FIC: Average 3/6

[lobelia321]

TITLE: Average
PART: 3/6
AUTHOR: Lobelia <lobelia321@aol.com>
WEBSITE: http://www.geocities.com/lobelia321/
PAIRING: Viggo Mortensen / Kiran Shah
RATING: R
SUMMARY: Viggo is adrift. Kiran is in love.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please, I would love feedback! Anything, even if it's only one line, one word!
CONTENT/WARNINGS: RPS. Middle-aged dwarf.
CATEGORY: Weird pairings. Hobbit stand-in.
SPOILERS: *The Two Towers*, *The Return of the King*
ARCHIVE RIGHTS: Beyond the Fellowship. My niche. Anyone else, please just ask.
DISCLAIMERS: This is a work of amateur fiction and poetry pastiche. I do not know these people. I am not making money. The events described in this story did not happen.
AUTHOR'S NOTES, THANK YOUs and DEDICATION: See Part 0/6.

-----------

5 *Viggo*

Terrible.

Terrible news. Or rather, not news. The news is old but I have only just got it. The review, that is. The terrible review of my show. It came in the post today. The gallery guy sent it, I can't even remember his name.

I can barely re-read it. I can barely focus on the words. But I must, I must, I must. Here are the words. I'll paste them in here. The terrible, terrible words.

//*Recent Forgeries*.

//Viggo Mortensen is better known for his acting work in such movies as *Witness* or *Portrait of a Lady* than for his achievements in the realm of visual art -- and rightly so. His most recent contribution to Los Angeles' art scene has all the hallmarks of a wannabe celebrity cross-over, not much different from Madonna's migration onto the silver screen or David Hasselhoff's efforts as a singer-songwriter. Except, if this is at all possible, with even worse results.

//At first sight, Mortensen's works on canvas offer a pleasant enough array of pretty colours and harmonious shapes. His painting *Pope's Apology*, for example, would appear to be a competent if rather bland exercise in 1960s monochrome abstraction. One is reminded of the early colour-field painters, with scratch marks reminiscent of post-war Dubuffet. However, closer inspection reveals that this is not a work of abstraction at all; a cross, submerged under striations of pigment, emerges before the attentive spectator's gaze, and this visual trope links the painting, in an all too facile manner, to its rather pretentious title. This is thus little more than illustration or, to invoke the late Clement Greenberg's favourite hobby horse: kitsch.

//As one wanders through the exhibition, matters only get worse. *Sun Losing its Yellow* is a feeble attempt at nature symbolism filtered through the tired eyes of Elwyn Lynn or Gerhard Richter (who, one hastens to add, did this sort of thing so much better) while *Mute* has all the attractions of a discounted wallpaper pattern at your local Ikea store. The worst offender to aesthetic sensibilities may be the ambiguously titled *Red*. Lest the hopeful viewer expect the rudiments of political commentary, I hasten to add that *Red* seems merely to refer to the generously-deployed pigment of the same name or, although one dreads to follow this line of thought, to the trite emotions expressed by Rorschachian colour associations. This, of course, is Bauhaus paedagogics taken to its lowest common denominator. We see a collage-cum-multimedia work: a superimposed face at top left abuts a network of crisscrossed white lines and hovers above body fragments and discarded items of clothing. This mishmash of figuration and abstraction, of the indexical nature of the real and the iconic presence of the oneiric, does not even rise to the level of the naive dabblings of high-school leavers.

//Mortensen has ransacked the treasure chests of the last hundred years of art and come away with a ragbag of disconnected pickings. We see neither an original take on modernism, nor a post-modern deconstruction of its premises, nor even a sincere attempt at self-expression. This reviewer left the exhibition convinced more firmly than ever of the truth of the old adage: Cobbler, stick to your last.//

There's no name at the end. An anonymous stab in the heart.

I know I shouldn't care about this. Sticks and stones. But I feel terrible. I feel dizzy. I feel sick. Something's gone wrong inside me. I wonder if I can go on set tomorrow? If only I'd brought home the Aragorn costume tonight. I just want to wrap myself in that thick maroon coat and go to sleep. Except if I go to sleep I might have that nightmare again.

Why does this even bother me? I get some dud reviews, I get some glowing reviews. Okay, I don't even get that many reviews but still, they shouldn't bother me. I must look up some of these artists that get mentioned. Who's this Clement Greenberg guy, anyway? But shit, I haven't got any of my art books here. Nothing's been shipped yet. Shit, I haven't even *heard* of some of these people.

Not that it should matter. Art comes from the heart, after all, doesn't it? I don't make my art to please a crowd. And I don't make my art to have an 'original take on modernism' or any of that bullshit. Why should I even bother or know about any of that? The art world is such a pretentious bullshit place, anyway; it's just driven by money. Money and pretentious drivel. It's worse than the fucking movie industry. I don't need it! I have enough here, in my heart, in my *soul*, to create something that speaks, that says something true.

Except I am not so sure anymore. What is my heart? Where is my soul? It's all drifting apart. I've lost touch. How can I express anything so elusive and shifting? I've lost hold of my world, and now I'm starting to think I never *had* hold of the world.

I don't know why I haven't seen this review before. And why is it a print-out and not the published version? The show's been over for months and months. Why does this arrive so late? Oh, there's a note in the envelope as well. Didn't even see that.

I have just read the note. It's from the gallery guy. He says this arrived at the gallery; it's from *Art in America*. My God, *Art in America*! They were going to print it back in the winter but then they didn't, but they thought maybe the gallery would be interested, apologies for the delay and so on. Why didn't they end up printing it? I'll just read the back of the note.

