Ask the Author: Erica Miles
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Erica Miles
At 2:30 p.m., Gavilán was waiting for Sara at the Frick. He knew she was at her therapy appointment. But he had more important things to think about.
He was standing before an anatomical drawing of a skull, wondering how he was going to get back to Florence. He didn’t think he’d be able to take Sara with him. He had thirty minutes to kill, before she’d arrive. So he’d have to work out his plan strategically.
He was just about to send a mental command to the phantom brain, when without his initial awareness, the force field around his body started gradually pulling him closer to the drawing.
He saw where this maneuver—no doubt engineered by the artist, Michelangelo—was leading. The skull was going to interpenetrate his. The process had already begun, and he would not be allowed to disengage.
As the planes of the separate dimensions approached each other, the skull began to pulse and throb, acquiring cortical tissue, while the grey cells rapidly reproduced.
Gavilán remained motionless as the coupling proceeded, until he felt the other skull click into place about his ears and sensed the last delicate fitting of the tails of the two hippocampi. Then, with a discreet groan of release, he finally pushed through to the other side.
He looked about him with hybrid eyes and an uncanny sense that Sara had come along with him. He could almost smell her chamomile shampoo.
Would she dig this scene?
He was standing in a room that looked half like an artist’s studio and half like a medical laboratory. The room was as hot as a sauna. He looked around, pulled his t-shirt over his head, and looped it over his arm.
Glancing up, he saw a painted sketch on the ceiling.
Shit, if it ain’t a preview of the Sistine Chapel!
The painting showed God with a long, flowing beard, reaching out his hand to bestow a slap on the palm of a half-nude black youth with upturned eyes, who was lounging on a rocky precipice.
Hey, that’s me! How’d I get into that fresco?
Shoving the question to the back of his mind, Gavilán started to explore.
On the paint-spattered floor before him stood bottles, crammed with various-sized brushes, and vials of gesso, turpentine, linseed oil, and varnish. Against the closest perpendicular wall stood a table bearing a palette of mesmerizing colors, and projecting over it, a shelf holding jars of powdered pigments.
Forgetting Sara and everything else, Gavilán quickly scanned the labels: vermillion, umber, red ochre, yellow ochre, green earth, lead white, azurite, malachite. His smile stretched the jaw of the other skull when he came to the famous lapis lazuli blue, which he knew was made from crushed precious stones.
In the center of the room, a much longer table served almost as an operating table, save that the patient appeared to be deceased, and upon closer inspection, Gavilán could see a deep incision had been made from the cadaver’s throat clear through his chest, belly, and entrails, to his sex—the vital organs were revealed....
A stench such as Gavilán had never smelled permeated the air, but the flow of blood had been stanched, so that the colors and patterns of the organs were freely seen, as if one had x-ray vision into the internal workings of the body.
In a weird puritanical reversal, Gavilán sighed with relief to know Sara was not present to see and smell these corporeal objects.
Around the table stood four of Michelangelo’s friends, all with the same distinguished-looking mien and immaculately groomed, save for the white aprons they wore over their garments so as not to have them stained by the subject of their inspection. Giorgio Barbarelli de Castelfranco, Andrea del Sarto, Lorenzo di Credi, Antonio da Correggio, and now, added to their number, Gavilán Sanchez.
“I introduce you to the new study of anatomy,” said Michelangelo, spreading his hands. “I have used the scalpel to remove the flesh and define the body’s structure.”
Suddenly, the corpse’s penis lifted itself up and spewed forth a rain of semen upon the curious spectators.
“Rigamortis,” announced the master.
The others gave resigned smiles, as they wiped their mouths with their aprons. Only Gavilán, who was respectfully standing a slight distance away, was spared. He laughed heartily, and the others left the room, one by one, with grunts of disgust.
“I thought you wanted to learn to draw....” said Michelangelo softly.
Then, after untying his apron and laying it over the exposed corpse, he flashed Gavilán a frank smile and gave him a low five.
“Grazie! Were there not four Florentines cleansed?” he asked. “And only you, a foreigner, have remained to give thanks?”
This guy takes my breath away. But fuckit, I’ll be as big as him someday.
