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Debra Dosch 130 East 57th Street New York, NY 10022 Tel: 212-758-1195

About 5,000 words First Serial Rights @ Debra Dosch

IYANTUDE It started as a low rumble, building up, as if the volume on the snowed, empty channel had been turned to the max. The sound literally presaged the catastrophe, as if God had somehow been angered, and his voice was the Hurricane, thundering from above as it tore the town off its hinges. For Grandma Elly, something here was happening, something that science had yet to discover or yet to understand, for at the apex of its rage, 2:00 a.m. Michle was born on Calliope Street, a normally sleepy part of New Orleans. In attendance was the mother, for she had nowhere else to go, her two elder sisters, and of course, to complete the circle, Grandma Elly. All stood attentively at the foot of the bed waiting for the howling aftermath from outside to over-ride the one from the mother inside. The infant's entrance was so fast that it virtually shot out into the dubious future as if propelled by another hand the mother's spasms never saw. Elly, 62, bent with the load of memories and superstitions of things gone by, took her brown and gnarled arthritic fingers and seized the little girl as she made her reckless debut, beaming a wide smile at those assembled. She looked down at the brown, squirming mass of anticipation and said "why are you so impatient, where are you going in such a hurry?" Chuckling to herself, it was not until she had carefully cleaned and wrapped the baby up in a patch quilt blanket, faded with age, that she felt a slight uneasiness - something from the back of her head..something vague yet urgent forcing her to take a closer look. There was something about the shape of the head. She now leaned down with fear mixed with awe and said in the infant's ear "Ugoye" for Elly's mother's name was Ugoye. Her mother's powers of "mamaloi" were now in this form; her spirit's presence mocking her..In a low whisper she said, "I alone will watch over you, for I alone know that "Obi nkyer ofran nyrare" ("No one teaches a child god"). The child's coal black eyes now fixed her in an unwavering state, seemingly searing through to her inner thoughts. This was a moment Elly would never forget, a moment filled with both exaltation and dread..lurking in the small candlelit room like a distant memory of the past thrusting its way into the present. Elly noticed that the

storm had subsided, only an unusually quiet cool New Orleans night remained. Michle awoke from the dream sweating profusely, the wet sheets stuck to her shiny black skin, her heart pounding, flashes of immediate danger only just allayed -- a fall off a steep precipice into darkness, nothingness, only just arrested in the nick of time; a whirl of fractured images, like syncopated throbs of broken veins in a neon sign pulsed and coalesced in and out of her waking consciousness. It was always the same dream. For some reason she never could recall the ending. Her mind snatched at it as a child snatches at a mother's skirt in a moment of fright. She looked with heavy lids at the florescent dial on her alarm. Its green luminescence told her it was 4:15 a.m. In an attempt to regroup, she went into the makeshift kitchen of her New York studio loft, poured herself a glass of water from the tap, and sat on the cracked ceramic floor, grateful for the cold, hard reality it brought. Her dream was of Elly. She was 7 and they were playing that game in the park. It was the last time Elly let her play the game, before it suddenly became "bad." Her grandma's voice was low but strong. Her gentle face the hue of dark raw mahogany. Her white hair tugged back in a tight knot, was wispy and cottony, reflecting the light of noonday, like a white halo. She wore a long violet cotton dress that covered her thin frame, giving her a deceivingly fragile look. "Ugoye," she was saying softly, coaxing her along for Michle was tired. "Ugoye" pay attention. "Let's imagine the game. See that bird with a yellow chest, high up in that tree? Do you see it? Think hard on it. Concentrate all your senses on it. Let it take all the space of your mind, and then let it go. Yes, let it roam free, out of its cage." Michle whose eyes had narrowed to slits, face pinched with total concentration, let herself go. Her pulse started fluctuating wildly as if rebelling against the unnatural exertion. Until it happened, she felt her chest tighten even more. Her heart rate increased faster, faster still until it took off, racing for the open, infinite