cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第15章

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Debierue's　bedroom。　Either　Cassidy；　in　his　meanness；　had　hung　it　on　the　wall；　or　it　had　been　left　there　by　the　owner　of　the　house。　But　I　still　couldn't　fathom　how　Debierue　could　tolerate　the　corny　picture；　unless；　perhaps；　he　was　amused　by　the　ironic　idea　behind　the　print。　Of　course；　that　was　probably　the　reason。
　　The　bedroom　was　austere。　A　Hollywood　single　bed；　made　up　with　apple…green　sheets…and　no　bedspread…an　unpainted　pine　highboy；　a　wrought…iron　bedside　table　with　a　slab　of　white　tile　for　a　top；　and　a　red　plastic　Charles　Eames　chair　beside　the　bed　made　up　the　inventory。　There　was　a　ceiling　light；　but　no　lamp。　Debierue　was　a　nihilist　and　stoic　in　his　everyday　life　as　well　as　in　his　art；　but　I　felt　a　wave　of　sympathy　for　the　painter　all　the　same。　It　was　a　shame；　I　felt；　that　this　great　man　had　so　few　creature　forts　in　his　old　age。　There　was　no　need　for　me　to　slide　open　the　closet　door；　or　to　search　the　drawers　of　the　highboy　and　paw　through　his　clothing。
　　I　took　a　nervous　leak　in　the　bathroom；　and　turned　on　the　tap　to　wash　my　hands　in　the　washbowl。　I　opened　the　mirrored　cabinet　to　see　what　kind　of　medicines　he　kept　there。　If　he　had　any　diseases；　or　an　illness　of　some　kind；　the　medicines　he　used　would　furnish　a　valid　clue；　and　that　might　be　worth　writing　about。　Except　for　Elixophyllin…KI　（an　expectorant　that　eases　the　ability　to　breathe　for　persons　with　asthma；　emphysema；　and　bronchitis）　and　three　bars　of　Emulave　（a　kind　of　〃soapless〃　soap；　or　cleansing　bar　for　people　with　very　dry　skin…and　I　had　noted　the　dryness　of　the　painter's　hands　already）；　there　was　nothing　out　of　the　ordinary　in　the　cabinet。　A　pearl…handled　straight　razor；　a　cup　with　shaving　soap　and　brush；　a　bottle　of　blue　green　Scope；　a　half…used　tube　of　Stripe　toothpaste；　a　green　plastic　Dr。　West　toothbrush；　a　100…tablet　bottle　of　Bayer　aspirin；　with　the　cotton　gone；　and　that　was　it。　There　wasn't　even　a　b；　although　Debierue；　with　a　bald　head　as　slick　as　a　peeled　almond；　didn't　need　a　b。　As　bathroom　medicine　chests　in　America　go；　this　was　the　barest　cabinet…outside　of　a　rented　motel　room…I　had　ever　seen。
　　I　returned　to　the　living　room　in　time　to　hear　Berenice　say；　〃Don't　you　get　lonely；　Mr。　Debierue；　living　way　out　here　all　alone？〃
　　He　smiled；　patted　her　hand；　and　shook　his　head。
　　〃It's　the　nature　of　the　artist　to　be　lonely；〃　I　answered　for　him。　〃But　the　painter　has　his　work　to　do；　which　is　ample　pensation。〃
　　〃I　know；〃　Berenice　said；　〃but　this　place　is　a　million　miles　from　nowhere。　You　ought　to　get　a　car；　Mr。　Debierue。　Then　you　could　drive　over　to　Dania　for　jai…alai　at　night　or　something。〃
　　〃No；　no；〃　he　protested；　still　patting　her　hand；　〃I　am　too　old　now　to　learn　how　to　drive　an　automobile。〃
　　〃You　could　take　some　students；〃　Berenice　said　eagerly。　〃There　would　be　a　lot　of　students　who　would　like　to　work　with　you　in　your　studio！　And　I　bet　they'd　e　with　cars　from　all　over〃…she　turned　to　me…〃wouldn't　they；　James？〃
　　Debierue　laughed；　and　I　joined　him；　although　I　was　laughing　more　at　Berenice's　droll　expression…half　anger　and　half　bewilderment…because　we　were　laughing　at　her。　For　any　other　painter　of　equal　stature；　Picasso；　for　instance；　the　suggestion　of　a　student　working　with　a　master　was　valid　enough。　But　for　Debierue；　who　showed　his　work　to　no　one；　the　idea　was　absurd。　Debierue　had　sidetracked　me　neatly。　It　was　time　to　get　back　to　business。
　　I　put　an　affectionate　arm　around　Berenice's　waist　and　squeezed　her　as　a　signal　to　keep　quiet。　〃You　didn't　answer　my　question　a　while　ago；　M。　Debierue；〃　I　said　soberly。　〃You　have　been　very　nice　to　me…to　us　both…even　though　we've　invaded　your　privacy。　But　I　would　like　to　see　your　present　work…〃
