cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第7章

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　　〃He　might　slam　the　door　in　my　face；　then？〃
　　〃Who　knows。　We　made　a　deal；　that's　all；　and　we　shook　hands　on　it。　I　know　my　business；　and　you　should　know　yours。　Any　more　questions？〃
　　〃Not　for　you。〃
　　〃Good。〃　He　got　to　his　feet；　an　abrupt　signal　that　the　discussion　was　finished。　〃When　are　you　driving　down？〃
　　〃That's　my　business。〃　I　grinned；　and　stuck　out　my　hand。
　　We　shook　hands　again；　and　Cassidy　asked　kindly　if　he　could　telephone　for　a　taxi。　Sending　me　home　in　a　cab　at　my　own　expense　was　his　method　of　〃seeing　that　I　got　home　all　right。〃
　　I　declined；　and　rode　down　in　the　elevator。　To　clear　my　head；　I　preferred　to　walk　the　few　blocks　to　my　apartment。　As　I　walked　the　quiet　streets　through　the　warm　soft　night；　a　Palm　Beach　police　car；　staying　a　discreet　block　behind；　trailed　me　home。　I　wasn't　suspected　of　anything。　The　cops　were　merely　making　certain　that　I　would　get　home　all　right。　Palm　Beach　is　probably；　together　with　Hobe　Sound；　the　best…protected　city　in　the　United　States。
　　Now　that　I　was　alone；　I　was　so　filled　with　excitement　I　could　hardly　think　straight。　Dada；　first；　and　Surrealism；　second；　were　my　favorite　periods　in　art　history。　And　because　of　my　interest　in　these　movements　when　I　had　been　in　Paris；　I　knew　the　Paris　art　scene　of　the　twenties　better；　in　many　respects；　than　most　of　the　people　who　had　participated　in　it。　And　Debierue…Jacques　Debierue！　Debierue　was　the　key　figure；　the　symbol　of　the　dividing　line；　if　a　line　could　be　delineated；　in　the　split　between　Dada　and　Surrealism！　In　my　exhilarated　state；　I　knew　I　wouldn't　be　able　to　sleep。　I　was　going　to　put　on　a　pot　of　coffee　and　jot　down　notes　on　Debierue　from　memory　in　preparation　for　the　interview。　Tomorrow；　I　thought；　tomorrow！
　　I　turned　the　key　in　the　door　and　opened　it　to　unexpected　light。　The　soft　light　streamed　in　from　the　bathroom。　Silhouetted　in　the　bathroom　doorway；　wearing　a　gray…blue　shorty　nightgown；　was　my　tawny…maned　schoolteacher。　Her　long；　swordlike　legs　trembled　at　the　knees。
　　〃I…I　came　back；　James；〃　Berenice　said　tearfully。
　　I　nodded；　dumbly；　and　lifted　my　arms　so　she　could　rush　into　them。　After　she　calms　down；　I　thought；　I'll　have　her　make　the　coffee。　Berenice　makes　much　better　coffee　than　I　do　。　。　。
　　
　　
　　5
　　
　　Debierue　is　a　difficult　artist　to　explain；　I　explained　to　Berenice　over　coffee：
　　〃No　pido　nunca　a　nadie　is　a　good　summary　of　the　code　Debierue's　lived　by　all　his　life。　Translated；　it　means；　'I　never　ask　nobody　for　nothing：
　　〃I　think　that's　the　first　time　I've　ever　heard　you　talk　in　Spanish；　James。〃
　　〃And　it　might　be　the　last。　It　didn't　take　me　long　to　quit　speaking　Spanish　after　we　moved　to　New　York　from　San　Juan。　And　as　soon　as　I　wised　up　to　how　they　felt　about　Puerto　Ricans；　I　got　rid　of　my　Spanish　accent；　too。　But　the　Spanish　No　pido　nunca　a　nadie　sounds　better　because　the　reiterated　double　negatives　don't　cancel　each　other　out　as　they　do　in　English。　And　that's　the　story　of　Debierue's　life；　one　double　negative　action　after　another　until；　by　not　trying　to　impress　anybody；　he　ended　up　by　impressing　everybody。〃
　　〃But　why　did　you　give　up　speaking　Spanish？〃
　　〃To　prove　to　myself；　I　suppose；　that　a　Puerto　Rican's　not　only　as　good　as　anybody　else；　he's　a　damned　sight　better。　Besides；　that's　what　my　father　would've　done。〃
　　〃But　your　father's　dead；　you　told　me…〃
　　〃That's　right。　He　died　when　I　was　twelve；　but　technically　I　never　had　a　father。　He　and　my　mother　separated　before　I　was　a　year　old；　you　see。　They　didn't　get　divorced　because　they　were　Catholics；　although　my　mother　made　semi…official　arrangements　with　the　church　for　them　to　live　apart。　There　was　no　money　problem。　He　supported　us　until　he　died；　and　then　we　came　up　to　New　York；　Mother　and　I；　with　the　insurance　and　the　money　from　the　sale　of　our　house　in　San　Juan。〃