expanse of cloudless sky. She could hear it thudding in her ears as the wind propelled her forward. Across the green patch baseball diamond, flapping wings, then gliding, letting the elements work for her, instinctively knowing when to turn, when to dip, the breeze wafting her face. She was flying above a copse of cypress trees, over a refreshment stand, over the children's swings and slides, that look like so many colored dots in the distance. Her heart leaping and straining in her small, heaving breast. Delighted shrieks of people that punctured the deafening stillness, reached her like muted echoes from afar away. Then Elly's voice, soothing, yet excited whispered "yes little one, do you feel it? Yes, you are doing good." As always, after the game, she would black out, a total emptiness would swallow her. When she first played the game, she
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used to panic..something was wrong, but now she knew that it was part of the separation..part of the game. And then she would wake up under a tree, exhausted, almost deadlike on the grass, the pupils dilated, and Elly would be there holding her reassuringly and rocking her in her skinny, bony arms, whispering in her ear. "My child, you are special..you are the past, and the present. You are "Ugoye." The dream would then shift; take a bizarre twist. She would be all of a sudden in front of her camelback house in New Orleans, behind the old weeping willow where Elly told her stories of her great grandma, Ugoye and of her powers. A fractured image of her drawing pictures in her notebook. She drew all day long, as a child. It was a primal force, as natural as sleeping, eating and it broke the loneliness. She could make her own world; to her people were colors. At that moment in her dream, she was drawing her mother. Yellow like the sun, brown like Elly, purple like a rain cloud on a summer's day, and white like the man's shirt that had come every day for several months. An unpleasant man with crooked teeth and a crooked laugh. Mama was upset. "You mean tonight. Leave just like that?" She was talking in a low voice, a stream of rushed tones, pleading, whimpering. "You mean tonight?" The man's voice was much louder in contrast. It had a hard edge to it and impatient. "I have to leave tonight. You can do what you want. You can stay or come with me. But when and if you leave, you leave alone, I am not taking both of you." The colors meshed together into a dark purple bruise. Elly appeared suddenly on the porch, a troubled look clouded her eyes. Clutching some wash under her arm, she asked them if they had seen Michle. They both looked around with a startled expression, mama playing nervously with the button of her pink sundress, the man taking leave abruptly. In the dream, Michle felt a wave of nausea flood over her, a lightness, dizziness, a dark cloud was stealing the sun; the humidity of the torrid summer day covered her nose and mouth like a heavy hand, suffocating her. She couldn't breathe. In the space behind her eyes flashed a swirl of kaleidoscope colors; pink, yellow, white brown, purple and then something happened before the black nothingness engulfed her, followed by an acute sensation of falling. An anxious, fearful twisting in her stomach, and as always, at that particular point, she would awake from the dream. After her mother's friends unfortunate death in a car crash, Elly would never let her play that game again. She never knew why what was once good, was now bad. Elly watched her from then on with a look of sadness and dread. Maybe she was afraid that something might go wrong with the game. Maybe she was afraid that something already had. All she

knew was that from that point on grandma never called her "Ugoye." Returning her thoughts to the present, she recalled that she had been nearly two years in New York already. Her abstract paintings were beginning to feel right. The art gallery, where she sold was just a stopgap. It afforded her contacts she needed and her art degree from Carnegie Mellon University had been useful in getting her the job. She was fiercely determined to develop her talent, her only wish was to become a recognized artist. At times she felt the decision was not her own but had sometime, long ago been made for her. Through her friends' experience, she had concluded that men fell into the category of useless distractions. Sensing her obsession and the aura of danger she exuded, men were constantly drawn to her. She held her stature of 6 feet with an aloof regal bearing only those born with absolute