Dearest Magritte;
I am finally writing you this letter. You don't know me, but you and your work had a profound role in shaping my life. I was only twelve when a book of your paintings appeared on my parent's coffee table. At first I didn't understand why I liked that book so much. Four years later I rediscovered it on the shelf under the table. Then it made sense. I saw the world in which you lived, or dreamed, or something in-between. I could see how the pictures were formed. It wasn't the art that intrigued me. It was the process of creation. Perhaps not creation. It seems at times that you were merely uncovering what already existed. Showing us what we failed to see for ourselves.
Later that same year I saw a story on TV about how the wrestler Killer Kowalski got his name. He was wrestling a man named Yukon Eric, and near the end of the match Kowalski knocked one of Eric's ears clean off. When I heard this I thought, "That is so cool! That's what I want to do." I knew I would become part of that life. I saw in my mind a painting by you. A bedroom scene, snowy mountains out the window, Kowalski sitting on the bed, gazing knowingly at the severed ear on the night stand. I was inspired and I wanted to inspire. I understood at once the art of violence.
Has it really been 25 years? It doesn't seem possible. After a quick apprenticeship under Mr. Kowalski himself, I hit the road and have been there since. I wanted to do as you did. To show people what was there that they were not seeing. Your vision was of a twisted beauty, mine of vicious ugliness. My world was stark black and white. No grays in-between. Black and white dots. An empire of contrast.
I know the people need their heroes, but that's not me. What is good without evil? Funny, my life clear of vice, my art nothing but. I worked my whole life keeping my body and my mind pure to the task. In the ring I broke every rule. I mocked the suffering of my baby-faced opponents and the audiences that cheered him. They hated me and they were mine. I knew that their lives were better for having hated me.
I took my name, The Bowler, in tribute to your most famous painting, but was misunderstood. British hats gave way to wooden alleys. It was enough that I knew what I meant. I tried a few times to change, though fewer than I would be proud of. No, that's a lie. I took what they gave me and never questioned it. I thought, the essence of my performance, they will see what I am trying to say. They will understand. They will know that hating me was a waking dream that they, the audience, invented for themselves. That's the hardest part of being alone in this room, the absence of the boos echoing in my head. God pity the demon that none despise.
Now I am old. I spent too many years in the ring. I try to lie to myself that my knees will recover, but when I walk I feel the bones scrape together. The doctor says it might heal, given enough time. I'm too old to have that much time.
I saw it slip away and there was nothing I could do about it. We artists, we have no control over the visions. I had not been on TV for four months before I noticed. I was bringing my art to ever-smaller arenas, then bingo halls, and finally high-school gyms. Then I saw the hate fade from their eyes. Pity! They pitied me! That's when the pain began. No, that's when I started to feel the pain. The doctors gave me pills, but they took away my edge. Made be dull and sick, but I had to take them. It was the only way to continue the art.
Then I went to Mexico. I went down there last year and they laughed at me. I was supposed to be the big scary masked man from El Norte, but they dropped me after one show. Not knowing what it meant to be The Bowler, they translated it as El Jugador de Bolas. It means The Player of Balls. The fans saw that name on the giant screen and they laughed. No matter what I did, they just kept laughing. I called them every dirty name I knew in Spanish. I pronounced the curses so badly they only laughed more. I was ashamed. My power to make them hate me was gone. It's no good cheering for the good guy when he is beating up a buffoon. It made me think of the story of your first showing in Brussels, but you were young enough to make it back when Paris grew bleak.
Now the blacks and whites have melted into grays. It is gray here all day long every day. Every day I pray that I will see some color, some contrast. It never comes. I don't really believe it will. I know it never will. It will always be gray forever. My knees will never heal. The pain will be there every morning when I wake. It will follow me all day like a pathetic dog begging for attention. The crowds will never hate me again.
I understand now your mother's attraction to that somber river. Perhaps there is color and contrast at the end of that river. The pills that make so ill, they will finally do their job. As I fall asleep tonight I will dream of the world you showed me. The world I pray will be waiting for me on the other side. I hope you will not be embarrassed to have me sit at your feet. I have some good stories to tell you.
Your Friend and Admirer.
The Bowler