I see Fat People

Once upon a time, Matthew Modine told a thought-provoking story about how art can come to more than just one’s emotional rescue

Fernando Botero paints fat people. Why? What is it about the rolls and roundness that compels him to paint – painting after painting – images of fatness? This was the question Errol was asking himself as he waited to enter the Galerie Gmurzynska. Errol was cold. The weather had suddenly changed from a warm Indian summer to a biting iciness. The gallery offered a cost-free escape from the bustling Paradeplatz in downtown Zurich. Errol felt the erratic autumn weather was due to what some Christians felt was all part of their god’s plan. “God’s warm embrace.” Errol knew better. He was a student of oceanography and, since 1978, had been observing and keeping close watch on the global changes dramatically altering the earth. Errol was worried that, at any moment, the world’s oceans would finally reject the obscene amounts of carbon dioxide and human shit dumped from the sky and sewer pipes, and simply die. This global death at sea would happen quickly and quietly, a chain reaction beginning with plumes of oxygen-sucking algae that would asphyxiate the food chain, killing almost everything that lives in the sea.

His anger wasn’t just toward the industrial nations and factories that had no regard for the common good of all life on the planet. Errol had a much larger resentment toward the people who hid behind the cloaks of religious faith.

He loathed anyone who thought that man had been preordained to hold dominion over nature. The ideas of a Manifest Destiny made him physically ill. It was this combination of ignorance and a diminishing separation between church and state that had brought Errol to Switzerland. He had found himself uncontrollably nauseous from the ever-growing lack of common sense overtaking the United States and, unlike others who said they would move if Bush were elected for a second term, Errol actually did. The move had left him broke and without clear direction, but this was a price he was willing to pay for his convictions. Now, after several years away from his home, the Europeans, whom Errol thought would embrace and applaud him for his convictions, didn’t. Europeans didn’t give a shit about his moral sincerity.

It seemed the Europeans felt that if Errol were truly passionate in his beliefs, then he should still be there, at home, trying to save his country, rather than running away from it. As an example of their conviction they cited Jean-Marie Le Pen and his right-wing National Front party, which threatened to become the new wave of leadership in France. They were so appalled that Le Pen had risen to international fame as a voice of France, so they did something about it. The French people came out in force and voted to end his campaign. French people wanted the world to know that Le Pen’s vision was not the way of French democracy and he lost in a landslide. Dip your freedom fries in that. By contrast after four years of terrible leadership, Americans re-elected George W Bush for a second term as leader of the “free world”. And so, instead of finding support for having chosen to leave his country in political disgust, Errol was a representation of American failure. To the Europeans Errol met, he was “The Stupid American”.

Before Errol was allowed to enter the gallery he had to wait for the inch-thick bulletproof glass door to be opened by a painfully expressionless security guard. Errol felt like a small dog whose ass was being sniffed by a larger dog. Dogs seem to suffer the humiliation for fear of being bitten. What exactly the guard was sniffing at or determining was unclear to Errol. The guard simply stared at him for what felt like more than a minute before squeezing a small remote control. The thick door slowly and automatically opened. The guard continued to stare with that stupid, powerless expression doormen share throughout the world. Being accepted by the guard and admitted into the gallery did nothing to boost Errol’s faltering confidence. He knew that this wasn’t acceptance, but allowance.

The gallery was filled with large paintings from Fernando Botero’s Circus Series. Errol tried not to see the subjects in the paintings as fat people. He remembered how much trouble the songwriter Randy Newman got into in the early stages of America’s “political correctness” movement. “Short people got no reason to live” became the anthem of misunderstood and underappreciated short people. It was only a moment before their cry was picked up by other disgruntled and underappreciated groups. No longer would you say someone was what he or she actually was. “Fat” would be replaced with, “oversized”, “large-boned” or even “well built”. These were the newer, kinder ways of saying “fat”. Someone (who?) had created terms that would become less offensive for those who were unlike others. No longer would we use “handicapped” to describe people with missing limbs or in wheelchairs. “Physically challenged” would sound so much kinder. Really? No more saying “man-made”. “Man-made” would become “artificial”. Don’t say “worse”, say “somewhat less desirable”. Much kinder. Really? This new Orwellian doublespeak would join the ranks of less offensive names and terms for killing. Sanitising war with expressions like “Search and Destroy” being substituted by the gentler “Sweep and Clean”. “Well built” is much nicer for the kids growing fat whilst eating in front of their television sets and playing video games. Let’s not offend our children. Errol thought that if this politically correct thinking crossed the Atlantic, he might no longer be considered a “Stupid American” but a “Mentally Challenged” one. He played this politically right game of his for a moment. “White male… oppressor. White male… racist… White person… racist. The establishment… white power elite.” These thoughts made him giggle as he stood in front of Botero’s Equilibrista, a painting of a fat, er, oversized circus performer balancing on one leg. She wears a powder blue skirt with white trim. One of her large legs is astonishingly lifted and pointed toward the top of the deep Mediterranean blue circus tent she is performing inside. Her other leg is planted firmly on the head of an expressionless man. Neither he nor the female performer shows any joy in their act. They frown, and stare back at the viewer. Errol felt that they were trying to ask a very important question that could never be answered: “Why?”

