"Whisper My Words"

"Whisper My Words"

28" x 21"

Acrylic on Canvas

All was quiet in the studio, and then the jeweler arrived. The painting season officially opened upon her arrival. There had been many telephone conversations about her coming. She was coming; she was not. One day she arrived at the studio. She had flown the day before, and had again aggravated the hip injury she had sustained on the tundra in Mongolia. The artist was concerned about the injury. The jeweler laughed it off and said the pony got the worst end of the experience when it threw her and kicked her. The owner of the pony was harsh as he apologized to the jeweler for the ponies’ lack of hospitality to his guest.

“Why were you in Mongolia this time?” asked the artist.

“I was eagle hunting.”

There were rumors that the jeweler had travelled the world looking for exotic experiences, but she always adventured alone so there was no certainty to the whispers by her friends. The artist studied her face directly and the jeweler presumed the artist was passing judgment against her and so she decided to explain her actions. The jeweler was not a person to apologize. She had given up apologizing when she gave up conventional living; it was always her preference to explore rather than explain.

“It’s not what you’re thinking. We used the eagles to hunt with. It’s like falconry, but instead of falcons golden eagles are used.”

The artist relaxed and engaged and began to draw the jeweler. “Tell me about it.”

“It was a hunt. Amazing experience really. I got to hold one on my arm for quite awhile. It had a hood on its head or it would have torn me to shreds.”

“We got up early in the morning. The eagles were brought out. We traveled on ponies across the open plain. When we saw signs of wolves the birds were released and the wolves were hunted from the air and killed. The birds and wolves were retrieved and the hunter’s family continues to live.”

“What did you gain from the experience aside from just having the experience?”

“I learned the art of concealed conversation.”

“’The art of concealed conversation’, what does that mean?”

“I learned to whisper my words by speaking into my hand.”

“The point being?”

“The point being, I learned to communicate more directly with my eyes than I ever have with words.”

“May I capture your eyes?”

The eagle hunting jeweler thought, raised her hand to her mouth and looked at the artist and consented to the artist’s request through her eyes.

Self Portrait

Self Portrait

"Dancing With the Shadow of Francis Bacon"

48" x 36"

Acrylic on Canvas

The studio was a song, a stench, an unfinished feeling fog-high above wooden floors with rags and paint stains, canvas and paper; an orchestra of clutter and debris and poetry and wind.

What he had to do was paint. He did not care how it all turned out anymore. He no longer took his life seriously, everyone else’s life, yes, but not his own. They all wanted something he did not want or care to want but would get without wanting it whether he agreed with it or not. It was no longer of him but was him and from this place he created. All he wanted to do was get back to painting in his studio. He had only left for a short time, but after he left and had been away from it awhile, he was always drawn back to it, homesick for his studio and the work, always the work ahead. And when he returned he smelled of sweet grass and alder smoke, pine pitch and cedar, linseed and turpentine and the modern plasticized odor of acrylic paint.

His studio was where battles were fought, skirmishes won and wars lost to an overpowering greatness that he could never fathom and only sometimes touch. And when he was alone in his studio he was never lonely, but breathing again, as if, for the first time. And then it was time for a fresh battle.

He had built it and stretched it and whitened it with the chalk of a million ancient seashells and now he faced it honestly until he felt the resistance. And when he felt the taught resistance from the surface of the canvas and saw the brightness of a million white and ancient seashells reflecting back at him, he entered the quiet place; the place inside you shoot from when you have your enemy sited. The artist now put his weight on his left foot which was a bit ahead of his right, leaned forward and inhaled, and the artist felt himself gently squeezing an internal trigger as he slowly exhaled, and this time red splashed out and onto the canvas spilling onto the easel in front of him. He was always relieved when red splashed first and not yellow. “Never yellow first,” he thought.

“I might as well throw away the whole fucking thing if yellow comes out first. For me, it has to be red or black and of those I prefer red to shoot out first.”

Because red came out first this time, his defenses lowered and he pushed straight ahead into the battle, dueling as much against destiny as design. Scars from explosions of color showed where the battle had been and the canvas and wood battleground eventually became a work of art.

