Page 656 - A Little Life: A Novel
P. 656

time. In a lucite cube on a stand in the middle of the room are a few objects
                from  “The  Kwotidien,”  including  the  hair-covered  hairbrush  that  JB  had
                never returned to him, and he smiles again, looking at them, thinking of

                their weekends devoted to searching for clippings.
                   The rest of the floor is given over to images from “The Boys,” and he
                walks slowly through the rooms, looking at pictures of Malcolm, of him, of
                Willem. Here are the two of them in their bedroom at Lispenard Street, both
                of them sitting on their twin beds, staring straight into JB’s camera, Willem
                with a small smile; here they are again at the card table, he working on a
                brief,  Willem  reading  a  book.  Here  they  are  at  a  party.  Here  they  are  at

                another party. Here he is with Phaedra; here Willem is with Richard. Here is
                Malcolm  with  his  sister,  Malcolm  with  his  parents.  Here  is  Jude  with
                Cigarette,  here  is  Jude,  After  Sickness.  Here  is  a  wall  with  pen-and-ink
                sketches of these images, sketches of them. Here are the photographs that
                inspired the paintings. Here is the photograph of him from which Jude with
                Cigarette was painted: here he is—that expression on his face, that hunch of

                his  shoulders—a  stranger  to  himself  and  yet  instantly  recognizable  to
                himself as well.
                   The  stairwells  between  the  floors  are  densely  hung  with  interstitial
                pieces, drawings and small paintings, studies and experimentations, that JB
                made  between  bodies  of  work.  He  sees  the  portrait  JB  made  of  him  for
                Harold and Julia, for his adoption; he sees drawings of him in Truro, of him
                in Cambridge, of Harold and Julia. Here are the four of them; here are JB’s

                aunts and mother and grandmother; here is the Chief and Mrs. Irvine; here
                is Flora; here is Richard, and Ali, and the Henry Youngs, and Phaedra.
                   The next floor: “Everyone I’ve Ever Known Everyone I’ve Ever Loved
                Everyone I’ve Ever Hated Everyone I’ve Ever Fucked”; “Seconds, Minutes,
                Hours,  Days.”  Behind  him,  around  him,  installers  mill,  making  small
                adjustments with their white-gloved hands, standing back and staring at the

                walls. Once again he enters the stairwell. Once again he looks up, and there
                he sees, again and again, drawings of him: of his face, of him standing, of
                him in his wheelchair, of him with Willem, of him alone. These are pieces
                that JB had made when they weren’t speaking, when he had abandoned JB.
                There are drawings of other people as well, but they are mostly of him: him
                and Jackson. Again and again, Jackson and him, a checkerboard of the two
                of them. The images of him are wistful, faint, pencils and pen-and-inks and

                watercolors.  The  ones  of  Jackson  are  acrylics,  thick-lined,  looser  and
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