“What's that over there?”
“This is what I'm talking about. We have not even begun a conversation, and yet you are looking for new topics of discussion.” He squints as he looks over to the glass cabinet that implores attention. “They are coins. Yes, a Jewish numismatist — who has heard of such a thing!” Bombs away. “Oh, but it is a fantastic collection if I do say so myself.”
He walks over to the case. “Come here, come here,” with a wave of the hand. “I have spent the better part of my life collecting them. There is something very simple, very beautiful in coins. To minters, coins are considered to be of value when they lack uniqueness; to a numismatist, it is the other way around.” He turns to me. “A numismatist is really nothing more than a collector of rarities and errors.”
I approach the cabinet, look down, and finally see that my efforts have not been in vain. This is not a lost cause. The only problem is that it means Coprolalia is dead.
“You are a fan of Roman history, I take it?”
“What makes you say that?”
“The coin with which you are so infatuated. It's authentic, too. I purchased it for an arm and a leg, but it is the crown jewel of my collection.”
“It's not that.” It's a coin with the same inscription on the wall in the Park Slope bar—Herculi Romano Augusto.
“What does it mean?”
“It's very simple,” he begins as he unlocks the case. “You have a standard portrait of the emperor Commodus.” He then reaches for a pair of tweezers at the far end of the cabinet. He grips the coin with them. “On top of having one of the most volatile tempers among people know for tempers, Romans, Commodus could be regarded as the most contemptible emperor of the second century.”
I nod.
“Anyway, this figure is Commodus. He is wearing the lion skin hat of Hercules in his portrait. On the reverse,” as he turns the coin to reveal the familiar text, “is Hercules’ famous club. The club divides the text, which, read left to right, is 'Herculi Romano Augusto'. This conveys Commodus' having the demeanors of both Augustus and Hercules. If one reads only the right side that has been separated by the club from top to bottom, however, one has 'culi ano usto', which means, essentially, 'To the…to the asshole burned up with the club'. The impression is that Commodus uses his club not to beat anyone, which he did fairly regularly, but as a…let's say a sexual toy. For himself.”
“And I thought Catullus was dirty.”
“You're familiar with Catallus?” in disbelief. “I was under the impression that such men had gone the way of phrenology and the scholastics.”
“I met a man who was in the midst of translating one of his poems.”
He says nothing. He simply nods in a fashion that could be described as captious or dismissive, perhaps even a conjunction of several other things that I can't translate all that well.
The coin is returned to its case. The case is locked. We return to our original positions. I pick up the coffee. I blow on it. I sip on it. I then return it to its saucer. The air conditioning hums a monotone tune in a time signature that may have once been utilized by Ornette Coleman. I can't think of anything to say, except, “So he really was Coprolalia.”
“You clearly had your doubts.”
“Of course. I've encountered no small number of people who claim—”
“The mental patient? Ah, yes; Mordecai always found that one amusing.” He smiles. “But these doubts? Am I to believe they no longer trouble you?”
“Not after seeing that coin.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“It was the inspiration behind a piece he created at a place on Fifth Avenue — right around the corner from that one house where the First Battle of Brooklyn was fought.”
“The Old Stone House. Also known as the Vechte-Cortelyou House.”
“I always forget that first name. What was it again?”
“Vechte.”
“Well, anyway, no one could ever explain the meaning of the piece in the bar. But that coin…”
“Mordecai found it especially funny. He said it was the only coin in the collection that wasn't worthless. That was his sense of humor.”
Another pause ensues. This one is less awkward, as we are both able to sip from our coffee without scalding ourselves.
“So why did he never come forward?”
“He liked the idea that he could talk to people about his work with honesty.”
“What do you mean?”
“People are rarely honest with an artist, especially when it concerns the artist's work.” He notices a look. “Yes, it was that simple; but, at the same time, this is far more complex than it appears. The primary point that you should keep in mind is this: He wanted the art to stand alone to be judged by critics and laymen alike. Perhaps 'laymen' is the wrong term, as it is carries a pejorative connotation. Regardless, he wanted to know if people appreciated his work. Everyone. And an artist cannot approach a man on the street with a canvas and ask for an evaluation. The artist, Mordecai felt, must remove himself from critical discourse. And, for the most part, he was successful in this.”
“And he never wanted anything for what he created? I mean, he could have been a very wealthy man.”
“How? Once something is put on a piece of canvas it becomes both art and a commodity. It can be appreciated, true, but it can also be bought, sold, exchanged. If a person creates something to hang in their home, it still has the potential to be taken and placed upon a different wall. Its environment is (caesura) interchangeable. However, if it becomes a part of the wall, it is given a more definitive context; it is a part of the environment or community. It can be scraped from the wall and it can be painted over, but it cannot be transplanted — unless, of course, one wishes to remove the portion of the wall that contains the illustration. This was something that Mordecai could never get around, but he felt it was an objection that failed to seriously draw away from the larger point he wished to make.”
“So he never wanted to be famous? He never wanted to be known as Coprolalia?”
“He would not have been able to accomplish as much had people known his identity. More importantly, he never would have been able to carry out his work without being constantly bothered. And he never wanted to have his art hung up in a gallery or a museum. His choice in medium was no accident.
“The oldest form of artistic expression, as well as the oldest form of written communication, is to be found on the walls of caves; and they express more than what they let on. While I may run the risk of overextending the importance of such illustrations, I do feel it necessary to point out that the Ten Commandments were not written upon papyrus; they were written on stone. Perhaps the creation of a mural is something similar — an expression of both art and communal values.”
“But Mordecai's work isn't a manifestation of some communal ethos. It's abstract and, to be honest, kind of esoteric. How do you create a sense of community by sharing something that means one thing to you, something completely different, sometimes even nothing, to someone else?”
“If you take out the you, then that leaves only the community.”
“What the hell does that even mean?”
“You are over-anxious.”
“Yes, I am. I have been all over this city trying to find a dead man. And I have absolutely nothing to show for it.”
“Why did you do it?”
My own words resonate within me. “Dead man.” The trampoline is no longer there. The mats are gone, too. The gymnast is left floating. Forever. There's no longer any space, so there's no time; she is neither falling nor rising. She isn't even moving.
“Because I needed something to do.”
“You could have done anything, then. Even nothing is something.” I nod.