　　〃But　you　saw　him　once　in　a　while；　didn't　you？〃
　　〃No。　Never。　Not　after　their　separation…except　in　photographs；　of　course。　That's　what　made　things　so　tough　for　me；　Berenice。　What　I've　had　instead　is　an　imaginary　father；　a　father　I've　had　to　make　up　myself；　and　he's　what　you　might　call　un　hombre　duro…a　hard　man。〃
　　〃What　you　mean；　James；　you've　deliberately　made　things　hard　on　yourself。〃
　　〃It　isn't　that　simple。　A　boy　who　doesn't　have　a　father　around　doesn't　develop　a　superego；　and　if　you　don't　get　a　superego　naturally　you've　got　to　invent　one…〃
　　〃That's　sffly。　Superego　is　only　a　jargon　word　for　'conscience；'　and　everybody's　got　a　conscience。〃
　　〃Have　it　your　way；　Berenice；　although　Fromm　and　Rollo　May　wouldn't　agree　with　you。〃
　　〃But　you've　got　a　conscience。〃
　　〃Right。　At　least　I've　got　one　intellectually；　if　not　emotionally；　because　I　was　smart　enough　to　create　an　imaginary　father'
　　〃Sometimes　I　don't　understand　you；　James。〃
　　〃That's　because　you're　like　the　little　old　lady　in　Hemingway's　Death　in　the　Afternoon。〃
　　〃I've　never　read　it。　That's　his　book　on　bullfighting；　isn't　it？〃
　　〃No。　It's　a　book　about　Hemingway。　By　talking　about　bullfighting　he　tells　us　about　himself。　You　can　learn　a　lot　about　bullfighting　in　Death　in　the　Afternoon；　but　what　you　learn　about　life　and　death　is　a　matter　of　Hemingway。〃
　　〃And　the　little　old　lady。　。　。　？〃
　　〃The　little　old　lady　in　Death　in　the　Afternoon　kept　asking　irrelevant　questions。　As　a　consequence；　she　didn't　learn　much　about　bullfighting　or　Ernest　Hemingway　and　toward　the　end　of　the　book　Hemingway　has　to　get　rid　of　her。〃
　　〃I'm　not　a　little　old　lady。　I'm　a　young　woman　and　I　can　learn。　And　if　I　want　to　understand　you　better；　I　should　listen　to　what　you　have　to　say　about　art　because　it's　a　matter　of　life　and　death　to　you。〃
　　〃You　might　put　it　that　way。〃
　　〃I　am　putting　it　that　way。〃
　　〃Would　you　like　to　hear　about　Jacques　Debierue？〃
　　〃I'd　love　to　hear　about　Jacques　Debierue！〃
　　〃In　that　case；　I'll　begin　without　the　overall　frame　of　reference　and　fill　in　the　necessary　background　as　I　e　to　it。　I　said；　I'll　begin　without　the…I　see；　you　don't　have　any　relevant　questions　and　you've　decided　to　remain　silent　until　you　do？　Fine。　You'll　understand　my　exhilaration　about　my　opportunity　to　meet　Jacques　Debierue；　then；　when　I　tell　you　that　I've　read　all；　as　far　as　I　know；　that's　been　written　about　him。　The　scope　is　wide；　but　the　viewpoint　is　narrow。
　　〃Only　four　other　critics；　all　Europeans；　have　actually　seen　and　written　about　his　work　at　firsthand。　I'll　be　the　first　American　critic　to　examine　his　work；　and　it'll　be　new；　original　painting　that　no　one　else　has　ever　seen　before。　For　the　first　time　in　my　critical　career；　I'll　see　the　most　recent　Nihilistic　Surrealistic　paintings　by　the　most　famous　artist　in　the　world。　It　wifi　also　be　possible；　afterward；　for　me　to　evaluate　and　pare　my　opinions　with　the　critiques　of　those　critics　who've　written　about　his　earlier　work。　I'll　have　a　broad　view　of　Debierue's　growth…or　possible　retrogression…and　historical　support；　or　better　yet；　nonsupport；　for　my　convictions。
　　〃The　incidental　factors　that　led　to　Debierue's　fame　during　the　course　of　contemporary　art　history　are　marvelous。　His　silent；　uphill　fight　against　improbable　odds　appears；　on　the　surface；　to　be　effortless；　but　such　was　not　the　case。　Mass　hostility　is　always　omnipresent　toward　the　new；　especially　in　art。　Hundreds　of　books；　as　you　know；　have　been　filled　with　exegetical　opinions　about　the　Impressionists；　Expressionists；　Suprematists；　Cubists；　Futurists；　Dadaists；　and　Surrealists　of　the　early　years　of　this　century。　All　of　the　major　innovators　have　been　examined　in　detail；　but　there　were　many　other　painters　who　received　no　recognition　at　all。　And　there　were　smaller　movements　that　were　formed　and　then　dissolved　without　being　mentioned。　How　many；　no　one　knows。