Errol’s voice echoed in the empty gallery. “Why, why, why…” Hearing his own voice, Errol looked back toward the guard. They stared at each other until the guard looked toward one of the gallery’s salespeople. She looked like she may have posed for Botero. She was large and rather heavy, but taller than Botero’s subjects, which seem to be dwarfed by their roundness. She approached Errol and introduced herself as Heidi. Errol couldn’t help but smile. Of course her name was Heidi. “Isn’t it amazing how they balance, ya? You see, all of the subjects in Mr Botero’s circus paintings are delicately teetering and finding balance – the subject and the colour and the composition. All very delicately balanced.” “Yes.” Errol tried to act as though he knew that. “How much is this painting?” Before answering, Heidi thought for a moment, as if trying to remember. “Eight hundred thousand euros.” Errol found himself pushing his lips forward and out as if actually considering the cost. “I see. And how about this one? This one’s quite nice.” “Pierrot. Ya. This is €800,000.” “And this one?” “Also €800,000.” “So, it isn’t the subject, but the size? All of the paintings this size are €800,000?” “Ya.” A phone rang from somewhere and the large, oversized salesperson excused herself. Errol felt the stare of the doorman, who was now, he realised, as expressionless as the Boteros that surrounded him. He looked away from the guard’s gaze and saw that there was a flight of stairs leading to more Boteros. He tried to appear casual and comfortable with the millions of dollars in artwork as he passed the guard and climbed the stairs. Errol was hoping that he would escape the stares and enter a less demanding environment as he headed toward the second floor. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw.

On the walls of the second floor there were elegantly printed cards with brief explanations of what art is and why an artist paints. Errol was indifferent to the explanations. He felt that an artist who asks €800,000 for a painting the size of a door had to say something clever and deep to justify the asking price. What is art anyway? What value does it have?

It won’t feed you when you’re hungry or keep you warm when you’re cold. It was just something you hang on your wall to decorate a space. If it happened to have been costly to purchase, then you could impress people with your perceived good taste and ability to acquire. This is what Errol was thinking when he entered a smaller room inside the gallery.

Here he found a dozen small, beautifully drawn illustrations called The Art of Abu Ghraib. The small room in which Errol found himself was perhaps the size of one of the many cells in the drawings. The lack of humanity depicted in the illustrations expanded the violence of American servicemen and women into a realm that the actual photos could not. Errol had seen the Abu Ghraib photos on the television and in newspapers. Each time he saw them he became more disgusted by the behaviour of the soldiers. But what had he done to protest the violence? What could he have done to stop it? Errol was never surprised by the violent cruelty mankind was able to impose on his fellow man. But the actual photos and television coverage only made him turn away from it. What Errol was experiencing in the face of Botero’s drawings were emotions that were from some place deep inside his belly and, for the first time, he was unable to turn away from the violence. He was experiencing what the hand of an artist can do that the photos and TV coverage could not. All these media are two-dimensional. They all give the illusion of depth and texture. But a drawing carries the emotion of the artist and his hand, the vibrations of an individual’s touch. The human eye is similar to the lens of a camera, but the camera’s lens only captures the light that enters it. The light passes through the carefully ground glass then lands on a piece of celluloid or a digital chip. The light, its colour and its shadows are simply captured, or recreated. The eye, on the other hand, carries the light it perceives and is absorbed by the brain. The light is interpreted by billions of synapses and then becomes subject to years of learned emotion and critical thinking. When an artist interprets this light, he transforms the vision through his or her porous and multilayered brain, filtering perception of life and personal experience and allowing it to spill into the nerves and muscles of their trained, artistic hands. It is the unique perception of the individual and their idiosyncratic experiences that create distinctive perceptions that separate their interpretation and view of the world we share. El Greco saw people long and thin. Botero sees people round and fat.

