Vienna Blood

70

ANDREAS OLBRICHT HAD SPENT the evening in several coffeehouses, examining his reviews. He did not return to his apartment. Instead, he walked across the city to his studio, where he lit a single candle and poured himself a large glass of vodka.

Various words and sentences kept bobbing up in his mind- breaking the surface tension of consciousness, splashing vitriol. It felt as though the interior of his head were sizzling, as though it were being eaten away by corrosive droplets of malice.

An artist bereft of talent.

A poor technician.

Crude, unimaginative, and without merit.

Lacking in originality.

How could they say such things? Through the fog of his own condensed breath, he could just make out an unfinished canvas. He had hoped to include it in his exhibition, but he had run out of time. It showed Loge-the god of fire and cunning: an impish silhouette against a holocaust of leaping flames. The air smelled of turpentine and linseed oil.

Deficient brushwork.

A poor colorist.

Tired themes.

Olbricht drained his glass.

There had been one good review. It had appeared in a small Pan-German publication. The writer had praised Olbricht's noble aspirations: his vision, his sensibility, his weltanschauung. But what good was that? He needed the support of the Zeitung, Die Zeit, Die Fackel, the Neues Wiener Tagblatt, the Neue Freie Presse. He needed so much more.

Suddenly, desolation was replaced by anger. Rage electrified his body and for a moment all he could see was a sheet of brilliant white light. He threw his glass and watched as it shattered against the opposite wall. Curiously, he found himself transported across the room. He was standing by the image of Loge, penknife in hand. The blade glinted as it descended-ripping, tearing, rending. He did not stop. He slashed wildly, breathlessly, until nothing of his work was left but tattered ribbons.

Olbricht allowed himself to slump against the wall. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and whispered into the darkness, “The Last Judgment.”