　　〃But　it　was　these　minor　movements　that　I　was　interested　in　during　my　year　in　Europe。　It　was　a　way　to　earn　a　reputation；　you　see。　And　if　I　could've　pinned　one　of　them　down；　one　that　got　away；　a　movement　that　I　could've　written　about　and　established　as　an　important　but　overlooked　movement　in　art　history；　I　could've　started　my　critical　career　immediately　instead　of　teaching　art　survey　courses　to　bored　accountants　at　CCNY。
　　〃Paris　seethed　with　new　developments　in　art　before；　during；　and　after　the　First　World　War。　Hardly　a　day　passed　without　a　new　group　being　formed；　a　new　manifesto　being　drafted；　followed　by　polemics；　fistfights；　dissolvements。
　　〃Three　painters　would　meet　in　a　café；　argue　affably　among　themselves　until　midnight；　and　decide　to　form　their　own　little　splinter　group。　Then；　as　wine　and　arguments　flowed　for　the　remainder　of　the　night　as　they　scribbled　away　at　a　new　manifesto；　they　detested　each　other　by　dawn。
　　〃White…faced　with　anger　and　lack　of　sleep；　they'd　march　off　to　their　studios　in　the　nacreous　light　of　morning；　their　new　movement　junked　before　it　was　begun。
　　〃A　few　of　these　lesser　movements　caught　on；　however；　lasting　for　a　few　days　or　weeks　after　a　scattered　flurry　of　press　publicity；　but　most　of　them　died　unheralded；　unnoticed；　for　want　of　a　second…or　for　no　discernible　reason。　The　fortunate；　well…publicized　movements　lasted　long　enough　to　influence　enough　imitators　to　gain　solid　niches　in　art　history。　Cubism；　for　example；　a　term　that　pleased　the　reading　public；　was　one　of　them。
　　〃Paris；　of　course；　was　the　center　of　the　vortex　during　the　early　twenties；　but　forays　into　new　and　exciting　art　expressions　were　by　no　means　confined　to　France。
　　〃During　my　single　year　in　France；　as　I　tried　to　track　down　tangible　evidence　of　these　minor　movements　without　success；　my　side　trips　to　Brussels　and　Germany　were　even　more　tantalizing。
　　〃In　Brussels；　the　Grimm　Brothers；　Hal　and　Hans；　who　called　themselves　'The　Grimmists；'　spent　months　in　dark　mines　collecting　expressive　lumps　of　coal。　These　were　exhibited　as　'natural'　sculptures　on　white　satin　pillows。　Within　two　days；　however；　shivering　Belgians　had　pilfered　these　exposed　lumps　of　coal；　and　the　exhibit　closed。　The　Belgians　are　a　practical　people；　and　1919　was　a　cold　winter。　In　their　own　way；　the　Brothers　Grimm　had　originated　'Found'　art…〃
　　〃James…when　you　say　that　you　have　no　superego；　or　conscience；　does　that　mean　that　you've　never　done　anything　bad；　anything　you've　ever　been　sorry　for；　later？〃
　　〃Yeah。　Once。　There　was　an　assistant　professor　I　knew　at　Columbia；　an　anthropologist；　whose　wife　died。　He　had　her　cremated；　and　bought　a　beautiful　five…hundred…dollar　urn　to　keep　her　ashes　in。　He　used　to　keep　the　urn　on　his　desk　at　home；　as　a　memento　mori。　Anthropologists；　as　you　know；　are　pretty　keen　on　ritual；　burial　ceremonies；　and　pottery…　things　of　that　nature。　His　wife　died　of　tuberculosis。
　　〃I　never　knew　his　first　wife；　but　I　met　his　second　wife；　who　was　one　of　his　graduate　students。　Men；　like　women；　are　usually　attracted　to　the　same　type　of　person　when　they　remarry…〃
　　〃That　isn't　true！　I've　never　known　anyone　like　you　before…〃
　　〃But　then　you've　never　been　married；　Berenice。　And　I'm　talking　about　a　widower　who　married　again。　His　name　doesn't　matter　to　you；　but　it　happened　to　be　Dr。　Hank　Goldhagen。　Anyway；　his　second　wife；　Claire；　was　also　susceptible　to　respiratory　infections。　Sometimes；　when　they　got　into　an　argument；　Hank　would　point　to　the　urn　of　ashes；　and　say；　'My　first　wife；　in　that　urn；　is　a　better　woman　and　a　better