Michelangelo's Seizure

When it happened, finally,on the preparation bridge,where he had stood all morninggrinding the pigments, groominghis brush-tips to a fine pointso that he could thread Eve 's hairlike a serpent down her back,his head rocked forward on the bell-chainof his spine, the catwalksrattling as he fell, a paint-bowl splattering the ceiling,then spinning like a dying bird,to the cathedral floor, frighteningthe assistant who-trainedin such matters-huffed upthe footbridge to wedgethe handle of a wooden brushbetween the mouse-trap of the teeth,to keep the master from biting offhis tongue. Did the choir-boxfill with angels? Did the masterfeel the beast rising up in himto devour the pearl of heavenat the center of his brain? If youwere that assistant, kneelingnext to the stampeded body,smelling the quicklime in the air,the boiled milk of plaster, seeing himtangled in the body's vines, voiceless,strained, would you call it rapture?The assistant didn't either, didn't evenconsider it, or think to pray,but sat watching as the spirit clatteredback inside of him, like a chandelierlowered from a ceiling-and when it was over, he thought

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he heard the artist curse softlyas he surfaced, a small word, violent,so that when the master walked outsideto get some air, the boy sat atopthe scaffolding, eating his orangeand letting the fruit peels fall,like drips of flame, feeling freerin a way, almost glad. Outside,it was fall, the city proudwith chimneys. Ragged, cloudsof plaster in his beard, his mouthhollow, aching like an empty purse,Michelangelo could still hearthe tortured voices on the ceilingcalling out for completion,amputated, each face shadowedwith his own, which he would paint,one morning, with the witchcrafthushed inside his veins,onto the flayed skin of St.Bartholomew, crumpled, fierce,with two dead bugs crushedinto the paint, like that bit of terror,he would think, sealed insideof everything He makes. Is thiswhat I have inside of me? Nowhe lifted his fingers to his lips,to the wasp's nest of his mouth,and withdrew, with the ease of spittingout an apple stem, a tiny splinterof wood that had sunk into his tongue.

• El ataque de Michelangelo
• Steve Gehrke (bio)
  Translated by Mariana Past (bio)

Cuando tomó lugar, por fin,en la puente de preparación,donde había estado de pie durante toda la mañanamoliendo los pigmentos, alisandolas puntas de sus pinceles hasta que estuvieran finaspara que pudiera hacer pasar el pelo de Evapor su espalda como una serpiente,su cabeza se estremeció hacia adelante en la cadenade su espina, las pasarelastemblando mientras caía, un cuenco depintura salpicando el techo,entonces girando como un pájaro moribundo,hasta el piso de la catedral, asustandoal asistente que-entrenadoen tales asuntos-subió con esfuerzoel andamio para apretarel asidero de un pincel de maderaentre la ratonera de los dientes,para impedir que el maestro mordierasu lengua. ¿Se llenó de ángelesel palco? ¿Pudo sentirel maestro que la bestia ascendía dentro de élpara devorar la perla del paraísoal centro de su cerebro? Si fuera Ud.ese asistente, arrodillándoseal lado del cuerpo atropellado,oliendo en el aire la cal viva,la leche hervida del yeso, viéndoloenmarañado en la enredadera de su propio cuerpo, sin voz,fatigado, ¿lo llamaría éxtasis?Tampoco lo hizo el asistente, ni aun loconsideró, o paró para rezar,sino se quedó sentado, observando mientras el espírituresonaba y regresaba a su cuerpo, como una lámparabajada de un techo-y cuando terminó, pensó

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que había escuchado jurar en voz baja el artistamientras volvía en sí, una palabra pequeña, violenta,conque cuando el maestro salió para afuerapara tomar un poco de aire...