“Nondepressed people show an
illusion of control – they grossly overrate the degree of covariation between
action and outcome under action noncontingency.”
Holly sighed. She knew that her
illusion of control so necessary to courting and cultivating a happy outlook
was sorely lacking. Her favorite Sedek and Kofta quote from 19 months of grad
school for psychology that she penned and posted on several available surfaces encountered
during the course of a day – on the wall of her cubicle at Grossi and Co., on
her fridge, on the back of her cell phone cover, served as her guide and
comforter.
Some people thought they had control
over events in life – a delusion. Holly merely nurtured the illusion of control over events. Most of
the time she was successful; she was a closet optimist after all. She amused
herself with the notion that her detour into Grossi and Co. as an assistant
accounting specialist was an interesting life experience rather than her
inability to land a job in the psychiatric field. Her continued single status
was the free-spirited availability required of the heroine in a gothic novel. A
figure prone to soft outlines and a poorly defined chin were the hallmarks of a
real woman. Her ‘control’ amounted to rationalization that it was OK be less
than perfect in an imperfect world.
She tried to encourage the illusion that
she had a low stress level, she really did. Until outlier assassins bent on
destruction of the realm of America became a daily torment. That morning a
radio commentator set a gloomy tone to the day. “I’m worried that Super Man
can’t come to the rescue anymore because there are no more phone boxes,” he
said.
No one’s coming, she thought to
herself.
That evening after a cozy dinner at
Trattoria Trecolori in Times Square with old friends Holly hurried down west 47th
Street to catch a bus downtown. The light of the giant digital billboards
prevented any late evening shadows. The street was lined with merchants selling
their wares though Holly noticed that artists predominated.
One display in particular caught her
eye. A portrait of Super Man, side view, was splashed on poster board about 12”
by 14”. The color was arresting. Holly stopped and gazed at several renderings
of other super heroes. One surpassed the others in vibrancy and dramatic
spectacle.
The painting was of Captain America,
Marvel Comics hero from 1940. He leapt from the white surface, round shield
held high, the white star on the blue background on his chest above
longitudinal stripes of red and white, splattered with red, white and blue
paint. Holly saw movement in his posture and the sweeping color commanding the
board. Fine black marker was used to draw his face which spoke of determination
and confidence.
Holly pulled her eyes away to
observe the actions of the artist, a thin young woman lost in a frenzy of
creating bent above another board. Krylon paint cans were scattered on her work
surface. She grasped one, then another as she sprayed the form of a character
to life. Her gloved fingers dipped into puddles of fire red, indigo blue and
spotlight white and flicked pigment across the image. Black was applied with a
brush for depth and dimension.
As she tugged $23 from her purse for
the painting and a black matte frame Holly asked, “What’s your name, do you
have a card?”
“Kate,” the artist replied in a
dense accent with a shake of her head, “Kate.”
“Where are you from?” asked Holly.
“Belarus,” was the answer as the
artist returned to her work.
Holly left with her counterfactual,
possible, imaginary illusion restored. That night she sighed knowing that
Captain America, protector of the land, stood watch in the dark.
( 628 words)
No comments:
Post a Comment