When the inevitable truce came the artist rested and as he rested he thought, and what he thought never disturbed him but disturbed many of those he told it to. “Art is not for the terribly sensitive, but only for those who can survive it. Art is as creative as war is destructive. The powers of art or war can tear even the strongest person apart; war from the outside in and art from the inside out.” And when he was done thinking these thoughts he knew it was time to leave the studio and return later for the hardest part of it, the falling in love again.

When he returned to the studio again he fell in love with the work he had done battle with and that had tried to kill him from the inside out. And again it was like the first time he’d been in love with a woman that he really loved well and fully and she was empty and he was empty and together they wanted more and there was more because they were both in love. And he wished only to possess her and she only wished to possess him again, and they tried their best to make time stand still, but always, he must leave or she must leave. And that was the end of it.

He knew from experience he would love others and some would be better and some would be lesser loves, and some would be great works of art and others would be a waste of time and effort, eventually discarded or covered over and used again. He also knew he would always want her back, but he had sold her and she belonged to another and he could not have her back now or ever. And that was the end of it.

A Ghost Story

"The Ghost"
28" x 22"
Acrylic on Canvas

When she walked into his studio she was wearing two coats and two shirts and two pairs of pants. The artist had never seen a ghost in the flesh before, but there she was.

“When you called you said you had a story that was unusual but all too usual. What did you mean by that?” asked the artist.

She was too pale to blanch at his directness. Her blonde hair was barely legible against her face and in front of the white walls of the studio she blended into the background except for her clothes which made the lump of her shape bulbous. Except for the thinness of her face the artist would have guessed her a large woman, but his guess would have been wrong.

“Before I tell you my story, I want to make sure we’re clear that you are only to paint my face, not my body.”

“That’s fine, but may I include your hair?”

“Yes, if you choose. Just not my body.”

“Let’s start there. Why do you only want your portrait? I understand why some people want just their portrait, but I feel your reason may be different. You’re so adamant.”

“I want to show them that I’m a person; that I can hold my head up. That I’m not just an object.”

“May I ask who you’re referring to when you say ‘them’?” asked the artist.

The ghost of a woman paused and thought for a moment. She looked at the artist and then her thoughts and the attention of her eyes drifted to the window and then back to the artist. She looked into the artist’s eyes with a way of looking that made the artist wonder if she saw out of her own eyes. She continued to look at him and through him and in him and too him without any kind of determination of fact. Her eyes performed pure observation from a safe distance even as she sat in the same room. The artist wondered who the observer was and who was the observed.

“I am referring to my father and my uncle,” she said. “They sexually abused me since I was a baby in the crib. My father recently passed away, but my uncle is still alive.”

“Do you still have contact with your uncle?”

Her response and tone and words were slow and came one syllable at a time from a place inside herself where she spent much time but never invited guests. “Yes. I live with my Uncle… as his wife.”

The artist watched as her attention drifted around his studio, bumping into walls and furniture and paintings and lights and he no longer wondered if there were lost souls in the world.

“Why do you stay with him?”

“I stay with him because he would abuse others if I didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“They both told me they would and they told me who and I don’t want that.”

“You know you’re his prisoner, don’t you?”

“Yes. And this is how I can fight back. I can deny him the others he craves.”

“Have you ever tried to get help?”

“Of course. When I was a teenager I went to the state to report them. A friend went with me. The person taking the report said I must be wrong. She then propositioned my friend and I. After that I realized there was no point in complaining and that this was to be my life. That’s when I knew I could make something of my life by protecting others from them.”

The artist realized she had given him all he needed to draw her. To ask for more would be an invasion. “Would you like anything before I begin to draw you?” asked the artist.

“No. But, there is something I don’t want.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t want you to pity me.”

The artist drew and then painted the head and the hair of the ghost. And when he drew her and painted her he drew her and painted her without pity.

No Sale

They were already seated when he arrived. The man did not stand when the artist introduced himself. Their handshake was almost accidental. The woman did not look up from the sample books on the oak table in front of her. The artist said nothing. The couple said nothing. The waiter arrived to take their drink order. The artist asked the waiter which single malt scotches the bar stocked and he decided on the Glenrothes. Out of courtesy, the artist let the waiter tell him about the whiskey, but the artist already knew about the whiskey and ordered a double with ice. The couple already had several drinks and did not order another. The waiter returned with the whiskey and asked if anyone wanted to order dinner. The male of the couple waived him away dismissively. It was a warm and open restaurant with a gracious staff that had not yet been abused beyond usefulness.

