cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第6章
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h was graying at the sides; was bed straight back and slicked down with water。 Cassidy was a formidable man in his early fifties。 He carried himself with an air of authority; and his confident manner was reinforced by his rich; resonant bass voice。 And his gold…rimmed glasses…the same kind that Robert McNamara wore when he was Secretary of Defense…were beautifully suitable for his face。
Gloria introduced us and started toward the indoor fountain to look at the carp。 The pooi was crowded with these big fish; and I could see their backs; pied with gold and vermilion splotches; from where I stood; some fifteen feet away from the pool。 A concrete griffin; on a pedestal in the center of the pool; dribbled water from its eagle beak into the carp…filled pool。 It was a poorly designed griffin。 The sculptor; who probably knew too much about anatomy; had been unable to e to terms with the idea of a cross between an eagle and a lion。 Medieval sculptors; who knew nothing about anatomy; had no trouble at all in visualizing griffins and gargoyles。 Cassidy took my arm; grasping my left elbow with a thumb and forefinger。
〃e on; Jim;〃 he said; 〃I'll show you a couple of pictures。 They call you 'Jim;' don't they?〃
〃No;〃 I replied; hiding my irritation。 〃I prefer James。 My father named me Jaime; but no one ever seemed to pronounce it right; so I changed it to James。 Not legally;〃 I added。
〃It's the same name。〃 He shrugged his meaty shoulders。 〃No need for a legal change; James。〃
I smiled。 〃I didn't ask for that advice; Mr。 Cassidy; so please don't bill me for it。〃
〃I don't intend to。 I was just going to say that you don't look like a man named Jaime Figueras。〃
〃Like the stereotype Puerto Rican; you mean? The peculiar thing is that my blond hair and blue eyes e from my father; not my mother。 My mother was Scotch…Irish; with black hair and hazel eyes。〃
〃You don't have a Spanish accent; either。 How long have you lived in the States?〃
〃Since I was twelve。 My father died; and my mother moved back to New York。 She never liked Puerto Rico; anyway。 She was a milliner; a creative designer of hats for women。 You can't sell original hats to Puerto Rican women。 All they need is a mantilla…or a piece of pink Kleenex pinned to their hair…to attend mass。〃
〃I've never met a milliner。〃
〃There aren't many left。 My mother's dead now; and very few women wear originals nowadays; even when they happen to buy a hat。〃
〃Are hats worth collecting?〃 he asked suddenly; moistening his upper lip with the tip of his pink tongue。 〃Original hats; I mean?〃
I knew then that Mr。 Cassidy was a true collector; and; knowing that; I knew a lot more about him than he thought I knew。 In general; collectors can be divided into three categories。
First; the rare patron…collectors who know what they want and order it from artists and artisans。 This first category; in the historical past; helped to establish styles。 Without the huge demand for portraits in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; for example; there would have been no great school of portrait painters。
Second; the middle…ground people; who buy what is fashionable; but collect fashionable art because they either like it without knowing why (it reflects their times is why) or have been taught to like it。
In the third category are the collectors for economic reasons。 They buy and sell to make a profit。 That is; in a tautological sense; they are collectors because they are collectors; but they enjoy the works of art they possess at the moment for their present and future value。
The one trait that all three types of collectors have in mon is miserliness。 They write small; seldom dotting 〃i's〃 or crossing 〃t's〃 and they are frequently costive。 Once they own something; anything; they don't want to give it up。
The collector's role is almost as important to world culture as the critic's。 Without collectors there would be precious little art produced in this world; and without critics; collectors would wonder what to collect。 Even those few collectors who are knowledgeable about art will not go out on a limb without critical confirmation。 Collectors and critics live within this uneasy symbiotic relationship。 And artists…the poor bastards…who are caught in the middle; would starve to death without us。
〃No' I shook my head。 As we crossed through the living room toward his study I explained why。 〃Hats are too easy to copy。 Original hats; during the twenties and thirties; were expensive because they were made specifically for one person and for one occasion。 As soon as a new hat was seen on Norma Shearer's head; it was copied and massproduced。 The copy; except perhaps for the materials; looked about the same。 Some of the hats worn during the Gilded Age; when egret feathers were popular; might be worth collecting; but I doubt if restoration; storage; and upkeep costs would make it worthwhile to collect even those。〃
〃I see。 You have looked into it then?〃
〃Not exhaustively。 Fashion isn't my field…as you know。〃
We entered his study; which was furnished in black leather; glass; and chrome。 Cassidy sank into an audibly cushioned chair while I looked at the three pictures on the apple…green wall。 There was an early Lichtenstein (a blown…up Dick Tracy panel); an airbrush Marilyn Monroe; in pale blue; from the Warhol series; and a black…and…white drawing of a girl's head by Matisse。 The latter was over the ebony desk; in quiet isolation。 The drawing was so bad Matisse must have signed it under duress。 I sat across from Cassidy and put my empty glass on the rosewood coffee table。 The Filipino house…boy appeared with a fresh drink on a tray; picked up my empty glass; and handed me the drink and a cocktail napkin。
〃You wish something to eat; sir?〃
〃I think so。 A turkey sandwich; all white meat; on white toast。 With mayonnaise and cranberry sauce; and cut off the crusts; please。〃
He nodded and left。
〃You don't like the drawing; do you?〃
I shrugged; and sipped from my glass。 〃Matisse had a streak of meanness in him that many Americans associate with the French。 When he went out to a café…after he became well known…he would often sketch on a pad; or sometimes on a napkin。 Then; instead of paying his tab in cash; he'd leave the drawing on the table and walk out。 The proprietor; knowing that the drawing was worth a good deal more than the dinner; was always delighted。 A man full of rich food and a couple of bottles of wine doesn't always draw very well; Mr。 Cassidy。〃
He nodded; relishing the story; and looked fondly at his Matisse。 A bad drawing is a bad drawing; no matter who has drawn it。 But my little story…and it was a true one… had merely enhanced the value of the Matisse for Cassidy。 An ordinary person; if he had purchased a bad Matisse; would have felt gypped。 But Cassidy wasn't an ordinary person。 He was a collector; and not an ordinary collector。
〃An interesting story。〃 He smiled。 〃I don't have much here; and I haven't decided what to bring down from Chicago。〃
Here was a natural opening; and I took it。 〃I'd like to see the catalogue of your collection some time; Mr。 Cassidy。〃
〃Don't have one yet; but I've got a good man at the University of Chicago working on it。 Dr。 G。 B。 Lang。 D'you know him?〃
〃Yes; but not personally。 He wrote an excellent monograph on Rothko。〃
〃That's Dr。 Lang。 It isn't costing me a dime; either… except for the printing costs。 Dr。 Lang teaches at the university; and one of my clients is on the Board of Trustees。 Through him; my client; I managed to get Lang a reduced teaching schedule。 He teaches two courses; and the rest of his load is research; the research being my catalogue。 Dr。 Lang's happy because he'll get another publication under his belt and; if he does a bang…up job; the University of Chicago Press wifi probably publish it。〃
When Cassidy smiled; exposing his teeth; his canines made little dents in his bottom lip。 He stared at me for two long beats。 His eyes; behind the gold…rimmed glasses; were flat and slightly magnified。 He leaned forward slightly。 〃When men of good wifi get together; some sort of deal can be worked out to everyone's satisfaction。 Isn't