confidence could give. Her eyes were ignited coals, intense and feral. Few people could hold her gaze, few looked directly into them. When they did, she subconsciously made a note of it, for she knew they were a cut above the rest. Her thoughts wandered back to the art gallery and its owner, Monsieur Jean Dessault. He had been one of the exceptions who had held her gaze without flinching. A renown art dealer, a grise eminence in the art world for over 30 years, he had hired her on instinct, without hesitation. His whole business was based on intuition and instinct. A rare talent for seeing talent before others did. He made it clear from the start however, that he would not exhibit her paintings and that the art gallery was not a socialdating service. If at the end of the month he felt she was a burden, the agreement would naturally dissolve. That was over a year ago. People were always buying. Either they were intimidated by her or they bought compelled to do so by the sheer force of her beauty. And beautiful she was. Tall, ebony black, she dressed only in total simplicity; soft fabrics that cascaded over her, molding to her strong shoulders, firm high breasts, long sculptured legs..her eyes were of course her best feature, her wild hair framed her wide cheekbones and her high clear forehead and cool sardonic smile gave her a more arresting look than a typical, classic beauty. For those in the art world she frequented, doubtless jealous of her cool presence, she was known as the "cobalt queen." At barely 24, this was high praise. Many did wonder at her sexual preference, especially since she did not seem to have any, but they all grudgingly admired her single mindedness. She painted at every spare moment in her studio in Soho, at Prince Street and Mercer. A half dilapidated shell of a place that a sculptor sublet to her before leaving for Italy. It was only half furnished, and canvases were
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littering the parameters of the loft which was spacious but cold. When she felt lonely she would talk to Elly. She would tell Elly about her dream, her work, her frustrations, her progress and Elly would console her, advise her. It was only three years ago at Elly's funeral, a rainy November day in New Orleans, that she distinctly heard her whisper.."Go little one, go Ugoye." Late in the spring of that year, Michle met Asher, a friend of Jean's. He directed a small but select art gallery on West 57th Street and he was also a noted international authority on forgeries and frauds. He came into the gallery in April, the sun's white light streaming through the window that fronted the gallery. He had advanced in the predominately white linen ranks of the treacherous, snobby art world, a black man, thanks to his eye, cleverness, his sense of humor and undeniable magnetism. People had been grateful to him for the opportunity of helping his meteoric rise to the top. They thanked him for being part of his success, such was his charisma, such was his power. The day he strolled in, she had been doing inventory, and calling Leslie at "Images" for some brochures on their new artists. She was half hidden in the corner of the gallery, but even so, he noticed her the minute he walked in. He couldn't take his eyes off her. She too was somewhat attracted. He was thin, tall, baritone brown, sleek as a cat and walked like one with long quick strides that glided over the ground. His hands were long and tapered with slightly knotted articulations. Dressed in a European double breasted suit, a splash of red at the pocket, he demanded attention. When he saw her, he thought that she was more beautiful than any painting he had ever coveted, or cherished, for he was more of a collector than a dealer. Her cool air and inaccessible quality only whetted his appetite. Most men who were attracted to her, were frightened off by her obvious contempt and disdain. To him however, she was a living art form, sitting there she looked like a high-priestess dispensing favors, holding court. He politely waited till she had finished on the phone, before handing her his calling card and saying in a rich, carefully modulated voice "Would you be kind enough to tell Mr. Dessault that I am here, he's expecting me." With one expert look, she appraised him, making a mental note of his somewhat snobbish air. She knew the type but then she wasn't interested in changing him, only in making a sale. "Are you interested in buying?" She asked. The card, a translucent egg shell white with name embossed in black made no indication of what he did.

