BAND OF BROTHER

Mon semblable, mon frère.

It's best to leave Currado Malsapina alone. 

I have yet to meet someone so talented yet so cripplingly insecure. Easily offended one must always guard their words and mind their mannerisms around him.  

There are rules of engagement while in audience with his thin wrinkled skin. One must never speak about oneself lest the touchy genius misconstrue a casual aside for a shot across the bow. 

 I once mentioned the strong affinity I had with Rahel Tornatoura, the gifted character actress who at one time worked in Los Angeles as an office temp and an artist's model. Months later, while discussing the tepid reception of a recent exhibition I noted that Rahel had responded more favorably than most and how touched I was by her generous and nuanced reading of my work.

"Evidemment imbécile," he spat contemptuously, "she was your employee, what else do you expect her to say!?"

He confessed to me once that he felt like a fraud and that his fame and reputation were tacitly ill-deserved. 

"Join the club," I nearly shrieked, "don't we all share the same occupational frailty?"

You see, Currado and I are two sides of the same bloodied tourniquet. We are twinned by temperament and fastened by fate . We are duplicates, with each one a counterfeit mirror of the other.

We artists are unstable by nature. We doubt our value while earnestly claiming for ourselves a precious slice of immortality. It's a double game of hubris and humility and in order to survive we must bathe in these awful contradictions.

But Currado has gone too far. In his dotage his nerves are frayed from overuse. He's so easily triggered that one day he flew into a rage because I innocently apologized for inadvertently offending him.

"How in the world could an insect like you think themselves capable of provoking the likes of me!!"

Good thing my French is a bit rusty because he soon lit into me like a swarm of praying mantises. 

It's all behind us now. Water under the bridge. We are close friends as never before and have reached a very good understanding.

Currado shares with me his thoughts, his feelings, his ideas and even his fears. He confides in me and offers me advice when he suspects I've veered off-course. Because he's confident of my sympathetic ear he boasts at times, slowly reading to me from newspaper reviews, magazine articles and even thank you notes and Christmas cards. He sends me pictures of his latest works and most recent girl-friends. He tells me of the books he's read and the lectures he's attended. And he generously offers me his latest theories on how to achieve true eudaimonia in this hectic, technological world.

I, in turn, nod my head, smile companionably and agree with every single thing he has to say.