“No problem, Michael-O. You happen to have the time?”
Gavilán stood in his usual relaxed manner, shifting his weight onto one leg, and slung his t-shirt over his shoulder. In the soft light from the window, his bare chest shone almost alabaster white, and his sensual features took on a noble cast under his mass of curls.
“O, mio Dio!” cried Michelangelo, leaping wildly at his guest, trying to tear off his pants. “You are the youth who stands on the threshold of manhood! You are my Bible hero! David! You must stay and pose for me!”
Gavilán reined in his galloping heart. He felt the same magnetic waves coming from Michelangelo that he’d felt from his drawing at the Frick—the one that had pulled Gavilán through time, across the continents.
“Sorry, man. Wish I could. But I only have like half a sec.”
Michelangelo waved an apologetic hand toward the figure on the operating table. “I promise you will not wind up like him.... If I had to dissect you, I— I think I’d give up my sculpture and painting.”
Gavilán bit his lip. “Thanks, man. But you don’t understand. I’ve got a date. In New York. With a girl. Who wears glasses.”
“You will turn down the chance to pose as David for a date with a girl?”
Gavilán glanced at the hourglass on the mantelpiece. The last grains of sand were slipping through the neck into the bottom bulb
Looking down the hall, he could just make out Sara’s long, brown hair, flying in wisps, as she walked with a bounce through the door at the end of the gallery.
Excerpt from “Dazzled by Darkness: A Story of Art and Desire,” Copyright 2015.
He was standing before an anatomical drawing of a skull, wondering how he was going to get back to Florence. He didn’t think he’d be able to take Sara with him. He had thirty minutes to kill, before she’d arrive. So he’d have to work out his plan strategically.
He was just about to send a mental command to the phantom brain, when without his initial awareness, the force field around his body started gradually pulling him closer to the drawing.
He saw where this maneuver—no doubt engineered by the artist, Michelangelo—was leading. The skull was going to interpenetrate his. The process had already begun, and he would not be allowed to disengage.
As the planes of the separate dimensions approached each other, the skull began to pulse and throb, acquiring cortical tissue, while the grey cells rapidly reproduced.
Gavilán remained motionless as the coupling proceeded, until he felt the other skull click into place about his ears and sensed the last delicate fitting of the tails of the two hippocampi. Then, with a discreet groan of release, he finally pushed through to the other side.
He looked about him with hybrid eyes and an uncanny sense that Sara had come along with him. He could almost smell her chamomile shampoo.
Would she dig this scene?
He was standing in a room that looked half like an artist’s studio and half like a medical laboratory. The room was as hot as a sauna. He looked around, pulled his t-shirt over his head, and looped it over his arm.
Glancing up, he saw a painted sketch on the ceiling.
Shit, if it ain’t a preview of the Sistine Chapel!
The painting showed God with a long, flowing beard, reaching out his hand to bestow a slap on the palm of a half-nude black youth with upturned eyes, who was lounging on a rocky precipice.
Hey, that’s me! How’d I get into that fresco?
Shoving the question to the back of his mind, Gavilán started to explore.
On the paint-spattered floor before him stood bottles, crammed with various-sized brushes, and vials of gesso, turpentine, linseed oil, and varnish. Against the closest perpendicular wall stood a table bearing a palette of mesmerizing colors, and projecting over it, a shelf holding jars of powdered pigments.
Forgetting Sara and everything else, Gavilán quickly scanned the labels: vermillion, umber, red ochre, yellow ochre, green earth, lead white, azurite, malachite. His smile stretched the jaw of the other skull when he came to the famous lapis lazuli blue, which he knew was made from crushed precious stones.
In the center of the room, a much longer table served almost as an operating table, save that the patient appeared to be deceased, and upon closer inspection, Gavilán could see a deep incision had been made from the cadaver’s throat clear through his chest, belly, and entrails, to his sex—the vital organs were revealed....
A stench such as Gavilán had never smelled permeated the air, but the flow of blood had been stanched, so that the colors and patterns of the organs were freely seen, as if one had x-ray vision into the internal workings of the body.
In a weird puritanical reversal, Gavilán sighed with relief to know Sara was not present to see and smell these corporeal objects.
