Patient Nine (II): Marcos Villares

“I got my “mojo” working, but it just won’t work on you”, sang American blues singer Muddy Waters from the record spinning on my turntable. Absolutely fitting, given the topic of the conversation at the centre of Villares’s second, but now soberly made, appointment with me. I had also taken the time to listen to the record, which was alright, but not quite my cup of tea. All in all, I had given it much thought, and felt I could chart the way into his subconscious. After all, this seemed like a variant of my conversation with Nicolás. This time, it was not guilt tying down sexual desire, but something blocking artistic desire, so to speak.

Villares arrived and parked his entourage of photographers outside the building. He knocked and I let him in. He gave me a big hug and said that I had nothing to worry about any more, the story had died down in the media. I replied, unimpressed, that my reputation lingered and the amount of patients requiring my services was enormous still. He shrugged. “Maybe now it’s just a question of your professionalism echoing about and drawing people to you”. After only two weeks? Fat chance. I mean I was good, but not that good.

He produced his cell phone and asked if he could play something for me. I acquiesced to his request and listened attentively to the music. It was hardly what he was known for. Instead of the straight-forward swampy twelve-bar blues that had made him famous, this was something else entirely. When the tune stopped he looked at me, awaiting my reaction. I told him it felt like he was trying too hard. He put his mobile away and nodded in agreement. He took it well on the outside it seemed, but he looked as if he was beaten on the inside.

“The public’s never going to like this. It’s the end of my career,” he mumbled. As I heard that, the wheels in my head began to turn. The public. Why them? What about them? I posed those questions to him. He was rather taken aback. He replied that had to cater to his audience. Their record buying habits and their attendance at shows were what paid the bills.

I disagreed completely. First came himself, then the band and finally the consumers. I pointed at the evidence before us: The charts declared that his albums had not been welcomed in the realm of public delight for, at least, fifteen years (yes, I had done my homework). He had a loyal audience, dwindling gradually indeed, but those who remained steadfast were counting on him to be honest. Like in any relationship.

He sat pondering, debating with himself how could he perceive he was being honest with himself. Now, this was the real deal. This was the actual issue behind the ghost of crushing self-doubt. The truth, ironically, was that I couldn’t work it out for him. The answer to that had to necessarily come from himself. I said so. I could only provide guidelines and suggestions, which I’d do as long as he needed my help. He looked at me and whispered, “Thank you”.

I stated the obvious, remarking that the only way to know was to start. He had to clear his mind and shut off the white noise of the well-intended. He had to write for himself first. Write for dear life. He had to allow himself to like his words. And to dislike them. To re-work them and to scrap them. And then, he’d know.