　　He　sighed。　〃I'm　sorry；　M。　Figueras。　You　have　made　your　visit　without　reason。　You　see；〃　he　shrugged；　〃I　have　no　work　to　show　you。〃
　　〃Nothing　at　all？　Not　even　a　drawing？〃
　　The　corners　of　his　mouth　drooped　morosely。　〃Work　I　have；　yes。　But　what　things　I　have　done　in　Florida　are　not　deserving　of　your　attention。〃
　　〃Why　don't　you　let　me　be　the　judge　of　that？〃
　　His　strained　half…smile　was　weary；　but　his　features　stiffened　with　a　mask　of　discernible　dignity。　His　voice　dropped　to　a　husky　whisper。　〃The　artist　alone　is　the　final　judge　of　his　work；　M。　Figueras。〃
　　I　flushed。　〃please　don't　misunderstand　me；〃　I　said　quickly。　〃I　didn't　mean　what　I　said　to　e　out　that　way。　What　I　meant　was　that　I　don't　intend　to　criticize　your　work；　or　judge　it　in　any　way。　I　meant　to　say　that　I　would　prefer　to　be　the　judge　of　whether　I'd　like　to　see　it　or　not。　And　I　would。　It　would　be　an　honor。〃
　　〃No。　I　am　sorry　but　I　must　refuse。　You　are　a　critic　and　you　cannot　help　yourself。　For　you；　to　see　a　picture　is　to　make　a　judgment。　I　do　not　want　your　judgment。　I　paint　for　Debierue。　I　please　myself　and　I　displease　myself。　For　a　young　man　like　you　to　say　to　me；　'Ah；　M。　Debierue；　here　in　this　corner　a　touch　of　terracotta　might　strengthen　the　visual　weight；〃　or　'I　like　the　tactile　texture；　but　I　believe　I　see　a　hole　in　the　overall　position。。。：〃　He　chuckled　drily。　〃I　must　say　No；　M。　Figueras。〃
　　〃You　are　putting　me　down；　sir；〃　I　said。　〃I　know　there　are　critics　such　as　you　describe；　but　I'm　not　one　of　them。〃　My　face　was　flaming；　but　my　voice　was　under　control。
　　〃With　the　art　of　Debierue；　one　man　is　a　crowd。　Me。　Debierue。　Two　people　are　a　noisy　audience。　But　to　have　one　spectator　with　a　pen；　the　critic；　is　to　have　many　thousands　of　spectators。　Surrealism　does　not　need　your　rationale；　M。　Figueras。　And　Debierue　does　not　paint　'bicephalous　centaursY'
　　〃He　won't　let　you　see　his　pictures；　will　he？〃　Berenice　guessed；　looking　at　my　face。
　　I　shook　my　head。
　　〃Maybe；〃　she　turned　and　looked　coyly　at　Debierue；　〃you'll　let　me　see　them　instead；　Mr。　Debierue？〃
　　He　stepped　back　a　few　feet　and　examined　her　figure　admiringly。　〃You　have　a　wide　pelvis；　my　dear；　and　it　will　be　very　easy　for　you　to　have　many　fine；　beautiful　babies。〃
　　〃By　that　he　means　No　for　me　too；　doesn't　he？〃
　　〃What　else？〃　I　shrugged；　and　lit　a　cigarette。
　　As　I　had　suspected；　Debierue　had　disliked　Galt's　criticism。　I　could　have　begged；　but　that　would　have　been　abhorrent　to　me。　If　this　was　the　way　he　felt　there　was　no　point　in　pursuing　the　matter　anyway。　In　one　way；　he　was　right　about　me。　It　would　have　been　impossible　for　me　to　look　at　his　work　without　judging　it。　And　although　I　would　not　have　said　anything　derogatory　about　his　work；　no　matter　how　I　felt　about　it；　there　was　bound　to　be　some　indication　of　how　I　felt…pro　or　con…reflected　in　my　face。　If　he　didn't　actually　believe　that　his　paintings　were　worthy　（although　his　faculty　for　criticism　was　certainly　not　as　good　as　mine）；　all　I　could　do　now　was　take　him　at　his　word。　I　felt　almost　like　crying。　It　was　one　of　the　greatest　disappointments　of　my　life。
　　〃Perhaps　another　time；　then；　M。　Debierue；〃　I　said。
　　〃Yes；　perhaps。〃　He　stroked　his　beaked　nose　pensively　and　studied　my　face。　Not　rudely；　but　earnestly。　He　glanced　toward　the　hallway　leading　to　his　padlocked　studio；　looked　back　at　me；　smiled　at　Berenice；　and　tugged　pensively　at　his　lower　lip。　I　suspect　that　he　had　expected　me　to　put　up　a　prolonged；　involved　argument；　and　now　he　didn't　know　whether　to　be　grateful　or　disappointed　by　my　failure　to　protest。
　　〃Tell　me　something；　M。　Figueras。　I　am　called　the　Nihilistic　Surrealist；　but　I　have　never　known　why。　Do　you　see　much　disorder　here；　in　my　little　house？〃
　　〃No；　sir'　I　looked　around。　〃Far　from　it。〃