Around the table stood four of Michelangelo’s friends, all with the same distinguished-looking mien and immaculately groomed, save for the white aprons they wore over their garments so as not to have them stained by the subject of their inspection. Giorgio Barbarelli de Castelfranco, Andrea del Sarto, Lorenzo di Credi, Antonio da Correggio, and now, added to their number, Gavilán Sanchez.
“I introduce you to the new study of anatomy,” said Michelangelo, spreading his hands. “I have used the scalpel to remove the flesh and define the body’s structure.”
Suddenly, the corpse’s penis lifted itself up and spewed forth a rain of semen upon the curious spectators.
“Rigamortis,” announced the master.
The others gave resigned smiles, as they wiped their mouths with their aprons. Only Gavilán, who was respectfully standing a slight distance away, was spared. He laughed heartily, and the others left the room, one by one, with grunts of disgust.
“I thought you wanted to learn to draw....” said Michelangelo softly.
Then, after untying his apron and laying it over the exposed corpse, he flashed Gavilán a frank smile and gave him a low five.
“Grazie! Were there not four Florentines cleansed?” he asked. “And only you, a foreigner, have remained to give thanks?”
This guy takes my breath away. But fuckit, I’ll be as big as him someday.
“No problem, Michael-O. You happen to have the time?”
Gavilán stood in his usual relaxed manner, shifting his weight onto one leg, and slung his t-shirt over his shoulder. In the soft light from the window, his bare chest shone almost alabaster white, and his sensual features took on a noble cast under his mass of curls.
“O, mio Dio!” cried Michelangelo, leaping wildly at his guest, trying to tear off his pants. “You are the youth who stands on the threshold of manhood! You are my Bible hero! David! You must stay and pose for me!”
Gavilán reined in his galloping heart. He felt the same magnetic waves coming from Michelangelo that he’d felt from his drawing at the Frick—the one that had pulled Gavilán through time, across the continents.
“Sorry, man. Wish I could. But I only have like half a sec.”
Michelangelo waved an apologetic hand toward the figure on the operating table. “I promise you will not wind up like him.... If I had to dissect you, I— I think I’d give up my sculpture and painting.”
Gavilán bit his lip. “Thanks, man. But you don’t understand. I’ve got a date. In New York. With a girl. Who wears glasses.”
“You will turn down the chance to pose as David for a date with a girl?”
Gavilán glanced at the hourglass on the mantelpiece. The last grains of sand were slipping through the neck into the bottom bulb
Looking down the hall, he could just make out Sara’s long, brown hair, flying in wisps, as she walked with a bounce through the door at the end of the gallery.
Excerpt from “Dazzled by Darkness: A Story of Art and Desire,” Copyright 2015.
Erica Miles
Journal a lot, jot down notes about your personal observations. Write down your dreams, write about what's picked up by your sensory antennae. Using sensory detail in writing is pretty important. It brings life to your stories. Join a writers group, so you'll have the benefit of getting feedback and constructive criticism. If you're not satisfied with what you've written, that's perfectly acceptable. Keep writing drafts. Many, many drafts. I recommend the book, "Bird by Bird," by Anne Lamott. One of her chapters, "Shitty First Drafts," is highly inspirational.
Erica Miles
Painting decoratively with words and adding brushstrokes of philosophy.
Erica Miles
As the Fiction Co-Editor of The Greenwich Village Literary Review, I am currently editing other writers' poems, memoirs, and stories for the upcoming June edition. Two of my pieces will appear in the Magazine, an online review. I am also in the process of preparing original stories for submission to the next edition, which should probably be published in the fall.
Erica Miles
I had to do research about the artists I described in order to develop their characters and give authentic details about their backgrounds and environments. I was pretty well-informed about art history to begin with. I loved reading about Picasso’s different mistresses and his macho personality. I loved the anecdote about Yvette Guilbert, a model of Toulouse Lautrec’s, and how she was a singer at the bistros, was adored by her audience. I loved reading about what she wore—long yellow gloves, long black dress—you can see her on the art nouveau posters. I loved descriptions of Paris in the early twentieth century. I loved fooling around with time travel and juxtaposing Gavilan’s slang and relaxed demeanor with the formality of the artists he interviewed. But I also used a lot of dialogue, almost as if in a play, and supplied a lot of drama from my own imagination.