“We need a painting. We need it right away. You’ll do the work, but we don’t like your price,” said the woman.

The artist looked at her and took a sip of his whiskey. He felt the warmth of the liquor and put the glass down.

The man looked at his watch and then looked up.

“Well? You don’t appear terribly grateful,” said the man.

“I’m not sure what you want me to do. You didn’t send back any of the information I sent you and I haven’t quoted you a price,” said the artist.

“We thought all your information was a waste of time and we know what you charge and it’s too much and we know what we want,” said the woman.

The artist pushed his drink aside. He had lost the taste for it.

“And what is it that you want?” asked the artist.

“Our decorator has picked out these colors and she says a landscape would be perfect if painted like a Monet or Manet or one of those artists whose name starts with an M,” the woman said.

“It’s Monet,” said the man.

“Whatever. I don’t care what his name is as long as it flows with the architecture and the furniture. It all has to blend.”

The artist adjusted his position on the chair. “Perhaps you don’t understand what it is that I do exactly.”

“You’re an artist; you paint pictures for people who hang them on a wall. What’s to understand? My decorator said just call an artist, they’re all hungry in this economy, you can get a good one cheap and he’ll do whatever you want, if he has half a brain. So, you claim to be an artist, do you have half a brain?”

The artist looked at the whiskey in the glass on the table and looked at how near the woman’s face had traveled. “Your decorator is an ass.”

“I don’t care if she’s an ass or the Buddha; she’s doing a fabulous job. Do you want the job or not?”

“No. I do not.”

“You’re an idiot then.”

“Perhaps, but I’m still not interested in working for you.”

“Why is he saying no to me? You know how I hate it when people say no to Me.” the woman said to the man.

“He’s just negotiating, dear. Alright, how much do you want?”

“I don’t want anything. I just want to leave.”

“No, really, how much do you want to paint a painting for my wife?”

“I am unaffordable.”

“What the hell does that mean? Are you suggesting I don’t have enough money to buy you and your art?”

“ I’m sure you have a great deal of money. That’s not my point at all. I can’t afford you.”

“What does that mean? I don’t understand you artists,” said the woman.

“What I mean is very simple.”

“Then quit wasting our time and tell us!” said the woman

“As I said, it’s simple; you don’t deserve to own a work of art. You won’t appreciate it, won’t respect it and you relegate your aesthetic decisions to your ass of a designer because you’re too ignorant or lazy to develop any taste of your own. As for what I want… I want to leave and improve the quality of my evening.”

The artist stood and walked into the bar. The waiter looked at him.

“How much for the drink?” asked the artist.

The waiter smiled. “Your drink is on the house, sir.”

The artist put on his coat.

The waiter stepped toward the artist and spoke in a quiet tone. “You painted a picture for a friend of mine when he was sick and you gave it to him. Do you remember?”

“What is your friend’s name?”

“Robert M_______.”

“Yes, of course, he was a wonderful subject; interesting life story. I painted him about three years ago as I recall. How is he?”

“He passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. He was a nice man.”

“He loved your painting. His mother let me keep it.”

“I’m glad he appreciated it and I hope you do as well.”

“I do.”

“Thank you again for the drink.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Dancing on Water

"Dancing on Water"

48" x 36"

Acrylic on Canvas

The artist and the model met at a coffee shop in the center of the city in the mid-afternoon. The model had a secret; the artist, a pencil and paper to draw on. It was early October and it was cold and it had rained and the sidewalks were wet and slippery and the few remaining tourists carried umbrellas from store to store. The artist and the model sat facing each other at a wooden table with wooden chairs that had ventilated rattan backs painted black like nail polish with chips along the rounded tops. They sat in the farthest corner from the front window. The cracked plaster of the yellowed walls smelled of stale coffee beans. In the shadows in the corner of the coffee shop they sat and drank and spoke quietly when they spoke at all, but mostly they sat in silence. She kept her eyes focused on the table top and would not look up; she was fearful and embarrassed, but mostly fearful as they sat and drank and waited for her to decide. Argentine Tango music played softly in the background and for a moment the artist thought of a club in Buenos Aires he had once been to.