"No, I am a dealer, a competitor and a colleague." He seemed amused, and his smugness annoyed her. "Just a moment, I'll see if he is available." She disappeared along a corridor that led to a door off the left. Almost immediately, a distinguished, impeccably dressed man in his late 50's emerged and greeted him warmly. "Asher, what a pleasure! You came back from Europe sooner than expected. Did the sale go well?" Asher who had been commissioned by a well-known financier to act as a confident agent in the acquisition of the 18th century masterpiece, had just returned from Paris. "Well you know..it was touch and go for a while at customs, then all went smoothly." Jean led him into his office, asking before entering if Michle would be kind enough to bring champagne and glasses. She brought them a few minutes later, letting Mr. Dessault open and serve. Never one to miss anything, Jean caught Asher's interests as she left and laughed a hearty, sly laugh. "You have not graced our gallery with your presence for over a year..if you had, you would have met our Michle then. She paints abstracts..you know..quite extraordinary..her own style. I personally think she needs more work but she has presence; her paintings have an unusual line and color; a somewhat primitive intensity. Let me introduce you." He called her in and introduced them with a certain Gallic complicity. Later on after chatting art and artists with Jean, Asher stopped by and asked her out to dinner on his return from Geneva. Michle at first refused then finally accepted more out of curiosity than anything else. Jean was both delighted and surprised for he learned about it soon enough. He thought how the cobalt queen in all the time he had known her, had never accepted an invitation that had nothing to do with business. Sure she attended artists' cocktail parties, openings, auctions, and social events, but he had never seen or heard her associated with anyone. Not that Asher was just anyone. Jean felt a tinge of jealousy, something that did not happen often, not really understanding why he was jealous, except that Asher seemed especially blessed; never a wrinkle in his affairs whether personal or business to mar that perfect facade. Something bizarre about it all.

As he glanced out of his oval window he thought he must remember to tell Emilio about this. He wondered what his lover would make of it. Asher had been known to date certain women of the milieu, too many women maybe..mostly rich, some talented..only Elizabeth in London had made an effect and that was years ago. Now Michle. His eyes positively gleamed with that unexpected possibility. He might even help it along. He was good at helping those things along, at least for his friends, if not for himself. He chuckled at the memory of Esteban and Danielle. That marriage had been made in hell but then he was not at fault if they were too much alike. Asher and Michle would make a superb match. His mind then went back to business. He had a dozen phone calls to make, so he closed his office door and concentrated on the day's agenda. Michle had been working on an abstract that night, experimenting with candles that were scattered about her in an almost ceremonial circle. She had heard that Caravaggio sometimes worked by candlelight to achieve his elusive chiaroscuro effect. This piece had had such a strong beginning, such a strong direction and now she was nearing completion. But the clear and precise image in her mind which had pulled her along was now for some strange reason, faltering and dissipating into a fog of disjointed and chaotic images. She felt off balance. Reflecting on the events of the day, she was able to trace her uneasiness to her encounter with Asher Simms. The man was conceited..but even so, there was an undeniable charm. She had never been attracted to a man before and she felt somehow disturbed. She tried to re-focus but she felt too fragmented to continue. She stole a sideways glance at the half-finished canvas and wondered at the feelings it evoked. She always felt strange about her roots. She felt a familiarity with supposedly new things, a constant dj-vu pulling her past into the present. Her core was a spiral of lush green forests, red ocher earth, low wide horizons of endless sky. From the earliest memories she had sensations of certain powers over elements and people that made sporadic appearances in her life, sometimes frightening her. Elly said that it was because "she was the shooting forth of a branch." And sometimes she called Michle, Ugoye after grandmother, or Iyantude which meant "mother returned." She only knew that her paintings were more than the source of her soul, they were her heritage. And the feelings that she was feeling now she had felt before, in another time, in another place. She worked hard at the gallery that month and sold several paintings over her normal quota. Jean was pleased. Between clients she would let her mind wander..colors of vibrant tones or dark hues, were forever moving before her inner eye..as well as the abstract forms fraught with symbolic

