Redemption - Leon Uris [62]
“Ah sure,” St. Peter answered, “but thanks to the Big Fellow we’ve installed a different system up here. I am commissioning you to repair heaven’s gates on behalf of all the Irishmen who have been fucked over by the British.”
“I can’t stand in for all that many people.”
“You fix it up, Conor lad. I want these gates to be Irish….”
* * *
Dawn these days often as not found Conor Larkin treading along the Foyle Quay, thunderously deep in concentration, after having been awakened from his sleep by finding an answer to one of Tijou’s mysteries. Like a good actor, he was going deeper and deeper into the role he was playing. As he and Tijou had mumbling conversations an incredible truth revealed itself to him. The great screen was beyond mere artisanship. It was a pure work of art to stand tall alongside Greek statuary and Lady Caroline’s collection of Impressionists…and the great music. The screen was its own masterpiece.
Tijou, at a certain point, realized he was in some sort of state of divine creation, sailing on a sea no one had ever sailed before, and either knowingly or inadvertently set up traps all over the screen so it could never be duplicated.
An awesome answer came to Conor during a visit to Seamus O’Neill in Belfast during which they attended a concert that concluded with Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. As Conor listened, he likened himself to the conductor, attempting to interpret what the composer meant. This work was astonishing, clear, so perfect that the listener needed no other teacher than his ears.
What he heard was probably the greatest piece of music ever composed. It was well played by an orchestra entirely caught up in its majesty and soaring somewhere together.
What Conor Larkin learned that night was that art, be it music, a magnificent piece of literature, or a great painting or sculpture, followed an absolute line of logic, and no music composed before Beethoven was as logical as his Fifth Symphony.
A great artist starts with one line on canvas.
A great writer starts with one line on paper.
A great musician starts with a single, often simple phrase as Beethoven’s four notes…and takes a flight of logic to its otherworldly conclusion.
But what of the Impressionists in Lady Caroline’s museum? The line of logic was still there, only defused by the light or exaggerated by the tone and expression.
There was a great deal of art and music and occasional literature where the line of logic was broken or never existed, and the words or sounds or images that reached canvas were not art, but an anti-art of distortion. Conor suspected that the quasi-artists in those cases were men of lesser talent with no capacity, skill, patience—or genius—to take on the mind-breaking, gut-wrenching task of following logic to a conclusion. A man of genius, van Gogh, remained logical as he painted, even in his insanity.
Those who could not put down the simple line ended up making cacophonous sounds or pitifully distorted logic in the creation of anti-art.
These smaller, self-proclaimed artists who lived in the shadows of the few mighty, sold their discord, confusion, and warped lines to the critical element who were also small people. They, in turn, created an illogical language to describe illogical art and music.
Ironsmiths, stone masons, and men who carved on cave walls were simple sorts with ponderous metal and siege weapon tools. The early artisanship in wrought iron was crude, but it all started with a logical line, because it was honest.
A Jean Tijou comes along and elevates the line and logic to a Fifth Symphony in iron, a majestic march to the mountaintop, then beyond, the epitome of human genius.
When Conor returned from Belfast he found those single and simple lines and followed them on the screen into their exquisite cascades, and the mystery became less and less threatening.
Twice a week Conor arrived at the manor by horseback before daylight. A scaffold had been erected and a forge set up in a fireplace. Shortly after the