DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Cosmic Tales, v. 2, issue 1, Summer 1939

Transcribe
Translate

Cosmic Tales, v. 2, issue 1, Summer 1939

Page 5

COSMIC TALES      5
THE MOON ARTIST
by
DAVID H. KELLER, M.D.

Life was dull. For twenty-four hours, nothing startling had happened in my hospital, a private one for the care of abnormals. I mentally reviewed some of the interesting cases of the past. Johnson, who thought he was a horse, and every fine day tied himself to a post. Miss Ludwig, who thought she was to be the mother of the AntiChrist. Porson, who caught flies and every  night separated male from female, counted them and placed the total for the day, week, month and year on the white walls of his bedroom. Mrs. Carlwig, who for six years had been thought hopelessly insane and then was cured by her husband. Mrs. Anderson, who washed her hands thirty times a day and thought she had committed the unpardonable sin.
But these were all cases past and gone, and even the memory of them left life dull this afternoon. But I felt something would happen, and it did. My stenographer brought a visitor's card to me. The name, Johan Ludwig, the address simply Vienna, the word, neuro-psychiatrist in the lower left hand corner was enough to make me walk hastily to the door of my office and welcome the man. It is not every day that an American is visited by Ludwig of Vienna. He was a short, little man in every way except his intelligence. Strangely enough, he carried a portfolio in one hand and a large artist's easel in the other. i relieved him of both, took care of his hat and seated him in my most comfortable chair.
"This is most kind of you," he remarked in beautiful but halted English. "Have you time to spare me?"
"All the time you need and more," I replied.
"Then let us talk of Harold James, the artist. I understood that you knew him."
"I did. for several years I cared for him in this hospital. He died here."
"That is what I was told. That is why I am here. Did you know that he was an artist?"
"Yes," I replied. "I have seen some of his paintings. There is one in the Metropolitan. Perhaps you have seen it?"
"I saw it and have a copy of it. In fact, i have in this portfolio a copy of everything he painted. Only twenty in all. He died young."
"I know," I assented, "but that does not explain the small number. He painted and destroyed. Only a few of the oils he created pleased him and he was merciless in his destruction. And his mother was a severe critic."
"You knew her?"
"Very well. She visited him often. He was a bitter disappointment to her. She wanted him to become a great artist and he died insane."
"At least twenty pictures were saved, " insisted Ludwig, "and, after all, he was a great artist. Perhaps many artists are insane when they die and even while they live. Perhaps it is necessary for an artist to be abnormal. I want to show you these pictures. May I?"
"I will be delighted."
He set up the easel, and very slowly placed picture after picture after picture on it. I moved my chair and studied them. After the twenty were shown he took them down and selecting to placed them side by side on the easel.
"What do you notice about all these pictures?" he asked and it sounded like a professor interrogating a student. I knew the answer.
"Every picture contains three things, a moon, a man, and a woman."
"Correct."

Saving...

COSMIC TALES 5 THE MOON ARTIST by DAVID H. KELLER, M.D. Life was dull. For twenty-four hours, nothing startling had happened in my hospital, a private one for the care of abnormals. I mentally reviewed some of the interesting cases of the past. Johnson, who thought he was a horse, and every fine day tied himself to a post. Miss Ludwig, who thought she was to be the mother of the AntiChrist. Porson, who caught flies and every night separated male from female, counted them and placed the total for the day, week, month and year on the white walls of his bedroom. Mrs. Carlwig, who for six years had been thought hopelessly insane and then was cured by her husband. Mrs. Anderson, who washed her hands thirty times a day and thought she had committed the unpardonable sin. But these were all cases past and gone, and even the memory of them left life dull this afternoon. But I felt something would happen, and it did. My stenographer brought a visitor's card to me. The name, Johan Ludwig, the address simply Vienna, the word, neuro-psychiatrist in the lower left hand corner was enough to make me walk hastily to the door of my office and welcome the man. It is not every day that an American is visited by Ludwig of Vienna. He was a short, little man in every way except his intelligence. Strangely enough, he carried a portfolio in one hand and a large artist's easel in the other. i relieved him of both, took care of his hat and seated him in my most comfortable chair. "This is most kind of you," he remarked in beautiful but halted English. "Have you time to spare me?" "All the time you need and more," I replied. "Then let us talk of Harold James, the artist. I understood that you knew him." "I did. for several years I cared for him in this hospital. He died here." "That is what I was told. That is why I am here. Did you know that he was an artist?" "Yes," I replied. "I have seen some of his paintings. There is one in the Metropolitan. Perhaps you have seen it?" "I saw it and have a copy of it. In fact, i have in this portfolio a copy of everything he painted. Only twenty in all. He died young." "I know," I assented, "but that does not explain the small number. He painted and destroyed. Only a few of the oils he created pleased him and he was merciless in his destruction. And his mother was a severe critic." "You knew her?" "Very well. She visited him often. He was a bitter disappointment to her. She wanted him to become a great artist and he died insane." "At least twenty pictures were saved, " insisted Ludwig, "and, after all, he was a great artist. Perhaps many artists are insane when they die and even while they live. Perhaps it is necessary for an artist to be abnormal. I want to show you these pictures. May I?" "I will be delighted." He set up the easel, and very slowly placed picture after picture after picture on it. I moved my chair and studied them. After the twenty were shown he took them down and selecting to placed them side by side on the easel. "What do you notice about all these pictures?" he asked and it sounded like a professor interrogating a student. I knew the answer. "Every picture contains three things, a moon, a man, and a woman." "Correct."