rituals revisited tugged at her subconscious, forcing their way to definite form, shape, color and texture. Only Elly knew what stories they told. --------A taxi shrieked to an abrupt stop, honking and swearing in an unintelligible Hindi, for it barely missed crushing Asher as he exited absentmindedly from he wrong side of his car on Madison Avenue and 57th. He was obviously so distracted thinking about his last time here, before his trip to Rome and Geneva at Dessault's Gallery. He was not used to being distracted and resented the implications in his well-ordered life. But all month, he had been thinking about her. The impact of it all was made more immediate by the surroundings. Michle was different from anything he had ever known. She was a challenge and he was more than bored with the "easy fare." He decided he would call her and remind her of her promise. Maybe he could get tickets to "Macao" from Craig and then he would make reservations at Barbetta's for tonight. When he picked her up in her Soho studio, she was stunning in an Indian Blue jersey knit, her hair swept off her face, her pendant earrings setting off the line of her broad cheek bones, the curve of her long neck forming a beautiful arc. For the second time he heard himself inananely say "I am so glad you could make it," a clich that sounded ominously new on his lips, but she was breath-taking. After the play, at the restaurant, the clientle all looked up as she and Asher entered. It took a few tense beats before they gained enough composure to feign ennui and resume their small talk. Curiosity barely repressed, they asked surreptitiously who they were, while the Maitre D, ushered them obsequiously to one of the better tables in the center, slightly off to the right. As they talked surrounded by art deco, soft lights and a cascade of foliage- colors of electric blue, yellow-green flecks that played in his eyes, baritone brown, and red crossed her mind's inner eye. He told her a rather funny anecdote about one of his business dealings and she laughed. He instantly liked her laugh. It was deep and rich with a sensuous sarcasm. Defiant. Insolent. After the play he took her home, and for the first time in years, felt awkward and hated it. "Could he see her again? Perhaps next week?" After he had negotiated the sale of the Dgas bronze sculpture maybe she could join him for a weekend in the Islands. She said she would think about it but the decision had already been made. She didnt know when it happened. She only knew it had. It took him nearly a year to overcome her innate suspicion, mistrust another seven months before she would consent to marry him. The day he
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proposed, Michle felt a strange sensation of vertigo as if she was standing on a precipice with nothing to prevent her from falling into an abyss - like the dream. A few months passed, they had chosen a five room apartment studio on the West Side. She would keep her studio and he would keep his townhouse in London. He had arranged for a small 10 piece exhibit of her work, but that had failed miserably. The critics were acerbically trenchant in parts of their reviews but careful given her association. From the prominent art critic of New York Times, Christopher Stehli, "She is more into form than content. She lacks depth, feeling, and emotion -- all those ingredients that make for art. Maybe down the road, she will find it, pick it up, dust it off and stick it into her paintings." They were works completed before she had met Asher, prior to falling in love. Perhaps those emotions were lacking. The missing dimension of joy, sorrow, pain rechanneled. She felt justly accused and took no offense for she felt very strongly that the change wrought by her love for Asher would alter her paintings drastically, adding what was missing. She had by then moved on to other things, one piece entitled "Rex" occupied her full time. When Asher had wanted to see it, she had refused. "It will be my wedding gift to you. You can only see it then." Asher's curiosity piqued, asked, "What is the subject or is that a secret too?" She laughed and said, "No, it's a portrait, your portrait and I don't want you to see it until I am finished." He was running a little late for his trip to London, so Michle helped him into his overcoat while he knotted his tie in the living room of their West Side apartment. He smiled at her and tugged at her bathrobe and said, "When I get back, unveil that mysterious painting of yours." The palm of his hand slid across her cheek and he kissed her tenderly on the mouth before leaving. Michle as always felt her heart lurch as he left. She did not like parting even for a little as a week. She felt his presence even when he was gone..the odor of turpentine and paint in her skylit studio off the patio was subordinated to his cologne that permeated the air, filling every corner of the room and following her wherever she went. For the first time in her life, she felt very vulnerable, she felt afraid. In the studio, she pulled the tarp off the canvas. The painting was devoid of the anxiety she felt, its colors were bold, yet a subtle play of shadow and light gave it a certain gravity that her other work lacked. She sensed something special was