The energy between them was intense but guarded. The artist waited as he had done the first two times they’d met when she had walked out without saying a word. This was not the first time a model had a secret so personal that it couldn’t be shared; or wouldn’t be; and this attracted her to him. The artist knew anything he drew now would be useless unless she reached a point of expression; until she shared her story there was nothing for him to capture. The artist waited and asked a few casual questions while the model waited for the artist to make a mistake; to push too hard; to overplay his hand. But, the artist didn’t overplay his hand, he didn’t make a mistake and she knew that this could be her only chance to tell someone her story; to relieve herself of the burden of her story.

Her hands shook while she placed the empty cup back on the table. She exhaled, adjusted herself and looked up at the artist.

“I won’t take my clothes off if I model for you,” she said.

“You don’t have to,” said the artist. He adjusted himself and placed the pencil tip onto the paper. He knew from experience the drawing was about to happen. The only thing he didn’t know was how long she would let him continue.

“I used to do that.”

“You were an artist’s model?”

“No. I used to work in a bar and take my clothes off. I did it when I was younger, right after I left my parent’s house. That’s my secret; well, one of them anyway.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And why is it a secret you keep?” asked the artist.

“Because if I tell that secret then I’ll have to tell the others.”

“You’ve told me. Are you thinking of telling me the rest?”

The model’s eyes returned to the table top. Her awareness had retreated inside herself again. The artist removed his pencil from the paper and waited. She stood and walked to the front counter of the coffee shop and returned to the table, and the artist, with her cup filled with coffee.

“It all started because I liked to dance. When I was a kid growing up, my grandfather taught me to dance. We’d spend hours dancing in his living room. I was fifteen when he died and I thought my world had come to an end.”

The artist began to draw again.

“When I moved out on my own, I needed money, so I applied for a job as a dancer in a bar. At first I didn’t strip, it was more like a club. We wore sexy, exotic costumes and danced around to get the customers to stay longer and buy more drinks. When the place was sold, the new management turned it into a strip club. At first I figured I’d just get another job somewhere else, but I couldn’t find one; then I talked to some of the girls who had stripped at other places and they told me about the money they made.”

The artist watched her. She looked as if she had gone into a trance. Her voice had changed and her posture had relaxed. She was calm and focused on her thoughts.

“Life hadn’t been too good at home, except for my Grandpa. After he died, things with my parents got pretty rough. My dad drank more and he got violent and beat my mom. After he hit me for the first time I decided to leave. I was seventeen then, so I bought a fake I.D. and started to dance. I was so afraid I might have to return to my folks when the bar sold and I couldn’t find another job.”

The artist remained silent and drew as the model spoke.

“The first time wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined it would be. Nothing much happened really. I guess I was expecting the cops to burst in or to be hit by lightning or something. But, all I did was start to dance and take my clothes off to the beat of the music. It was o.k. really. After I finished, a few guys whistled and a few clapped, but mostly no one even paid attention. A couple of weeks later was when I got invited to my first party and that’s when things changed.”

She stopped, stood up and walked to the Women’s restroom. The artist stood and walked to the front counter and returned to the table with some fresh chai tea just before she got back and sat down.

“I don’t even know why I went to that party except they said I’d make a lot of money. They said all the girls eventually worked parties and that it was no big deal. Easy money. Well, it wasn’t easy money. There were eight men and just two of us girls. Alcohol was passed around first; then I’m pretty sure someone put drugs in our drinks. The next thing I knew the two of us were naked and one man after another was on top of me. To this day I can’t remember how it felt, but I’ll never forget how each of them smelled and the others laughing and cheering each other on. They were old and they were fat and they smelled of booze and sweat and they were ugly. It was the most degrading experience of my life.”

She drank some of her coffee.

“After that I had nothing to lose; my spirit was broken. I did whatever was asked of me and they were right, the money was easy and good. But, I had become easy and not so good. I used drugs to keep from feeling things and to pay for them I worked as a prostitute. For five and a half years I was a drug addicted prostitute. And I would have died there if my sister hadn’t found me. She died of cancer last year, but you must have known that. You knew her.”

The artist paused and put his pencil gently on the table. With his right hand he reached for the tea and drank. “Yes, I knew your sister for a few years before she died. You’re a bit taller and thinner, but you have the same lion’s mane of dark red hair. She talked about you often, but never this. She kept your secret.” He put the cup down and waited for her to continue her story.