I thought I couldn't feel worse but now I do. I've just read the back of the note. The magazine didn't print the review because they didn't think it was important enough. 'Mr Mortensen's show is too average for our journal,' they wrote.

Too average.

Average. Mediocre. *Almindelig.*

I need to eat some yoghurt. I need to take a sleeping tablet.

Average. I'm too fucking average.

-----------

6 *Kiran*

Brother-dear

As you can see, I am enclosing this signed photo of Christopher Lee! Yes, you thought I'd never do it, didn't you? But here it is!

I met him for the first time on set today. He is the one really *famous* movie star on set. What with so many unknowns or half-knowns, this was a real treat. I knew we were filming with him today (my trusty shooting schedule!) so I had your photo of him with me. You will be proud to hear that I ran up to him immediately to ask for an autograph. As you see, he has signed the photo but you are probably annoyed to see that it is not dedicated to you! When it came to the crunch, I felt too foolish to ask him to dedicate it to my big grown brother, to my dada! I thought it would sound less immature if I said it was for my nephew. So I'm afraid I chickened out, and the photo is now signed, 'To dear Chaitan'. Well, I didn't tell him, of course, that Chaitan is a grown man himself now! Chaitan-ji should be pleased, at any rate.

And tell Chaitan, will you, thanks again from me. It is such a kind idea of him. I didn't even know he was that skilled in web design but to have my own website -- well, I think that would be tip-top smashing. So, thank you!

I have had another run-in with Viggo Mortensen, you know, the actor who is now playing Aragorn. He is not uninteresting. He is half-Danish, half-American, and I found out that he is also an artist and a published poet, which is unusual. I did not ask him directly; I found this out from the other actors. He often sits slightly apart from us lot when we have a shooting break and writes in this notebook that he carries with him. He is probably writing poetry. Well, you can imagine how that interests me.

Today we had another long break waiting around, and this time I sat down near him. He is a solitary type of man. Not that this bothers me, on the contrary; I quite like it because I also like to be on my own at times. As you well know! Anyway, he was sitting apart from everybody else so I sat down near him on an empty stool. I took out my own small notebook and started writing. I don't know why; it is not something I usually do, write on set, although I do like to carry my notebook with me. After a while, I noticed that Viggo was glancing at me very intently. I let him do that for a bit, then I looked up and smiled at him. I have to admit it was a kind of dare, to see if he would remember my name this time. After all, he's been hoicking me around enough! Either on his back or throwing me onto the horse; we are always in each other's arms, one way or another, haha!

And he did remember! He said, "Hello, Kiran", so I was mollified. Except he pronounced it 'Keeren', but then he can't help that, he is half-American. He asked me what I was writing. In a way, I had wanted him to ask that. But when he did ask, I felt a bit embarrassed also, but I finally replied, "I am writing poetry." And he said, "Poetry?", and looked very surprised, and then said, "So do I! I write poetry." And I said, "Of course. I know that. That's why I told you. Otherwise I would have said I was writing a shopping list!"

That was the end of that conversation, for the time being. He had his own notebook on his lap, and I went back to mine but I noticed that he wasn't really writing anything. He was reading his notebook; he kept turning back and reading the same page over and over. I also noticed that he was looking rather glum. In fact, he was looking very glum. So after a few moments, I politely asked him what he was reading. He almost jumped out of his chair! He stuttered and stammered, and then he revealed that it was a review of an exhibition he had had in Los Angeles. It turns out that this review was not very favourable to his art. This is why he was so glum. He seemed very relieved to be able to talk about this. He was in a right state about it too, I can tell you.

But I mean to say: Actors, you know! Sometimes I think I am not working with other professionals but with princesses on their peas. Still, it must be tough to be getting bad reviews. It is one thing I will always be spared so perhaps I shouldn't mock. Nobody ever reviews the body-doubles! People will probably not even know my name after this movie comes out, or bother waiting for the stunt credits to scroll down.

Ah, dada, we have talked about this often. I don't really feel bitter about it any longer, as you know. But sometimes I can't help thinking... well, you know. I am thinking that even a bad review might be better than no review at all. At least with a review you know that somebody has noticed your existence.

Anyway, to distract him I asked Viggo how he liked New Zealand, and he started babbling about how this country is topsy-turvy and how that makes him feel topsy-turvy. So I told him about my upside-down map, and you wouldn't believe how interested he got in that. He got very absorbed in the whole issue of what is up and what is down; he was actually philosophising on the set! I invited him to come and see the map some time.

Because he was feeling so glum I asked if he wanted to go for drinks later on after we wrap for the day. He looked so incredibly pleased, it is difficult to describe.

I am on my way to drinks with him in a few minutes. I have chosen a bar I went to with John last weekend, a very nice bar not far from where I am living. I can walk there.

The reason I am telling you this is just to remind you that my stay here is not all about stunts and insurance and hanging about with the technical crew. I do have other interactions with people as well! And I am not lonely here; I don't know what put that in your head. If I am feeling really isolated, I can always call on the Dunedin relatives, haha!

And there's something else, too. But more about that another time.

Just one last thing: Thank you for the eczema tincture you sent! It has proven to be very useful. John came over last night; I was confused as how to prepare it at first; you have to make it up with hot water and such, but once I had mixed it up and applied it to John's skin, it worked wonders. He said it was really very soothing and to thank you a lot and how delighted he would be to meet you one day. And perhaps you will, although I don't know. He is a delightful man. A real gentleman -- or have I told you that already?

Also, thank you so much for your kind comments on the poem I sent you. You know how much this means to me, dada.

Yours affectionately,

K.

---------

TBC

A/N: Viggo's paintings can be seen here.