that's very interesting... whose theory is that?"

I felt myself sinking into the ground along with my little metal stool, a wave of hot blood rushing to my brain. It wasn't long before the ultimate embarrassment; in another moment, the thought was on the tip of my tongue—I'd have to kiss them.

"What theory?" I asked, taking a deep breath.

"The one that paintings are known by touch.

" "That's my own." The point is to approach a painting as a person; art comes from within, so it's an autonomous part of them. Just looking gives us a very intense, yet superficial, impression, which is why I believe paintings should be experienced with all our senses.

-With hearing too?

-With hearing?

I felt I'd gone too far; another moment and I could have reached a dead end.

-With hearing too. I know it might seem difficult at first, even absurd, but you can learn; it takes a lot of practice.

-Will you teach me someday?

-If you want, but it takes a really long time, a hell of a lot.

-Are you in a hurry somewhere?

-No, nowhere, I just think that I studied this for many years and I don't know how long it would take me to teach someone else. Besides, I have no teaching talent; I lack patience.

-Have you ever tried a painting?

"Did I do what?" I struggled to come back to reality.

"Well, did you lick it with your tongue? How else could you try? "

"Yes, I once licked "Portrait of an Unknown Woman" by Oscar Kokoschka.

" "And what?"

"Not bad.

" "But what did it do to you? How did it change your opinion of the work, how did you perceive it?

" "No, it just turned my tongue blue because the unknown woman was immortalized against a blue background.

" "You're joking, I'm serious.

" "Well, at first it seemed a bit salty to me, then when I thought about it for a while, I thought I hadn't gotten to the bottom of it, and had only licked the outer layer of dust, which for some reason might have been salty. I licked it again, and then I felt sweet.

"You're crazy!"

"But I was only four years old at the time, there was a table in that painting, and a cake on the table. How could I have known it was all fake? I couldn't tell the difference between a painting and reality back then."

"Your theory is rubbish!"

"No, not at all. It was after that tragic experience that my father slapped me because the painting left a mark of my tongue, and it turned out it wasn't the original, but a poor copy. So, actually, he should be thanking me; I helped uncover the fraud. Since then, I've been pondering it, thinking about it, until today I finally came up with the idea. Paintings are meant to be licked, listened to, and even smelled."

She looked at me in disbelief, then waved me off in resignation

. I don't know if it was the sunlight or a sudden and completely unexpected infatuation; either way, I lost all restraint. I jumped up and, telling Jowita that when I'd be back in a moment, she shouldn't be surprised, ran. It was almost noon, and a crowd of well-fed vacationers was pressing toward the beach, passing by the market, their bulging wallets proudly bulging in their back pockets. Everything pointed to my cunning plan succeeding.

"Fantastic! Fantastic!" I started yelling like a maniac, standing before Jowita and her paintings. I rambled in German, clutching my head with every other sentence. The girl didn't understand what I was talking about; at first she was a little scared, then she just smiled stupidly. Finally, I held out the money with a wide gesture and said in broken Polish, "

Two hundred zlotys, that's a beautiful painting, a wonderful painting."

Jowita refused to take the money, thinking I was joking. Only after I frowned menacingly did she realize it would be better to take it. I quickly grabbed the first picture I came across, kissed it, and clutched it to my chest. I walked away, constantly exclaiming something that was meant to be a testament to my delight. I didn't have to wait long for the effects of my antics. An older couple, a man dressed in white and his companion in a floral dress and straw hat, stood opposite Jowita. They stared at each other for a moment. Perhaps a minute passed before they walked away with two almost identical pictures, each titled "Fishing" and "Fishing!" for distinction. I was about to head back when a much younger couple stopped in front of "Midsummer Night" and, after a few seconds, bought it. Then the woman with the dachshund bought "A Walk by the Waterfall," and the man in dark glasses, nervously glancing from side to side, opted for "East on the Bug River."

It was twenty past twelve, the sun had found its first cloud of the day, a sigh of relief could be heard over the city. Jowita clung to my neck and, kissing my cheeks, almost cried.

"You're a sweetheart, how did you come up with that? I sold it, I'm sorry, we sold everything and even more, because I have orders for more. Tomeczek, I'm taking you on board, fifty-fifty, is that it?

" "I think you misunderstood me, I didn't do it for the money... "

"Stop talking nonsense, keep the five hundred, you'll need it.

" "I don't want to, I did it for you.

" "For me? What do you mean, for me?"

"I like you, I just like you very much."

We stood in a long line for beer, reveling in the wealth, our shared wealth, which we could spend in one afternoon; all we had to do was shout, "Line for everyone." "Pod rybke" attracted a dense, endless crowd, like impatient bees clamoring for honey, their hairy male paws clamoring for more mugs, another helping of the golden liquid topped with thick foam. There wasn't even a place to sit; we sprawled out on the lawn in front of the bar, as if at a May picnic. Jowita downed half the mug in a single gulp and, looking deeply into my eyes, said, somewhat casually.

"What do you think about the kiss?"

She was a provocateur. After all, all artists, even those just starting out, had provocation in their genes; they'd absorbed scandal from their mothers' milk, wanting to shock, not only with their work but also with their hairstyle, their extravagant attire, and above all, their amoral behavior. Jowita didn't look like one; her outfit and hairstyle betrayed no signs of blasé bohemia, but who knows, maybe I was wrong again.

"About the kiss?"

What could I be thinking, and what kind of question is that? Either we kiss or we don't, you don't think about kissing, you just do it.

"Here, in front of all these people?" I feigned outrage, just in case.

"What are you even talking about?" She looked at me as if I were a patient requiring particularly intensive care.

"About the same thing you're talking about, a kiss.

" "I'm talking about Klimt's 'The Kiss,' by Gustav Klimt, do you remember that?

" "Oh yes, Klimt." Now I began to drink greedily, hoping it would buy me time and somehow resolve the misunderstanding. "What do I think? Nothing, I don't remember what she looks like." "

It depicts a kissing couple. In general, women are very important in Klimt's work, in various roles, from the femme fatale to the priestess of initiation into the eternal mystery of life and death.

"A kiss is a kiss; people do it in different places, in different positions, what's so unusual about that?" "

This couple in Klimt's work floats in an undefined space, as if beyond time, beyond reality and the mundane." Someone might say it's an idyll, but that's not true. Klimt hated idyllic images. Upon closer inspection, you can see that the euphoria of love is accompanied by elements of anxiety, uncertainty, and even lurking misfortune. This can be seen on the right, where the flowery meadow abruptly ends, a precipice begins.

"And you know all this without ever seeing a painting?"

"Reproductions in albums and descriptions are enough for me; you don't have to see everything to believe it. Did you think I really wanted to kiss?

" "No, I wanted to irritate you a bit; I knew it was Klimt. You know, I admire you; you know all the paintings and all the painters; you must have a terribly full head.

" "I certainly don't know all of them, but the ones you need.

" "And how do you know which ones you need?

" "It's simply obvious."

"Don't you think it's a cliché that people only admire what someone suggests to them, some authority, some connoisseur?" Perhaps there are far better masterpieces somewhere in some forgotten African bush, only the all-knowing white wiseguy hasn't reached them yet. Perhaps the Papuans have giocondas in their huts more beautiful than the originals, pietas carved in clay far superior to those supposedly magnificent ones?

Even if that were the case, Klimt would still be important to humanity; after all, he was the spiritual leader of the Vienna Secession, the first to rebel against the conventions and commercialism of academic art.

"Was that commercialism even then?"

"Commercialism has existed since the creation of the world, remember that."