“My sister was the only person in the family who knew. Even my husband doesn’t know about my past. He thinks I went to college and was a good girl and had only been on a few dates before we met. He told me once, as far as he’s concerned, I walk on water. I told him, I only walk on water when it’s frozen.” She smiled for the first time when she said it.

“And that’s my biggest fear. He’s very religious and we have two children and if he ever found out, he’d leave me and take my babies with him.”

“If he’s as religious as you say, wouldn’t he forgive you?”

“I’ve been going to church with him since we met. He’s a fundamentalist Christian and I don’t know if you know much about them or not, but they talk a lot about forgiveness, but I’ve never seen them give any except to themselves. It’s like it’s alright for them to sin and do whatever they want as long as they cry a bit and ask for forgiveness, they get it. But, if someone does something they don’t like or doesn’t fit into how they view the world… forget it… all bets are off… that person is evil to them. I even pointed out to my husband once Jesus spent time with the lowest of the low including prostitutes. All he said was, he wasn’t Jesus and prostitutes and gays were too low for forgiveness. He even told me if one of his children became a prostitute or was gay he’d disown that child and hope they would die instead of bring further shame on his good family name. He said those were two lifestyle choices he couldn’t abide. Sometimes I think I’ve traded one controlling pimp for another; only this one keeps me in the kitchen instead of the street.”

“Why do you stay with him?” asked the artist.

“Because I’d die if I had to go back to the street life. Being a prostitute is all I know how to do besides being a wife and mother.”

“You sound so unhappy.”

“In some ways I am. But really, I’m resigned to things as they are; at least I’m alive. I realize it’s not likely he’ll ever find out about my past; I lived in a different city and state then, but he could. And I have my beautiful little girls.”

Her thoughts drifted for a moment. “Do you want to know what the strangest part is?”

“What’s the strangest part?” asked the artist.

“This may sound stupid, but I miss dancing. Not taking my clothes off, but dancing. I wish he’d take me dancing, but he won’t. He says God doesn’t approve of dancing. Even after all the bad times, I still think of how safe I felt dancing with my grandfather. And I’d just like to feel safe for awhile. Is that too much to ask?”

“No. I don’t think that’s too much to ask,” said the artist as he put his pencil onto the table. Argentine Tango music continued to play softly in the background as he stood and extended his empty right hand to her. She looked at his hand and then at him.

“I can’t. Not here. I can’t. No way.”

“Why not?” asked the artist. “Just pretend I’m your grandfather and this is his living room.”

She looked into the artist’s eyes and found only reassurance and confidence and she stood and took his hand and he slowly pulled her into his arms. His lead was direct and firm as he guided around the tables and danced a slow tango in the shadows in the far corner of the coffee shop far away from the front window. It rained on the sidewalks outside as she leaned into him and for a few quiet, gentle minutes she felt safe and warm and loved again.

Old Man Woman

" Old Man Dreaming He Lived To Be A Young Woman"

37.5" X 60"

Acrylic on Canvas

Inside the studio it was warm and light. There were no paintings showing, all had been turned to face the wall. With an edge of each painting on the floor they leaned against the freshly painted whitewashed wall. It looked like a museum of backward paintings. There were two well worn and paint-stained overstuffed leather chairs in one corner and a small model’s stand in another corner next to the brick fireplace. There were several spotlights mounted from a large beam that supported the center of the ceiling and ran the length of the room. The fire and the lights warmed the models when they were there to pose for a painting. Outside the wall of windows it was raining.

The artist had asked him several questions early on in the drawing session; it wasn’t until almost an hour had passed the old man spoke.

“It’s difficult to outlive your friends and family. It’s even more difficult to outlive the fact that none of them knew the truth about me.”

“What is the truth about you?” asked the artist.

“I am an old man who will never live the life I should have lived.”

“Why?”

“Because I was born a woman in a man’s body; for as long as I can remember I’ve known it. I only wish I could have lived as a woman instead of a man, even if it was just for one day. To feel myself inside the skin of a woman as a woman is all I’ve ever wanted and now I’m too old. I used to play with dolls when I was a child; I knew then. When I looked at a beautiful woman I didn’t want to seduce her, I wanted to be her and seduced by handsome men, one right after the other.”

