Page 656 - A Little Life: A Novel

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