　　For　an　artist；　the　lack　of　clutter　was　most　unusual。　Painters；　as　a　〃class〃；　are　a　messy　lot。　They　collect　things。　An　old　board　with　concentric　swirls；　a　rock　with　an　intriguing　shape；　jumbles　of　wire；　seashells；　any　and　all　kinds　of　things　that　have；　to　them；　interesting　shapes　or　colors。　A　chunk　of　wood；　for　example；　may　gather　a　heavy　patina　of　dust　for　years　before　a　sculptor　finally　detects　the　shape　within　the　object　and　liberates　it　into　a　piece　of　sculpture。
　　Painters　are　even　messier；　in　most　instances；　than　sculptors。　They　stick　drawings　up　here　and　there。　Pads　with　sketches　are　scattered　about　haphazardly；　and　they　clutter　their　quarters　with　all　kinds　of　props　and　worthless　junk。　Things　are　needed　for　visual　stimulation　and　possible　ideas。　This　clutter　is　not　confined　to　their　studios　either。　It　generally　spills　over　into　their　everyday　habitat；　including　the　kitchen　and　bathroom。
　　And　a　Surrealist；　like　Debierue；　dealing　in　the　juxtaposition　of　the　unlikely；　would　ordinarily　require　a　great　many　unrelated　objects　in　his　home…studio　to　nudge　his　subconscious。　But　then；　Debierue　was　an　anomaly　among　painters。　My　experience　with　the　habits　of　other　painters　could　hardly　apply　to　him。　Besides；　I　had　not；　as　yet；　seen　the　inside　of　his　studio。　。　。　。
　　〃As　you　see；　I　am　an　orderly；　clean　old　man。　Always　it　was　so；　even　as　a　young　man。　So　it　may　be；　after　all；　that　I　am　not　the　Surrealist。　Is　it　not　so？〃　The　grooved　amusement　lines　crowding　his　blue　eyes　deepened　as　he　smiled。
　　〃It's　a　relative　term；〃　I　said　politely。　〃A　convenient　label。　'Superrealist'　or　'Subrealist'　would　both　have　served　as　well。　The　term　'Dada'　itself　was　just　a　catchall　word　at　first；　but　the　motto　'Dada　hurts；'　when　it　was　truly　followed　or　lived　up　to　in　plastic　expression；　was　quite　important　to　me。　In　fact　it　stifi　is；　but　I've　always　considered　'Surrealism'　as　a　misnomer。〃
　　〃Debierue　does　not　like　any　label。　Debierue　is　Debierue。　Marcel　Duchamp　I　admired　very　much；　and　he　too　did　not　like　labels。　Do　you　remember　what　Duchamp　did　when　a　young　writer　asked　him　for　permission　to　write　his　biography？〃
　　〃No；　sir。〃
　　〃When　Duchamp　was　asked　for　the　quite　personal　information　about　himself　he　said　nothing。　He　did　not　have　to　think。　He　emptied　all　of　the　drawers　from　his　desk　onto　the　floor　and　walked　out　of　the　room。〃
　　〃An　existential　act。〃　The　story　was　one　I　hadn't　heard。
　　〃Another　label；　M。　Figueras？〃　He　clucked　his　tongue。　〃So　now　on　the　floor　are　odds　and　ends；　little　things　saved　in　the　desk　for　many　years　for　no　good　reason。　Snapshots；　little　notes　one　receives　or　makes　for　himself。　Old　letters　from　friends；　enemies；　ladies。　And；　what　is　it？…the　doodles；　little　pencil　squigglings。　And　pretty　canceled　stamps；　saved　because　they　are　exotic　perhaps。　Stubs　from　the　theater。〃　He　shrugged。
　　〃It　sounds　like　my　desk　in　New　York。〃
　　〃But　this　was　the　Duchamp　biography。　The　clever　young　man　picked　up　everything　from　the　floor　and　went　away。　He　pasted　all　of　the　objects　in　a　big　book；　entitled　it　The　Biography　of　Marcel　Duchamp　and　sold　it　for　a　large　sum　of　dollars　to　a　rich　Texas　Jew。〃
　　〃It's　funny！　never　heard　about　it。　I　thought　I　knew　practically　everything　about　Duchamp　there　was　to　know　。　。　。〃
　　〃And　so　did　the　young　man　who　'wrote'　the　biography　about　Duchamp　out　of　odds　and　ends　from　a　desk。〃
　　〃Nevertheless；〃　I　said；　〃I'd　like　to　take　a　look　at　that　book。　Every　scrap　of　information　about　Duchamp　is　important　because　it　helps　us　to　understand　his　art。〃
　　The　artist　shrugged。　〃There　is　no　such　book。　The　story　is　apochryphal…I　made　it　up　myself　and　spread　it　to　a　few　friends　many　years　ago　to　see　what　would　happen。　And　because　it　is　something　Duchamp　might　do；　many　believed　it　as　you　were　prepared　to　do。　The　chance　debris　of　an　artist's　life　does　not　explain　the　man