Errol was considering that perhaps Botero didn’t see fat as something physical, relating to our bodies, but a manifestation of the mind or soul. As he looked at the drawings, Errol was now seeing and feeling something different in the emotionless, unsmiling subjects. Errol saw human confusion. He saw that whereas we talk about our goodness and humanity toward each other, we really haven’t evolved from our vicious and historical pasts. Other than the title of the drawings, The Art of Abu Ghraib, the drawings didn’t portray an American soldier torturing an Iraqi. These were not particular people from a particular place. This wasn’t good Christians pissing on bad Muslims. It wasn’t good US soldiers torturing bad Al-Qaeda or Taliban fighters. This was, simply, a horrible act of human beings against other human beings, justified by religious and racial prejudice that lives beneath the skin of perhaps all mankind. Botero’s drawings were as powerful and urgent as Guernica, Picasso’s monumental illustration of the violence of the Spanish Civil War.

Errol was experiencing the complexity of life from this two-dimensional drawing. The light that touched Botero’s eyes had been transformed from his particular view of life into a multidimensional recreation of a tragedy that can sometimes only be seen through the lens and genius of an artist. Errol felt that Botero deserved the money people paid for his colourful decorations because they would be supporting the genius of The Art of Abu Ghraib. “People with the greatest capacity for good…” Errol turned to face Heidi, “are also the ones with the greatest capacity for evil.” Errol wondered how Heidi had entered the small space unnoticed, then nodded and agreed. “But these are not for sale.” “Of course not.” She was wearing a sweet-smelling perfume that Errol had not noticed before – or that had just been applied. As she walked away, Errol also noticed that Heidi was wearing knee-high boots with tall heels. They clicked, creating a curious echo in the empty gallery.

For Errol, there was something disturbing about hearing a Swiss-German accent saying that people with the greatest capacity for good also have the greatest capacity for evil. He was sure it was from the films about the Second World War he had seen while growing up. In those films, Germans were always the bad guys. Errol looked one last time at The Art of Abu Ghraib and wondered if what Heidi had said was behind the reason he was running away from America. Both of these seemed like reasonable explanations. But the former was simply racially charged prejudice that had no relevance today, especially to Heidi, who couldn’t have been born until the Sixties. “Why would I think that? Because of an accent? Why do I think ‘Nazi’ just because a person with a German accent says, the word ‘evil’? I’m smarter than that.” Errol shrugged his shoulders and thought that maybe there was something positive behind the goals of political correctness. “But what could I do,” Errol thought, “about my home becoming a place with perhaps the greatest capacity for evil?” He came out of the small room and saw his reflection on a polished piece of chrome. He marvelled at it until he noticed that his reflection was distorted, making him appear like a Botero. A round face with that blank stare and unsmiling expression.

Errol made his way down the stairs and out of the gallery. As he waited for the heavy bullet-proof door to open, he looked once again at the guard. This time Errol chose not to look away when the stare became uncomfortable and challenging. The guard looked into Errol with that blank bouncer stare and finally said, “Guten Abend.” Errol nodded and stepped into the brisk evening air. He looked back at the guard but the thick glass distorted his image. Errol pulled up his collar and noticed a painting he hadn’t seen when entering the gallery. It was part of the series of Circus paintings. It was called Circus Act and depicted a young woman falling backward, but not quite falling off, a fat white horse. Errol had seen this act at the circus before; a young, beautiful woman doing tricks on the back of a powerful horse as it gallops gracefully and forcefully around a ring. The memory was erotic for Errol. He didn’t know why. The figure in Botero’s painting was topless. She also appeared less fat than other subjects from the group. The topless rider was wearing underpants. Blue with black stripes and red trim. Her hair was dark, long and flowing. Red bracelets on each wrist. Interestingly, the whip she held wasn’t threatening. The leather strap that would normally be used to whip the horse appeared more like a silk ribbon. Blue and unfurling. Errol felt a rise of erotic emotion as he looked at the painting. Perhaps it was the way she laid comfortably on the horse’s back, her legs opened around its powerful neck. Or maybe it was her round breasts and sidelong glance, which reminded him of a teenage tryst.

As Errol thought how similarly the emotions of sex and violence can be perceived, a blast of cold wind off Lake Zurich slapped his face and brought him back to the present. He pulled his coat closed and then saw Heidi from inside the gallery. She had been staring at him – for how long he didn’t know. She looked like a Botero.

– Matthew Modine’s newest short film I Think I Thought is available on iTunes

2 Responses

1. shathi Says:
   October 21st, 2009 at 7:24 am

   It’s nice

2. Your mother Says:
   November 20th, 2009 at 5:29 pm

   Woooooooow!

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