The artist and the composer.

The composer gave the Artist a ring hoping to make arrangements to meet during his visit to Paris. “I hope I am not being a bother. I am Aram Katchaturian. I was given your number from so and so, who got it from so and so who says he is a dear friend of yours. “

“What is the motive of your call, Aram,” replied the Artist.

“Yes, well…” the Composer nervously went on. “I have been given the invitation to visit Paris next month to speak at a conference. I am a composer, are you familiar with my work? My most famous composition is called “Running with the Horses. “

The Artist shook his head yes, of course unseen by the composer through the telephone. The Composer continued, angered by the silence on the other line, his voice displayed more confidence.

“I have always been very appreciative of your work Monsieur. It is common knowledge you live on the outskirts of Paris in a big castle. Will you be there on the fifteenth? I would like to pay you a visit. Meet another fellow genius, as they call us. “

“Well, my fellow genius, I will be home, and you may visit. I must warn you it shall be brief because I am preparing for a new exhibition in New York. “

The Artist hung up before the composer asked for directions. He decided not to call again, fearing he would be disinvited for being so bothersome, and he consoled himself knowing he would find his way.

As the time came closer to the Composer became overwhelmed with excitement. He fantasized the Artist would find his company so enjoyable that he would be invited to stay longer than expected. They would sit and eat and drink and converse for hours leading to the beginning of a life long friendship. The Composer neglected his preparation for the conference. He was expected to have a speech ready but all of his concentration was spent in anticipation for meeting the artist.

The Composer stood in front of the podium. As he waited for the end of his welcoming applause he surveyed the large crowd which filled the large auditorium. Once the crowd fell silent, he began.

“In life we suffer. There are moments of pure joy but for most of our life we struggle to survive,” he paused. “I am driven by my pain. “

The Composer was a mild tempered man.

“Artistic work can only be of genius quality if it is made by the soul of a man who suffers, who is misunderstood, who is truly alone– who is plagued by his impending death. “

The Composer was not plagued by his impending death. Being a religious man he looked forward to it because he believed in an afterlife.

“His obsession,” he continued, “with his own mortality pushes the man to develop a truly extraordinary artistic creation. I am inspired by life. I am inspired by the love I have for my wife and child. “

The Composer’s first wife had made the mistake of having a child. Their life, childless–complacent, and quiet life was destroyed once the baby was born. That responsibility made him flee like a scared cat. He had only met his child once. Being a famous man it had not been hard to find a replacement. When he met his second wife she had the good fortune of expressing her disdain for children and so he promptly married her stating she was the only woman he ever truly loved.

“Literature inspires me greatly. The works of Nabokov, Sokolov, Kotchetkov…”

This, another lie. He never had been moved by a line in a book. He had never found a book that touched his heart. He only read to consider himself well read.

“My life changed when I first heard the works of Tchaikovsky, Gershwin, Mozart–they are truly genius composers. “

This repetition of the word genius and love was engrained in his vocabulary as shield. He used them to hide his indifference. The composer could never tell anyone the truth about his work. He was praised as a genius so frequently that he believed it. What others didn’t know was that his music was borne not organically but systematically. Through a system of formulas to regurgitate other composer’s compositions he was capable of making new compositions. His talent at plagiarism was so great that no one had ever noticed, and he was convinced no one ever would. The emotionally frigid man had grown an ego so large that it convinced no one to question his legitimacy. He continued his speech about this and that for the next ten minutes. When he was finished there was a strong ovation, as always.

The next morning he took a taxi to the town of, such and such, where the castle was known to be. He questioned the townspeople, in his broken French, looking for the Artist’s castle. No one paid him any mind except for a one woman who gave him only a vague direction. On a desolate road they took a right and then a left. They accidentally passed the entrance several times. The sign “S. Dali” had been too small.

By this time the Composer was exhausted and sweating from the Summer sun, and his bladder was full. Deciding he would be civilized he waited until he was inside the castle to relieve himself. The composer ascended the marble steps and rapped the knocker, whose handle was the head of a lion. A man dressed in a suit with cattails received him, which he assumed to be the Artist’s butler.

“I have an appointment to meet Mr. Dali.” Kachaturian explained.

“He will be with you shortly, please sit, wait. ” The butler left before the Composer had remembered to ask to use the toilet for his pleading bladder.

He had been left in the entrance hall, a space empty except for an old chipped vase. After fifteen minutes the composer became impatient and decided to find a toilet. He was extremely disappointed when he found all the doors had been locked. He was trapped.

After half an hour he could no longer wait and finally relieved himself.

Suddenly, two large doors opened. His composition “Running with the Horses” could be heard coming from the other room. He could not believe his eyes. The Artist was a riding a horse, wearing nothing except the hair on his body. He gave the Composer a smile, which was framed by his curled mustache and trotted three times around the Composer. The Composer in a state of shock, could not say a word. He didn’t understand humor. Was the artist making fun of him? Was this some kind of performance?

Only after the Artist rode away did the butler appear. ” I hope your visit was enjoyable. Mr. Dali is very busy because of his upcoming exhibition, I am afraid he has no more time to spare. Please come again. ” When he reached his Paris hotel he decided he must phone the Artist demanding an apology.

” How dare you treat me in such a vile manner,” the Composer yelled into the phone. “I demand an apology!”

Quite calmly Dali replied, “I thought a fellow genius would appreciate my humorous performance. It was meant to be a homage to your work. “

“A homage! Quite clever!” the composer said sarcastically.

“I should be the one demanding an apology,” said the Artist.

“The vase you chose to relieve yourself was no replica. It is a Classical work of art, irreplaceable, but now made worthless. Please do not bother me again or I might ask for my compensation. “