cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第25章

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pact　of　the　unusual；　the　unique；　for　the　miraculous　in　visual　art；　but　instead　of　wine　and　fish　I　didn't　find　even　bread　and　water。
　　There　were　canvases；　at　least　two　dozen　of　them；　and　all　of　these　pristine　canvases　were　the　same　size；　24〃　x　30〃。　They　were　stacked　in　white　plastic　racks　against　the　western　wall。　The　racks　were　the　mercial　kind　one　often　finds　in　art　supply　stores。　I　checked　every　one　of　these　glittering　white　canvases。　None　of　them　had　been　touched　by　paint　or　charcoal。
　　There　was　a　new；　gunmetal　desk　in　the　southwest　corner　of　the　studio；　with　a　matching　chair　cushioned　in　light　gray　Naugahyde。　On　the　desk　there　was　a　fruit　jar　filled　with　sharpened　pencils　and　ballpoint　pens；　a　square　glass　paperweight　（slightly　magnified）　holding　down　some　correspondence；　and　a　beautiful　desk　calendar　（an　Almanacco　Artistica　Italiano　product　in　brilliant　colors；　made　by　Alfieri　&　Lacroix；　Milano）。　Without　shame；　I　read　the　two　letters　that　had　been　held　down　by　the　paperweight。　One　was　a　letter　from　a　Parisian　clipping　service；　stating　that　Debierue's　name　had　been　mentioned　twice　in　the　foreword　to　a　new　art　history　pictorial　collection；　but　inasmuch　as　the　illustrated　volume　was　quite　expensive；　the　manager　had　written　to　the　publisher　and　requested　a　courtesy　copy　for　Debierue。　He　would　send　it　along　as　soon　as…or　if…he　received　it。　There　was　a　news　clipping　from　Paris　Soir；　an　unsigned　review　of　a　Man　Ray　retrospective　exhibit　in　Paris；　and　Debierue's　name　was　mentioned；　together　with　the　names　of　a　dozen　other　artists；　in　a　listing　of　Dadaists　who　had　known　Man　Ray　during　the　1920s。
　　Debierue　had　answered　the　manager　of　the　clipping　service　in　a　crabbed；　backhanded　script　with　cursive　letters　so　microscopic　he　must　have　written　the　letter　with　the　aid　of　the　magnified　paperweight。　He　merely　told　the　manager　not　to　send　the　book　if　he　got　a　free　copy；　and　not　to　buy　it　if　he　did　not。　Except　for　Debierue's　surname　（the　tiny　lowercase　letters　〃e〃　through　〃e〃　were　all　contained　within　a　large　capital　〃D〃）　there　was　no　plimentary　closing。　Debierue　had　a　unique　signature。　I　folded　the　letter　and　put　it　into　the　breast　pocket　of　my　jumpsuit。
　　As　I　looked　through　the　unlocked　drawers　of　the　desk；　I　found　nothing　else　to　hold　my　interest；　except　for　a　scrapbook　of　clippings。　The　scrapbook；　10〃　x　12k；　bound　in　gray　cardboard　covers；　was　less　than　half　filled；　and　from　the　first　clipping　to　the　last　one　pasted　in；　covered　an　eighteenmonth　period。　Most　of　the　earlier　clippings　were　reports　of　the　fire　that　had　burned　down　his　villa；　similar　accounts　from　many　different　newspapers。　The　more　recent　clippings　were　shorter…like　the　mention　of　his　name　in　the　Man　Ray　art　review。　The　items　in　the　other　drawers　were　what　one　expects　to　find。　Stationery　and　supplies；　stamps；　glue；　correspondence　in　manila　folders…unusual　perhaps　because　of　the　meticulous　neatness　one　doesn't　associate　with　desk　drawers。
　　There　was　a　two…shelf；　imitation　walnut　bookcase　beside　the　desk　that　held　about　thirty　books。　Most　of　them　were　paperbacks；　five　policiers　from　the　Sêrie　Noire；　three　Simenons　and　two　by　Chester　Himes；　Pascal's　Pensêes；　From　Caligari　to　Hitler；　Godard　on　Godard；　an　autographed　copy　of　Samuel　Beckett's　Proust；　and　several　paperback　novels　by　French　authors　I　had　never　heard　of　before。　The　hard…cover　books　were　all　well　worn。　A　French…English　dictionary　and　a　French…German　dictionary；　in　library　reference　size；　a　tattered　copy　of　Heidi　（in　German）；　a　boxed　two…volume　edition　of　Schopenhauer's　The　World　as　Will　and　Idea　（also　in　German）；　Les　Fleurs　du　Mal；　and　an　autographed　copy　of　August　Hauptmann's　Debierue。　I　fought　down　my　impulse　to　steal　the　autographed　copy　of　Beckett's　Proust；　the　only　book　in　the　small　library！　coveted；　and　scribbled　the　list　of　book　titles　into　my　notebook。
　　In　addition　to　the　books；　there　were　several　neat　piles　of　art　magazines；　including　Fine　Arts：　The　Americas；　all　of　them　in　chronological　order；　with　the　most　recent　issues　on　the　top　of　each　stack；　arranged　along　the　wall。　I　considered　leafing　through　these　magazines　to　look　for　drawings；　but　it　would　be　absurd　for　Debierue；　with　his　keen　sense　of　order；　to　hide　sketches　in　magazines。
