Man Nr. 5
When I was 5 years old, a man flew past my window. He fell and broke his neck on the pavement below. The young man, a roof worker, was a respected community figure, a musician, writer, and tennis pro. The tragedy was fortunately wasted on me as I didn’t catch the aftermath. But that image, that frozen moment in time of this young man briefly framed within my window, stuck with me forever. I developed a tic where I had to frame everything I saw within my mind. My relationships, my studies, my work, my life — they were all windows. I perceived everything as an allegory on windows.
“I still don’t believe it’s real. My realisation is when I go to the cemetery to, you know, to see my son. And that’s what I have left, you know—just a plaque...”
My parents sought out varied experts concerning my condition. I was diagnosed with Obsessive Framing. A condition caused by a traumatic event during crucial stages of development. I was given medications, exposure therapy, hypnosis, counselling. Nothing worked. I had almost given up hope, until one day I suddenly discovered the joys of painting. Finally, thought poured into form. I could store these images elsewhere, and gradually began healing. I had found my calling. I would make this my life.
“It’s not a right thing. He was young. Thirties old. He was just coming into his own...”
I went to study at The Royal Academy. The year I graduated, government fell. The ambitious fled, the stubborn stayed, and I became its lost generation. Buildings stood empty throughout the city, and me along with a group of burgeoning artists started squatting in an old diplomatic residency. These were the golden years. When great power fell, and new power was yet to rise. Where you could experience true freedom with all its beauty and consequences — if only for a brief window. Musicians, writers, painters, photographers, directors, designers, and actors frequented the residence and flourished. And yet, for many, the city had begun swallowing itself; and with it, themselves. Liquidations, overdoses, disappearances and kidnappings ran rampant. By the end of the year, this seemingly eternal crowd conga-lining through the ruins of an empire gone past, had either danced itself to death or left entirely. Optimism became pulp. Worse than nihilism, irony crept in which makes us all so terribly complacent, and by the end, I was its lone survivor.
“The other night I was flipping between two channels, and there were these two karate films. This guy, this ninja, he kicks someone off the building. And you know, you just don’t see the outcome — you have to see what happens when they hit the pavement. I mean, this has been... for me... and I look at this, this nobody, and all I can do is think about what happened to my son...”
During this solitary period, I had gotten into the habit of stationing myself behind a curtain, telescopic camera in hand, scouring opposing buildings, documenting life as seen through windows. I had several subjects. Dog Nr. 1, Woman Nr.8, Boy Nr. 2. But non intrigued me as much as Man Nr. 5. He had just moved into the suite. Never opened a curtain except for a small window besides a kitchen table. Apart from a few cupboards, a stove, and kitchen utensils — the suite’s innards remained a mystery to me. Each night he would sit and eat his meals behind the kitchen table, then he’d light a cigarette, have a sip, and stare. His eyes. They had an emptiness about them. A non-existent line of vision. His face — a dud, almost see-through — spoke of nothing. A walking canvas. I became enamoured. I made him my mister nobody. I sketched endlessly trying to figure out which placing of the lip, furling of the brow, or sinking of the cheek best conveyed his non-being. Weeks went by as I produced work after work — yet, emptiness eluded me. I began theorising. Nothing breeds nothing. Form is emptiness, emptiness is form. A single speck destroys the vacuum. It needs to be perfect. Images within me, images — I couldn’t store. Out poured paintings, writings, photographs — yet, emptiness eluded me. I grew restless, frustrated. I was full of him. I slept, breathed, and ate this man — yet. He got out another cigarette. I looked through the telescope and saw him staring directly at me. I fell back, slipped into myself, grew instantly cold; his gaze pierced my lens, tore through the viewfinder, scattered, and took hold. It enslaved the space. Absorbed, and became it. Hate crept through my walls. Hatred. That stare. It was pure, unadulterated hatred. I snatched away the telescope, and knocked an over-flowing ashtray off the windowsill, darting buds and fluttering ashes smashed into scattered pieces of glass onto the pavement below. I stumbled around in a haze when a door-knock, thumping, made the walls leer and ceiling shrug. I turned to face the door when I froze. An urge. I felt a hand over me. Soothing. The edge. It bid. Step closer. Jump, man in the window. No. Frame. I bid you. Yes. Make me a frame. Fit me. Please. Form me. Shape me. Give it. Please. And left.
“It’s a kind of greed. Or hate. Or whatever. The guy who did this to Joe, I’m sure, really doesn’t care. And the thing that’s so infuriating is, if the guy ever met Joe, he would’ve liked him. A lot of people did. He was a musician, writer, a tennis pro...”
I continued to observe the suite, but two weeks came and went without a sight of him. He was gone. His absence filled me with immeasurable dread. I was glued to the lens. Life outside of it felt enormous. A blink stretched miles. The city, its buildings, its citizens, all became oppressive. It drove me to a point where I could no longer continue my work. So I packed what little I had, and left for Budapest.
“An interesting concept I came up with, thinking about all this: isn’t it odd that someone else does the crime... and I do the time. You know, some guy did the crime. Now I’m doing the time for it. I’m doing the life sentence for this—because I’ll think about it every day, just like the guy who did it.”
Years later I was doing an exhibition in Moscow when a woman approached me. She remembered those years; in that damnable city. She lived there at the time. I was delighted meeting her. The conversation was pleasant, we were reminiscing. The good and the bad. ‘It was such a vibrant time, you truly had to be there. Indescribable. It’s all clean now, respectable even,’ she droned on then gleefully told me how much she loves Man Nr. 5. ‘I lived right across his hall! That’s him right?’ She laughed. My heart sank. She unwittingly continued about the beauty of my work, and asked me if I ever got to meet him. I said I did, swallowing an unpleasant ordeal and barfing out a stringy smile. She found it all so wonderful, so ’...surreptitious,’ even. ‘Haha. The odds!’ Her lips curling. ‘A bit of a strange man, no? Was he? Never left the house.’ She went on. ‘He just disappeared, didn’t even take his stuff. Not that he had much.’ She said a couple came to view the suite one day, and meeting them, gave her a tour, and found nothing but a single kitchen table, a stove, some kitchen utensils and a few cabinets. The rest of the grandiose suite was completely barren. The place had no toilet, no shower, no heating, no bed. Completely stripped and painted over — even the sockets. ‘What a waste! Strange right?’ She laughed. ‘I don’t know if this is the right moment to ask, but you’d think you could do a portrait of me sometime? Well, behind a window? Have I told you I really love your work?’
‘You kill someone. They’re dead. You step on a bug, you kill it. It’s dead. That’s it. You rot, make good soil for someone’s tomato garden, and that’s it. I don’t believe in karma, I don’t believe in any of that, because my friend died for nothing. I can’t find a single reason why he died, except that someone pushed him, and that’s it. I mean, he did his job — that’s what he did. That’s what we’re guilty of — doing our job. That’s what he did to die.’