Dürer II

Dressed in his bathrobe Dürer ambles through his living room. Oscar his cat is startled by his sudden arrival from behind a large stack of books. He jolts up and over the cushion covered couch on which he was sleeping. Dürer rubs his temples. Had he missed something? Rummaging through his pockets his fingers brush past half a dozen post-it notes, bread crumbs, blunt pencils, his reading glasses and a screwed up lolly wrapper. He pauses; gently he pulls the wrapper out. This could be important. It sits in his hand, like a ladybug, immobile. Dürer puts on his glasses. He tries to peer inside the wrapper without unfolding it.

Nothing.

He unfolds the wrapper until every corner and every crinkle is as flat as it can possibly get after having sat in his robe pocket for God knows how long. Nothing.

He turns the tiny piece of plastic. Still nothing.

Disappointed, Dürer throws it into the nearest bin. The rug underneath his bare feet trembles for a couple of seconds as the 6:42 howls past 3 storeys below. He cleans the lenses of his reading glasses with his sleeve and puts them next to him on the coffee table. He leans back into a sea of cushions knocking off six or seven issues of Philosopher’s Digest as he kicks up his feet. He’ll have a sleep over it and maybe something will come to him later, he thinks. As the sun’s rays creep down the walls he falls asleep.

A blistering salvo from the doorbell abruptly stops his snooze. He pulls the woollen blanket over his ears in an attempt to ignore the unwelcome visit. Another salvo followed by resolute thumps on the door force him up of the couch. His mouth shouts “Yes!” whilst his hands try to shovel most of the mess out of the front door’s view before he opens it. Just as he moves his head past the safety of his door a thick envelop shoots through the two inch wide opening in the doorway. “Mail! Yours. Some idiot threw it into my mailbox!” Mrs Kornfelder snarls. Without waiting for a response she’s back across the hall and her door is slammed shut. “How kind”, Dürer mumbles with a distinct sarcasm in his voice “good day to you, too.”

At his desk Dürer stares at the self-addressed envelope for a long time before he finally pulls himself together and opens it. He rips open the padded envelope and retrieves what’s inside. It was another book to add to his collection. He had only ordered it last week. After reading texts on his namesake Albrecht he was fascinated by the depth of the symbolism and iconography in Renaissance painting. He started to dig a little deeper. Now his flat is filled with the stuff. He uncovered mysterious equations and hidden geometry everywhere he went. Consumed by the idea of an ever-present, all-governing law Dürer started to pursue it and found flaws in every attempt made before him. Convinced there was some sort of equation or formula which could be applied to absolutely everything he set out to capture the supreme law of beauty and proportion.

Dressed in his bathrobe Dürer sits under the dim light of his desk lamp, reading what he had received in the mail this afternoon. The floorboards underneath his slippers tremble for a couple of seconds as the 3:14 howls past 3 storeys below. Dürer pauses, laying the book face down on the desk. He takes off his reading glasses and rubs his temples. Had he missed something? Rummaging through his pockets his fingers brush past a couple of post-it notes, a half-eaten biscuit and an empty fountain pen.

The bin!

He’s on his feet, striding through the living room past the couch. Oscar his cat is startled by his sudden arrival. The bin. He reaches inside, digging for the piece of plastic. He pulls out a flattened lolly wrapper. Dürer puts his glasses back on. This could be important. He twists and turns the tiny piece of plastic, looking. Nothing.

Both sides. Nothing.

After one last glance he scrunches it up and puts it into his pocket. Still nothing.

"Doing it for the love" / Dürer's story

**DO NOT READ THIS**

It was never his real name, nor would he have ever wanted it to be, but it helped him get his point across. People didn’t know who he was and they didn’t care, they like what he was doing. He called himself Dürer.

When he was a student he attended class with a certain zealousness. He was the black sheep, the ugly duckling and the lone wolf all in one mess of a child. Dürer was special. Not in the retarded sense, but rather the gifted sense. He was of the creative sort and most that knew him would tell you about his constant longing to be approved of. Dürer found out early on that he would never be liked for who he was but rather of what he was capable of. He had to create an approval without anyone knowing who they actually approved of. Why does a toddler want everything that’s brightly coloured and shiny? Exactly, that’s why! He wanted to tap into this instinctive fondness, make himself brightly coloured and shiny. Not literally, proverbially speaking, of course. Hence his impeccable class attendance. He needed to learn in order to disguise who he really was.

After a couple of years of school he started to write. Forming new ideas about good and evil, down and up, naughty and nice, hot and cold, tea and coffee, hire and fire was all up to each individual person, he was merely the catalyst. He instigated change but did not force it. He was smart. Throughout his professional life his texts seemingly enlightened those that would read them and frustrated his critics, for his logic was bullet-proof. In the end he succeeded. His texts not only subverted everything that came before them, they also documented a slow change in an archival chronological fashion. Yet Dürer did not notice everyone change around him, he was the only one who remained unchanged. Since he could not accept himself, his obsessive quest to make everyone accept him meant he remained the only one unchanged and un-acceptant. He had convinced everyone except himself.

Now he is too old and past the age of adaption; he won’t change anymore, as hard as he tries.

He is remembered as Dürer.

No one remembers his real name, they never liked that one as much.