Erica Miles
Don't sweat it. Don't worry about it. Go for a walk and get some fresh air, look at the scenery. Listen to some music or read a good book by another writer. Or call a friend and get what's blocking you out of your system. Or just have a nice chat about something completely different. Just doing something positive will help release you. Put you in a positive frame of mind. Worrying about not writing will never help you. Being patient with yourself and nurturing yourself is the key.
Erica Miles
Honestly, I like to get writing assignments, e.g., if I'm given a title. I really like structure and don't like to feel as if I'm floundering. Once, I attended a class at a library, and the teacher had written the following on the chalk board: The Rhythm of Despair. She told us to write a story on the spot in response. I thought of rhythm--dancing, walking, sexual energy--and its opposite: sexual repression. A lesson that had been drummed into me for years by some churches I attended. I thought of yearning for love and fulfillment, and the loneliness of having that stifled--and the sometimes psychotic rhythms that could lead to. I wrote impulsively about a psychotic experience I'd had in response to such influence. My teacher was caught off guard when I read my work aloud, and didn't know how to respond. Then she dismissed me, or rather, said something dismissive. Which ironically added to the rhythm of despair she'd suggested we write about. Fortunately, many writing teachers know how to create a safe space for students to honestly express themselves. And since writing is often a solitary experience, it's great to get the benefit of a class, a workshop, or some kind of community to share what you've written. It's great to bounce ideas off of other writers and receive affirmation and acceptance. All those lovely A words. But to get back to how to deal with criticism, once I was in a writers' group, where a woman made fun of something I'd written. I suffered over that for a while but finally saw the point to her criticism. I rewrote my scene completely, cutting and tightening, and making it much more dramatic. And I named one of my newly invented characters after the woman who'd been so hard on me, and referred to that character as my protagonist's best friend. It pays to be inventive. And sometimes you can learn more from criticism than from flattery. I still believe in feedback that can be diplomatic. But feedback is essential. No man is an island. Especially, not a writer.
Erica Miles
As with any work of fiction, part is inspired by autobiography and part inspired by imagination, the latter all the more so, because of the fantasy element. It starts off as a love story, a fantasy in the mind of the female protagonist come true. Her name is Sara. She suffers from mental illness, hears voices, and one of the voices in her head comes alive for her. She’s Jewish and middle-class. He’s a lower-class dark-complexioned Hispanic guy, an artist who’s into all kinds of experimental enterprises. She, too, is an artist, but her tastes are more traditional. Throughout the novel, the hero periodically withdraws into his own world and fantasizes about talking to artists from the past. He learns from them and challenges them. He’s a fast-talking street guy. Sara knows nothing about this. As far as she's concerned, he’s not going anywhere, but she’s attracted to him. Their relationship has a lot of ups and downs. Don’t want a spoiler, but the artist also has another relationship. With his best friend James. Just suggestive but significant. The culture clash and ego clash between the main male and female characters gradually intensifies to the point where they separate. So it is not a conventional romance, no happy ending, but a twist ending all the same. There is a lot of humor in the scenes between the young artist and great masters. There is also a lot of tragedy in the mixed-up romance. The reader—of whatever ethnicity--gets a chance to steal a peak at other cultures. The book may seem quaint to younger readers who are used to a more liberal society, and not one in which interracial love was more or less forbidden--at least considered revolutionary. A true glimpse into the Hippie culture of the ‘60s. And a thorough tour of European art through the eyes of a Brooklyn street guy. In the spirit of full disclosure, I suffered from mental illness as a young woman and know what it’s like. I was also in a hospital, as Sara was. But I also identified with Gavilan, the male protagonist. I used to be an artist myself, and enjoyed jumping into his crazy, creative head. The story started out as a memoir, but became so fictionalized and fantasized, it turned into a novel. I believe everyone has a love story inside them, even if it’s a damaged one. I wanted to revisit my past and redeem it and make beauty from the shards of tragedy.
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