February 15th, 2008

Miss Smoking

Create art in the style of another artist.

Excerpt from Practice, Practice, Practice, in the style of Vladimir Nabokov

Years later, I would hover over him as he sat at the slightly out-of-tune piano in my living room. A staple in every home of families striving to be considered part of the intelligentsia, it has since been rarely touched. His pallid hands and long fingers airily played over the aged ivories, which were then an old pearl color. Vershinin’s hands were slender and painfully fragile; I always felt that if I were to grab one of them too hard, it would break apart in my equally as small but stronger hand. They were patrician and skeletal passing over the keys as he would play Debussy and, his favorite composer, Bach. There was an antiquity about his hands, and I could visualize them move from the piano to a quill angled over yellowing parchment. Vershinin studied ugliness and conducted silent anthropological studies on man’s malevolence. He was fascinated by his own darkness and sought its origins in his surroundings. There was nothing of him beautiful except for his hands. I remember the first time I watched him play. I was wearing a long black dress.
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© FMK 2008