You are generally aware that our view of the universe around us is inherently limited. Our optical system operates within a narrow range of the spectrum. We use high-tech cameras and other devices to extend that range. We know that many creatures see in different portions of the spectrum, and their understanding of the world is quite different from ours. Now, my first step was to conceive the possibility of observing the entire color spectrum at once.

“That may sound grandiose enough for you, but years ago I discovered that it’s merely a question of technical wizardry. Science is capable of handling that end, and may have done so already. That still restricts us, however, to the currently accepted light range, broad as it is. Armed only with that, I could play games with colors, but not much else. My most cherished fantasies run a great deal farther.

“I know, with a moral certainty which admits of no doubt, that there exists an invisible world, the world of the hypernormal, if you will, that lies beyond and encompasses the dimensions we recognize, within which Einsteinian space-time makes up the merest fragment. I’ve read the foundational works on the subject. It’s there. In our usual human circumstances we can’t touch it, can’t sense it in any way. We can’t see it, because– once we posit the hypernormal– we must allow for the corresponding existence of the hyperspectrum, an observable range far surpassing that previously known. It may be that no gizmo can ever reveal it to us, for any machine the experts can construct lies wholly within conventional space-time. It would be as materially limited as they are. On the other hand, perhaps they will tinker something in a thousand years. Who can say? I’m not willing to wait!

“No machine can reveal it, but the right kind of prepared human mind can; my mind. That’s what I’ve been doing with all this reading– training myself to see in the full range of the hyperspectrum– the ultimate act of the creative imagination. It requires knowledge, skill, and will power. I have to force myself to look at an everyday object– that lamp, for instance– and see it in all its extra-dimensional forms, within the broadest conceivable band of light and color. It isn’t easy. At first I wasn’t convinced that it was possible. I couldn’t make it happen, not from just wanting to do it, until I had so expanded and released my brain that the images began falling into place of their own accord.”

This sounded like squalid drug mouthings to me, a potential weakness of which I’d never suspected him. When I gently questioned Langley on the matter, he grew indignant. “These aren’t hallucinations,” he said, “chemically stimulated or otherwise. They’re real glimpses of the hypernormal world. It comes to me fairly easily now. In the beginning it gave me a headache to see properly, but not any more. You’ve know of those specially designed pictures, that show a stereoscopic image when you stare at them a certain way, an image that springs out when you focus just so. Well, it feels like that. I have to make the effort, but I’ve developed a knack for it, and as time passes I’m gaining more control over the visual process. Increasingly I’m seeing purely through the comprehensive awareness of my mind, rather than with my eyes.

“However, even that isn’t enough for me. I haven’t embarked on this artistic odyssey in order to paint a still life of a multi-dimensioned lamp. A presentation of absolute reality demands an absolute subject. I must understand what I see before I can paint it. That’s the reason for the anthropology texts, and… some of this other stuff here. Pretty wild some of it is, difficult to absorb. I’ve had trouble grasping critical points. Perhaps a lingering unwillingness has held me back; certain conceptions regarding the true nature of the universe are so vast, so incomprehensible, so frightening in their implications, as to give me pause. The more I understand, the more I’m filled with awe. I have moments when I’m not sure that I want to follow Bleek down the road he traveled. What lies at the end is immense.”

He sat silently for a while, then added, “There may be a religious component to my quest. I didn’t expect that. It’s never been important to me before, and I don’t know how to deal with it.” And that was all I learned that day.

During the ensuing period of many months I heard no more from or about Langley. There was no trade mention of fresh productions. He wasn’t recognized out and about in his usual haunts. The grapevine eventually informed me that he refused all new clients. I popped by his place once more, but no one answered the door. I called a few times. On a single occasion he picked up the phone. He was home but, as he made rudely clear, not officially in. I asked him what he was doing. Working on his grand project, he told me. Had he actually begun the painting? Yes. Might I see it? No, positively no. Why not, pray tell? This time he responded with more than a brush-off.

“It wouldn’t mean anything at this stage. Until I complete the picture– until every detail is in place, each curve and angle formulated and captured– it won’t have the desired effect. It would just be a picture. This time you must wait.” Click, disconnection.

So he would have it. The whole business intrigued me, naturally. I keenly wanted to be the first to make a public announcement about his ongoing magnum opus, but if that wasn’t going to happen then I refused to accept such treatment. I did my best to put Langley out of my mind, a task made simple by his reclusiveness.

Now I must bring my account of events up to a point about two months ago. I’d still heard nothing of Langley, and he knew and cared nothing about me. I’d temporarily landed in France– Paris, of course– where in my high-minded fashion I agreed to act as one of the experts on an art panel overseeing a formal prize competition. The details don’t matter (it was another one of those), but while there I enjoyed the scenery in company with an aspiring local sculptress, a sweet, pretty young thing, who’d convinced herself that my guidance could be beneficial to her career. I got what I wanted; regretfully, I can’t say the same for her. She had talents, to be sure, but not in the line of sculptural expression. At any rate, she kept me happily overseas far longer than originally planned.

One crisp morning, while jotting down notes, alone, at the Louvre for what might become a magazine feature, I ran across Leonard Chockinaw. This uninspiring poseur from Modesto, who must have called in some big favors to get an art column in three newspapers, had just flown into town in order to “vertically insert” himself, as he told me, into the refreshing Old World culture. He intended to “hunker down” and “embed” himself among charming surroundings until he managed to pull himself together. In response to my minimal politeness he assured me that he wasn’t physically ill, only shaken, and needed time to recuperate. I’d always thought this empty-headed dolt (in the old days he shouted the praises of nine day wonder Andrew Pindar, who gathered his watercolor materials from sewage treatment plants and called the stinking result social commentary) unflappable, but for once in his life he had something on his mind.

He said to me, fretfully: “Since you’re so thick with Terry, I guess you know all about it.”

“Terrill Langley?” I exclaimed, somehow smothering my surprise. The artist had never wasted time on this hack. “What’s he to you?”

“He’s put out a new one. I saw it last week. A crazy thing; I don’t like it.”

In this manner I received my first intimation that Langley had finally completed his epic work. He called it, I now learned, Cosmic Kaleidoscope.

I swallowed my distaste and invited Chockinaw to dinner, which represented a major disruption of my intended evening engagements. At the Maison that night he explained everything, and this is the gist of what he said:

The painting began its display the previous Friday at the renowned Radetsky Salon. That was bound to impress. It opened without the customary preliminary fanfare. An interesting development, that. The artist didn’t show. Langley had pulled that stunt before, and it meant nothing. First reviews were mixed, subdued, rather querulous. So, they were playing it cagey with an original item; standard critical practice. Chockinaw had much to say concerning the mounting hostile reaction, but I dismissed his words. I’d heard it before with Turd Race. Besides, this clown wasn’t capable of reporting, much less judging, the opinions of others.

Impatiently I listened, until he got around to describing his own experience with Langley’s painting, which he viewed the day after opening. Here his tale took an unexpected turn, and fully commanded my attention.