　　In　the　center　of　the　studio　was　a　maple　worktable　（in　furniture　catalogues；　they　are　called　〃Early　American　Harvest〃　tables）；　and　this　table；　in　a　rather　finicky　arrangement；　held　a　terracotta　jar　with　several　new　camel'shair　brushes　in　varying　lengths　and　brush　widths；　four　rubber…banded；　faggoty　bundles　of　charcoal　drawing　sticks；　four　one…quart　cans　of　linseed　oil　and　four　one…quart　cans　of　turpentine；　all　unopened；　and　a　long　row　of　king…sized　tubes　of　oil　paint　in　almost　every　shade　and　tint　on　the　spectrum。
　　There　were　at　least　a　hundred　tubes　of　oil　paint；　in　colors；　and　three　of　zinc　white。　None　of　the　tubes　had　been　opened　or　squeezed。　There　was　a　square　piece　of　clear　glass；　about　12〃　x　12〃；　a　fumed　oak　artist's　palette；　a　pair　of　white　gloves　（size　9　1/2）；　a　twelve…inch　brass　ruler；　a　palette　knife；　an　unopened　box　of　assorted　color　pencils；　and　a　heaped　flat　pile　of　clean　white　rags。　There　were　other　unused　art　materials　as　well；　but　the　crushing　impression　of　this　neatly　ordered　table　was　that　of　a　mercial　layout　of　art　materials　in　an　art　supply　showroom。
　　Beside　the　table　was　an　unpainted　wooden　A…frame　easel　and　a　tall　metal　kitchen　stool　painted　in　white　enamel。　There　was　an　untouched　24〃　x　30'　canvas　on　the　easel。　Bewildered；　and　with　a　feeling　of　nausea　in　the　pit　of　my　stomach；　I　climbed　onto　the　high　stool　facing　the　easel　and　lit　a　cigarette。　A　single　silver　filament；　a　spider's　let…down　thread；　shimmering　in　the　brilliant　light　washing　the　room　from　the　overhead　fluorescents；　trailed　from　the　right…hand　corner　of　the　canvas　to　the　floor。　The　spider　who　had　left　this　evidence　of　passage　had　disappeared。
　　Except　for　the　pole…axed　numbness　of　a　steer；　my　mind　was　too　stunned　for　a　contiguous　reaction　of　any　kind。　I　neither　laughed　nor　cried。　For　minutes　I　was　unable　to　formulate　any　coherent　thoughts；　not　until　the　cigarette　burned　my　fingers；　and　even　then　I　remember　looking　at　it　stupidly　for　a　second　or　so　before　dropping　it　to　the　floor。
　　Debierue's　aseptically　forlorn　studio　is　as　clear　in　my　mind　now　as　if　I　were　still　sitting　on　that　hard　metal　stool。
　　I　had　expected　something；　but　not　Nothing。
　　I　had　expected　almost　anything；　but　not　Nothing。
　　Prepared　for　attendance　and　appreciation；　my　mind　could　not　undo　its　readiness　for　perception　and　accept　the　unfulfilled　preparation　for　painting　it　encountered。
　　Here　was　a　qualified　Nothing；　a　Nothing　of　such　deep　despair；　I　could　not　be　absolved　of　my　aesthetic　responsibility…a　nonhope　Nothing；　a　non…Nothing…and　yet；　also　before　my　eyes　was　the　evidence　of　a　dedication　to　artistic　expression　so　unyieldingly　vast　in　its　implications　that　my　mind…at　least　at　first…bluntly　refused　to　accept　the　evidence。
　　I　had　to　work　it　out。
　　The　synecdochic　relationship　between　the　place　and　the　person　was　undeniable。　An　artist　has　a　studio：　Debierue　had　a　studio：　Debierue　was　an　artist。
　　Here；　in　deadly　readiness；　Debierue　sat　daily　in　fruitless　preparation　for　a　painting　that　he　would　never　paint；　waiting　for　pictorial　adventures　that　would　never　happen。　Waiting；　the　incredibly　patient　waiting　for　an　idea　to　materialize；　for　a　single　idea　that　could　be　transferred　onto　the　ready　canvas…but　no　ideas　ever　came　to　him。　Never。
　　Debierue　worked　four　hours　a　day；　he　claimed；　which　meant　sitting　on　this　stool　staring　at　an　empty　canvas　from　eight　until　noon；　every　day；　seven　days　a　week；　waiting　for　an　idea　to　e…every　single　day！　At　that　precise　moment　I　knew；　despite　all　of　the　published　documentary　evidence　to　the　contrary　that　he　was　not　merely　suffering　a　so…called　dry　period；　a　temporary　inability　to　paint　since　moving　to　Florida。　Without　any　other　evidence　（my　own　eyes　were　witness　enough；　together　with　my　practiced　critical　intuition）；　I　knew　that　Jacques　Debierue　had　never　had　a　plastic　idea；　nor　had　he　painted　a　picture　of　any　kind　in　his　entire　lifetime！
　　Debierue　was　a　slave　to　hope。　He　had　never　accepted　the　fact　that　he　couldn't　paint　a　pictu