Look: Bruno Nadalin, It’s Another Door

These drawings are often executed at night, usually after a day spent in vacillation and self-recrimination, in doubt and dawdling, repetition and recitation of the endless sterile story. The sloughed-off skins of the day. The conditions of their conception are meager and poor. The light insufficient, a lingering smell of mold from behind the walls, old wooden planks releasing the heat of the day, the condensation drip drip drip of a thousand air conditioners, tiny ants crawling through the fibers of gray carpeting. 

I often choose to draw on newsprint and cheap paper from the 99¢ store. I like the way the ink spreads and blots on this paper, suggesting forms, lines spilling beyond their boundaries, seeping onto the pages beneath to spark further generations of drawings. Most of these drawings start with one of these clots of ink, rarely following an idea, but following a line, growing like weeds. I fashion my own sketchbooks out of newsprint and mixed paper. The pages wilt under the weight of ink, curling on their edges like dry leaves, the covers bulging. Scanning them requires me to stack books on top. 

I see more nature in my dreams than in the real world. For this reason, I am prone to idealize it, to imagine the (better) person I might be if I were not bound by plastic and steel and asphalt. A common delusion, I know, but still one keenly felt. There is not much of the natural world around me. Vacant lots and their weeds are quickly claimed and sprout condos at a mushroom pace. I make a point of stopping to look at these lots while I still can, a small pause in the chatter of the city. There is a field within walking distance of my apartment, though. A field and a small woods of scraggly trees. People dump their garbage there: old baby strollers and construction debris; before the internet, porno magazines. One of my more affecting encounters with an animal occurred at this field/dumping ground a couple of years ago. 

Catherine and I were walking in the field. Someone had thrown away a door. I lifted it to look underneath and there it was: a beautiful black snake curled in the shade. It was so angry at being exposed. It lunged at us, snapping at the air. And then it began biting itself. Over and over, it bit its own body, piercing itself with its serrated mouth. It seemed to be possessed by an indescribable frustration and hatred. Small dots of blood began to appear on its skin.  I lowered the door back down on it slowly and we walked home. 

Catherine and I went back to the field a couple of days later. I lifted the door. There was the snake, in a limp coil, its scales still black, but dull now, like burnt wood.  

“It’s dead,” I noted dumbly. 

We felt awful. Vaguely cursed in some way, like tourists who had haplessly violated some sacred rite. We trudged back to our apartment, two figures out of a Masaccio fresco. As a form of penance we donated money to a snake and reptile rescue foundation. If it counts for anything, I could have gotten a t-shirt with my donation but declined it. 

Some of these drawings are directly inspired by the scenery I pass through once a week on the commute to one of my jobs. The light rail glides along the back edges of the city where it runs off into recycling processing plants and indecipherable warehouses. There are rows of houses along one stretch, their backyards choked with moldering trash. In the summer the vegetation runs riot, overtaking everything. In the winter dry brown vines hang from the trees in a confused mess. Vampire girls walk through them at night. Sometimes you can see clumps of their hair caught in the vines if you look closely. 

The light rail passes by the field of the snake. Driven by some need for resolution, Catherine and I went back to the field. I lifted the door. There was the snake, in a limp coil, its scales still black, but duller now.  Catherine crouched and gently rested her hand on the snake. Slowly the scales began to fade, their lines gradually disappearing, the way a snowflake might melt, the skin of the snake growing colder still, harder, until it is clear that this is not a snake, but a ring, a thick iron ring like on a castle door. And now I can see, faintly outlined in the dirt, a square surrounding the ring. I brush the dirt from around the edges of the square with my hand, scattering pillbugs and miniscule crawlies. 

It’s another door.

We scrape at the dirt with shards of drywall plucked from the nearby weeds. A few inches down, rusted metal. Hinges on the side nearest us. We grab the ring and pull. A ladder. Cool air, smelling faintly of salt, rises toward us. 

At the bottom of the ladder we step off onto a small beach. We decide to swim. The water is warm, listless waves carry us along. Then a cloud arrives in the sky, tucking the sun into itself, leaving us in gray. We turn, but we no longer see the shore. The gray deepens and seeps down in a light drizzle. In the distance we see a small island...really more of a rock...perhaps a buoy? Looks like there’s a branch or something growing out of it, straight up …

We are close upon it when we see it’s not a branch but a cobra, majestically erect in the gray mist. A wave pushes me forward. The cobra lunges at me.

“Let me see your phone,” I say to Catherine. 

‘Why?” 

“I have an idea...wait, open your emails.”

Kicking myself forward, I hold the phone aloft before me, closing in on the rock. The cobra hisses, but then it reads what’s on the screen

Thank You for Your Donation to SaveTheSnakes

Slowly the cobra lowers its head, blinks once, and curls backwards across the rock until it finds a spot just above the waterline, a trough that it presses itself into. We climb onto the rock to rest. 

Author and Artist Bruno Nadalin. 

I work primarily in graphic mediums, including pen and ink, etching, and monotype. I have trained as an illustrator but rarely work in this field. While I wouldn’t call myself an illustrator, my artwork is essentially narrative in nature and does draw inspiration (indirectly) from what I’m reading at the time. Authors who have inspired me recently include Ishmael Reed (The Free-Lance Pallbearers); Bruno Schulz (Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass); and  Karel Čapek (War with the Newts). I live in Jersey City, with Catherine and our cat, Grace, near the field of the snake.

Four Faces I, monotype and linocut, 2016 

Two Women, monotype, 2018

Field, Pen and Ink, 2019