16. The artist sat at his desk in an undisclosed location, working on a drawing for the next edition of 216. He was afraid that something about the first issue would give him away and so he was pushing himself further and harder.
He felt that the first issue still had too much of a coherent story line. He wanted the second issue to be more of a provocation that when read casually gave nothing away.
He sat at the desk and drew line after line. The lines curved and came to right angles. There were parallel lines and cross-hatched lines. He drew benday dots and smudged the ink in some drawings to make them look like a photograph. But there was no story that he was telling, no story he wanted to tell.
He kept thinking about the secret comic. He wanted to look at it again to remember what he had wrought on the page. It was his finest work, even if he had to say it himself. And he was angered by the fact that he could not show it to anyone.
Even if he was not sure of the historical accuracy of his story, he knew it to be true. And even if it weren’t true, at least it was beautiful. It was meant to be seen.
He thought about the hiding place which was something he had forbidden himself to do. First you think about a thing and then you speak of it. The next thing you know, you will be going there and taking others with you. And thus a secret was exposed.
He had found the abandoned building in his old neighborhood in Sector 8. It wasn’t just abandoned; it looked like it had never been in use.
It looked like a factory of some sort and it had large triangles on all of the doors and above the windows. He entered through one of the doors but there was nothing inside. There were hallways, gangways and steel stairs. There were bathrooms and a boiler room. But there was no evidence of anything ever having been produced or even stored there. There were no boxes or trash or decaying matter or anything. The boiler room didn’t even have a boiler.
He walked around and around in the factory feeling that this place was just right to hide his book. But where exactly?
He took the stairs down to the basement and it was dark and foreboding down there. His footsteps echoed hollowly and gave him no comfort. He could only barely make out where he was going by the rays of light that seeped through the cracks. He put his hand on the wall and it gave way, swinging out in front of him. It wasn’t a wall; it was a door.
He stepped inside and looked around. There was a window high up towards the ceiling which must have been right at ground level. A shaft of light flooded in through the square of glass and by it he could see that he was in one of the factory’s bathrooms.
None of the stalls had doors but they did, strangely enough, have toilets.
He put the book behind the third toilet. No one would have any reason to believe that anyone would hide anything of any value there. It was perfect.
And now that he had begun thinking about it, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He was afraid that he would subconsciously draw clues to its whereabouts in the new comic. So he put it aside. He did not work on it for days until he began to feel idle and useless.
This was ridiculous. He would have to do something. He needed to work but he dared not subconsciously reveal his secret. He would have to go and get it and move it somewhere else. Somewhere safe.
next
He felt that the first issue still had too much of a coherent story line. He wanted the second issue to be more of a provocation that when read casually gave nothing away.
He sat at the desk and drew line after line. The lines curved and came to right angles. There were parallel lines and cross-hatched lines. He drew benday dots and smudged the ink in some drawings to make them look like a photograph. But there was no story that he was telling, no story he wanted to tell.
He kept thinking about the secret comic. He wanted to look at it again to remember what he had wrought on the page. It was his finest work, even if he had to say it himself. And he was angered by the fact that he could not show it to anyone.
Even if he was not sure of the historical accuracy of his story, he knew it to be true. And even if it weren’t true, at least it was beautiful. It was meant to be seen.
He thought about the hiding place which was something he had forbidden himself to do. First you think about a thing and then you speak of it. The next thing you know, you will be going there and taking others with you. And thus a secret was exposed.
He had found the abandoned building in his old neighborhood in Sector 8. It wasn’t just abandoned; it looked like it had never been in use.
It looked like a factory of some sort and it had large triangles on all of the doors and above the windows. He entered through one of the doors but there was nothing inside. There were hallways, gangways and steel stairs. There were bathrooms and a boiler room. But there was no evidence of anything ever having been produced or even stored there. There were no boxes or trash or decaying matter or anything. The boiler room didn’t even have a boiler.
He walked around and around in the factory feeling that this place was just right to hide his book. But where exactly?
He took the stairs down to the basement and it was dark and foreboding down there. His footsteps echoed hollowly and gave him no comfort. He could only barely make out where he was going by the rays of light that seeped through the cracks. He put his hand on the wall and it gave way, swinging out in front of him. It wasn’t a wall; it was a door.
He stepped inside and looked around. There was a window high up towards the ceiling which must have been right at ground level. A shaft of light flooded in through the square of glass and by it he could see that he was in one of the factory’s bathrooms.
None of the stalls had doors but they did, strangely enough, have toilets.
He put the book behind the third toilet. No one would have any reason to believe that anyone would hide anything of any value there. It was perfect.
And now that he had begun thinking about it, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He was afraid that he would subconsciously draw clues to its whereabouts in the new comic. So he put it aside. He did not work on it for days until he began to feel idle and useless.
This was ridiculous. He would have to do something. He needed to work but he dared not subconsciously reveal his secret. He would have to go and get it and move it somewhere else. Somewhere safe.
next