THE FACE OF GOD

Brian Ray Brewer

Description

The Face of God is the story of a commercially successful but dissipated pop artist who rediscovers himself and his art through a contract to sculpt the face of God. This story of redemption winds through the New York art scene and high society, through the poor, mean streets of Salvador, Bahia and through the muddied waters of the Rio Xingu in the lower Amazon.

Sujets

• Nueva York
• Fiction
• New York

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 28 mai 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669878353
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

THE Face OF God
BRIAN RAY BREWER

Copyright © 2023 by Brian Ray Brewer.
 
Library of Congress Control Number:
2023909583
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-7837-7

Softcover
978-1-6698-7836-0

eBook
978-1-6698-7835-3
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
 
Rev. date: 05/26/2023
 
 
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
853644
Contents
Dedication
Cover Art
 
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
 
Notes and Acknowledgments
Cited Works
Dedication
For God
In Memory of Marilyn, Jerry, Berton and Wanda Brewer and of Joevah de Souza,
for our beloved children, Sophia, Isadora and Vitória,
and for
Silviane,
Always.
Cover Art
“The Baptism of Christ,” by Carlos Araujo, oil on wood
from the author’s personal collection.
Chapter One

I t was a gala night! The bright display lighting glared down upon the mass of sculpture strewn about the gallery and flashed upon the gleaming white shirts of tuxedoed waiters as they whisked by with their cargoes of sparkling champagnes and waters. Strange, discordant melodies wove among the crowds that clustered around the grotesques they were admiring—strange music, new music, hacked forth from violin and cello in a frenzied sawing from the thin arms of a wild-eyed quartet whose sounds and appearance evoked visions of demon lumberjacks ripping through bark for the heart of a forest. Their strings whined. Their bows moaned. Their agonies screamed to the ceiling, then fell in heavy strains upon the gallery patrons roaming pensively below.
The crowds hunkered down under the assault of light and noise, some chatting among themselves and some quietly sipping their poison, lost in frowning thought—all silently searching for meaning in the monstrosities leering out at them, and all coming up empty.
The showroom was inhabited by mannequins, dozens of mannequins, mannequins in chains, mannequins in leathers, mannequins wildly screaming silent pleas to an indifferent god as they were tortured by other smiling, sadistic mannequins in methods unknown to the Grand Inquisitor himself. Other mannequins rolled the floor in stiff-limbed displays of ecstasy and carnal wonder. There were beasts and whips and chains and children. There were lawn implements, bathroom fixtures, home appliances and industrial machines. Every conceivable tool of this age and many of the past were engaged in invoking pain, pleasure or both from the mannequins condemned to suffer their use.
Plastic dogs gnawed rubber flesh. Painted blood stained the floor as it dripped from whips wielded by preformed hands to pool in crimson, acrylic puddles. Electrodes hummed. Ripsaws ripped. Faucets steamed into tubs of boiling mannequin babies. It was a Bosch painting come to life. It was a department store gone mad.
“Where is he?” asked Deborah Mondain, an aging heiress and socialite who was a patron of the arts and artists extraordinaire. “I’ve just got to talk to him about this piece. It speaks to me like nothing else he’s done before!”
She gazed at the mannequin above, arched backward to the sky, whose painted eyes shone in ecstasy as it pulled at the safety pin piercing its breast and gently massaged the railroad tie that skewered and thrust it toward the ceiling. Chemical blood ran down its fiberglass fingers, touching the railroad tie and slowly dripping from its elbow to an expectant crowd of plastic rats that were mechanically scratching and squeaking below.
“He hasn’t yet made his appearance, Deborah,” soothed Armine Quadras, the gallery owner. “But when he does arrive, I’ll be sure he sees you. It’s outrageous isn’t it?” She gazed up with her hands pressed together as if in prayer.
Deborah sighed and nodded her assent. Patrons gathered around the two and joined their reverie, while others milled about the different exhibits, drinking and talking and secretly wondering why they couldn’t seem to appreciate this razor’s edge display of contemporary art.
The gallery doors burst open, and with a rush of cold air and a whirl of snowflakes, entered the artist. Cameras flashed and whirred as society reporters and art critics fell in behind him as he strode to the center of the gallery floor. Armine moved to meet him. They kissed each other lightly on the cheek, and a brief glimmer flashed between their eyes. Her hand on his elbow, they spun to face the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the man whose vision and struggle has captured for you, and for the world, this subtle glimpse of a greater reality. Tonight, you have the honor of being presented with this artist’s work.”
Applause thundered. Cameras flashed again.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she sounded, “I give you Martin Drake!”
He bowed deeply and then bowed once more, a Shakespearean at the close of a play. Martin stood tall in a dark suit and a black Nehru shirt, gazing out at the admiring crowd with dark, piercing eyes that could have belonged to a prophet. He swept a shock of chestnut hair back from his handsome forehead, then raised his hand, set his face with a proper mix of pride and humility, and said in an almost musical tenor, “Thank you! Thank you all. I hope that you have found these musings of mine to be of meaning. Enjoy the drink. Enjoy the food. Enjoy the art as much as I enjoy your thoughtful presence here tonight. Thank you!”
With a deft hand, he slipped a glass of whiskey off the tray of a nearby waiter and downed it in an instant. He traded that glass for another, then dove into the sea of outstretched hands and glistening smiles lapping toward him like waves.
“Marvelous, Martin, just marvelous! Once again you’ve managed to shock this callused critic,” said a squat, red-faced man before him.
Callused around the bunghole maybe, you disgusting old fag , thought Martin as he took the critic’s hand and smiled.
“Why thank you, Peter,” said Martin. “It’s always good to hear praise from a discerning man. I hope you’ll have something nice to say about my exhibition in The Times .”
“I certainly will! These pieces, the way you’ve styled them, it shows a new current that is sure to ripple throughout the art world. Your use and abuse of these mannequins subtly suggests an even darker side of your work.” The red-faced man hesitated for a moment before rushing on. “And, well…honestly, a trace of homoeroticism that you had until now suppressed in your work.”
Martin feigned shock and thought, I’d like to suppress you, you pompous slug. You could find a trace of homoeroticism in an ashtray if you could manage to cram it up your ass . Instead he said, “Peter, I’m flattered that you think this work is important, but as to its content? I always leave that to the viewer.”
A hand lit on his shoulder. He smiled at the critic then turned to face the mayor’s assistant for culture and the arts, Kimble Gentry. God, another one , he thought.
“Hello, Kimble, how’s the battle at city hall? Come by to commission me to bronze the mayor?”
“No, Martin, I’m afraid that not even this mayor is foolish enough to spend city money on a statue of himself in these hard times,” said Kimble, who then smirked. “Although I imagine that the thought has crossed his mind.”
“Well, why don’t you knock down the Saint-Gaudens on top of Grand Central Station and install a few of these?” Martin waved a hand toward the horrors that surrounded them.
“Switching those old statues for some of your mannequins...the idea sounds intriguing,” he said, placing a finger to his lips in contemplation.
It would intrigue you, Tinkerbell , thought Martin. “Just say when, Kimble, and I’ll weatherize them and ship them right out to you, and if the mayor ever does decide to immortalize himself, talk me up. I don’t know if I can do a better job than the political cartoonists, but at least I can make him larger than life—the sky’s the limit!”
Martin drained his second whiskey. “In the meantime, why don’t you acquire some of my work for one of the museums. Look around, Kimble. Can you afford to miss this?”
“I know that we should stay current, but to be honest, our funding isn’t what it was,” he said. “Quite frankly, I’m not sure that we can afford you anymore.”
“Well, look around, look around, and if you see anything that strikes you,