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emerging and felt exhilarated. She took out her brushes and paints and began mixing - ready for the long day - anything to fill the timelessness. The empty moments that dragged by when he was not there. Every time the phone rang, she would jump, hoping it was him. Every fiber of her being tense, extended, trying to sense what he was doing, where he was at each moment of the day. A week went by without his phone call. He did not return as promised and when she called his townhouse in London, there was no answer. If she called the gallery, she got a curt, "We don't know where he is..would you care to leave a message?" She did. She left a dozen such messages before he returned three weeks later. The day he arrived he seemed agitated. Eyes darting nervously around the flat. He seemed almost angry. Something was wrong. Would he tell her what it was? Had the deal in London fallen through? He said nothing was wrong but for a week he avoided seeing her and when he did, he only talked art and avoided contact. Finally he told her - tired of listening to oblique questions, pleading entreaties, that he had seen Elizabeth again. Now looking past her shoulder at some distant point in the future, his voice flat, almost noncommittal, he said, "Unfortunately, it would not be fair to you if I led you on, if we married." His long, tapered fingers fidgeted with the curved leg of his chair..he added "I feel a little confused, I still love you in a way but I can't make any commitments right now." Maybe in a few weeks, when things have settled. He could then make a decision. His words struck her down...she was plummeting fast, falling off a precipice and there was nothing to catch her. She felt her body go cold. Her body did not belong to her, this was happening to someone else. It was like her dream. Only now it wasn't a dream and now it had an ending. She went back to her studio at Prince and Mercer, where she burned "his portrait" in the makeshift kitchen before pulling out a fresh canvas. She started working over it slowly, carefully, breathing into it all her emotions, her anguish, despair, hate and pain. She used ancient colors that she ground herself, ochres from compound, blues and greens from copper verdigris, black from indigo and lampblack, stone lead, blood, natural resins, and linseed oils to bind it. She then used a part of her mind she hadn't used since Elly had told her it was forbidden, not since she was seven. She called the portrait "Gris Gris." Asher was rumored to be in London. It wasn't until three months had gone by that he was missed. Whispers of suicide, death, kidnapping swept
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through the artistic community, highly creative minds imagined all sorts of reasons for his disappearance or almost all sorts. By this time, Michle had painted five pieces besides "Gris Gris." She had taken them to Mr. Dessault's gallery where he sat staring at "Gris Gris," nonplused, speechless, in a somewhat meditative stupor. He could not believe his eyes. He thought of a dozen potential buyers for her five canvases but decided that "Gris Gris" would stay in his private collection. She only asked that he give an exhibition of her work and that Christopher Steihl be present. Excerpt from Mr. Steihl's New York Times art review: " Michle Ugoye's Exhibit at the Dessault Gallery came as a shock. Of all the paintings exhibited, all notable, one stands out as a masterpiece in the highest sense. Entitled "Gris Gris" it has more soul than its 34 by 32 inch canvas can contain. This abstract is a violent maelstrom of cobalt blue, vermilion red, black, brown, yellow-green playing along a canvas that captures the viewer's eye, drawing you into it and making you part of its appalling terror. It is macabre, grotesque...A vague shape of a distorted head, black sockets glare out like the embers of hell, a hollow cavity of a twisted mouth gasps for air. Light and shadow give it an illusionary effect of movement. One moment you look at it and it is one thing. You avert your eyes and look again and it is something else. A living hurricane of emotion, anguish and pain so dramatic and fascinating that you can't tear your eyes away..as if they were looking into the maw of death itself. It is too powerful to view without sitting down." She had thought of keeping it with her always, but then she would never had achieved her goal, fame. She gave it one parting look before leaving and smiled enigmatically. Alone in the twilight shadows of her studio, she felt Elly's hand fall on her broad shoulder and heard her whisper sorrowfully "Ugoye..Iyantude."