“Why didn’t you change your sex?”

“When I was younger the procedure didn’t exist. Even more to the point, I could never tell my family. My parents and my brothers never knew. Being gay was considered a perversion for most of my life. It used to be a shameful thing to be homosexual. I know it’s still difficult now, but nothing like what it used to be. Now my friends and family are all dead and when I look back on my life, I realize I’ve never lived. I’m eighty-four years old and I’ve never lived. ”

The artist continued to draw the old man. These were the moments he looked for in the faces of his models.

“I was actually married once, to a woman who was a lesbian. She was the only person who knew my secret and I was the only one she’d told her secret to except for the lovers she had for the years we were married. She drank herself to death. She was a fearful person like me. Would you like to see a picture of her? She’s the only friend I think I’ve ever had. I always wanted to have a body just like her’s.”

With palsied hands, the old man removed an old photo from his wallet. It was a picture of a naked woman lying on her side facing the camera. The picture was in almost perfect condition even though it had spent years in his wallet.

“May I make a copy of her picture?” asked the artist.

“Why?”

“I have an idea for a painting I’d like to try, if you’ll let me.”

“If you like.”

The artist went to his office and made a color copy of the old photograph of the old man’s naked lesbian wife and returned to the studio and handed the picture back to the old man. The rest of the drawing session was finished without conversation from either of them.

It was a month and a few days after the old man’s visit when the artist called him and asked him to return to the painting studio. When the old man entered the studio the artist turned the oak easel and revealed the painting on it. For almost a minute the old man’s expression didn’t change.

“You made me her,” the old man said quietly.

“I tried,” replied the artist.

“You did. Thank you,” the old man whispered. “It’s like a dream I once had. I am she and she is me.”

The old man cried and looked at the painting and cried and looked at the painting until eventually he left the artist’s studio. The old man never returned.

Death is...

"Death is a Wrinkled, Old, Blind Woman Standing by the Side of the Road"

From the "Faces and Places of Death" Series

48" x 36"

Acrylic on Canvas

When he first stopped at the side of the road there was nothing but the hard, bright, steady sunshine, the heat and flash light of the August afternoon, and the voices of dogs converging somewhere in the distance. The front left tire was flat as his truck eased onto the yellow dusty clay alongside the road. The yellow of the sky matched the yellow of the clay hills that surrounded him. The only break in the color was the bands of grey sage that lay in strips along the landscape.

He got out of his truck and surveyed the flat tire and removed the tools from the truck he needed to make the simple repair. The air was still and smelled of hot dusty spice. The road was empty and he was glad he hadn’t had serious truck problems because it was obvious there was little traffic on this side road. The young man loosened the lugs on the tire and when he was done he looked around, felt the bellows blast of the summer wind and looked down and positioned the jack under the truck to lift the tire off the ground.

She did not come into his sight directly; she was just there, looking not quite like a ghost but as if all of nature’s energy was condensed inside her and she were the source of it, not only moving in it, but disseminating it, moving without sound, seen first in the corner of the eye, in that split second it takes to realize a presence is near, moving toward him having come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. He lifted the jack handle and stood and prepared himself for the attack that never came.

The old wrinkled woman that stood beside the road was blind and he was sure she was death incarnate. He had traveled a long way to meet her, his death; it wasn’t what he’d expected but he couldn’t imagine a better way to leave this world either. She looked like an ancient sculpture of a Navajo and he didn’t think she would speak English until she approached and said, “Stop being so afraid; you don’t know what day you’ll die. But, you would give your soul to know the day and time and how it will happen. Your soul is worth more than that. I’m still waiting for death and so are you. Stop being afraid; death is the only true visitor you know will someday come.” And then she stepped into the sage and disappeared as quickly and silently as she had arrived.

When he awoke he was sitting on the ground next to his truck and the sun had begun to go down and the air had cooled some. He stood and looked for her, his death, but saw no sign of her. There were no footprints in the dust. He opened the truck door and reached for his water bottle and drank until it was almost empty. He looked at his tire and it was repaired, the tools waited to be put back in the truck. Had he dreamt her? Had he gotten too much sun and hallucinated all of it? He had owned this mystery for many years now and when he thought of her, he wondered when and where and how… and he thought about just how much his soul was worth.