Pointe of Art

The Fish Fly - 5/04
by Robert Maniscalco

This month I am giving you a sneak preview from my soon to be published novel, entitled "The Fish Fly." I chose a very personal, art-related excerpt because this is an art related column, after all. It gets into a little known acrylic painting technique, so I figured it fit the bill. l know it's a stretch, particularly after I was publically castigated last month by my editor for not writing more reviews of major exhibitions. So I promise, boss, next month! For now, I invite you to settle in and enjoy a small glimpse into the literary bliss that is, "The Fish Fly:"

It was 1974, a year that was to become a record summer for Fish Flies. There was one typically hot, humid day in June when the Fish Flies, sometimes called June Bugs, were just beginning to make their annual appearance, loitering on window screens and dancing around the street-lights. In later years they had nearly become an endangered species, what with all the pollution in the lakes. Fortunately, they have more recently made a remarkable comeback. I'm glad, as I've always had an unusual affinity for the little creatures.

Anyway, as I was saying, 1974 was a banner year for Fish Flies. Soon there would be more of them swarming than anyone could remember. On days like these most boys my age were out playing kickball in the streets; that is until the streetlights came on.

On this day, however, I found myself painting Napoleon on horseback, on canvas, in acrylics, down in the cool clamminess of my basement. I was struggling with the painting and in mounting desperation began adding more and more water, hoping its cleansing properties might somehow make everything all better. But it only made things worse. Napoleon was dripping off his horse, off my canvas, right onto the tray of my easel and there was nothing I could do to stop him. I began to panic.

Then, at the last possible moment, when I was about to lose forever what was to have been my all time masterpiece, I caved in. With rueful reluctance, I called upstairs to my father, "dad, would you help me, I'm having trouble with my painting." Down the stairs from his studio he rushed to my easel. It had been over a year since I'd last asked for his advice so he seemed happy, even eager to interrupt his own work for me. Perhaps he thought this was his big chance to bond with his son.

He glanced at the dripping mess and without hesitation, hacked up an enormous greeny and gobbed it onto my masterpiece. Inside, I repressed a sustained, high-pitched wail which shot directly up my spine and lodged into my brain stem. My jaw locked, froze from this moment on, into an expression that could best be described as semi-mongoloid. It was the face that was left when life dealt me a blow I was not able to process.

I couldn't believe it - not even he was capable of such a vicious crime against a child - his own child. Oblivious to my agony, he grabbed the dripping brush from my hand. "If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times," he lectured, "there's the right way to do something and there's the easy way." I watched in horror and awe as he began to rub the gooey mucus into the paint, working it in. "There it is . . . that's got it."

The extra viscosity of his spit was enough to rescue my Napoleon from oblivion. "Now that's the right way," he declared as he flicked the painting back into shape and handed the brush back to me. Without missing a beat he darted away, climbed the stairs up to the kitchen where he turned his attention to cooking a delicious Lentil soup, his specialty.

Faintly I could hear him singing "Invictus," which I believe is the Latin root for the word, vindictive. I'm not sure. He sang it often though. He had a way of turning his head to the right and tightening his throat to make his voice sound more "operatic" to his ear. He sang, "I am the master of my ship. You have to stand up and fight for what is right," something like that. "They're the only lyrics I've never forgotten." Him and Timothy McVeigh.

All other songs he sang in gibberish Italian. It didn't matter what song it was. He always made up just the right Italian-sounding lyric to sell it. He would close his eyes and grab his heart, bellowing quasi recitatives that went something like, "Noche', pia noche, pistaccio." He was a ham all right. Actually, he was well known for his Italian gibberish AND his bad memory, just two more of the charming eccentricities for which he was so well liked.

Oh yes, the painting. I finished it. It came out pretty well. In fact I even sold it to Dr. Amberg down the street for five dollars. I'd asked for eight. I was well on the way to acquiring my father's gift for commerce as well as his artistic methods and proclivities.

List of Essays