cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第29部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


m　was　hot　and　close。　I　stripped　to　my　underwear；　turned　the　air…conditioner　to　〃Cool；〃　and　put　the　blank　canvas　against　the　back　of　a　straight　laddered　chair。　There　was　a　large；　fairly　flat；　green　ceramic　ashtray　on　the　coffee　table。　This　ashtray　served　to　steady　the　canvas　upright　against　the　back　of　the　chair；　and　would　perform　double　duty　as　a　palette。　I　squeezed　blobs　of　blue；　yellow；　red；　and　white　paint　onto　the　ashtray；　opened　the　cans　of　turpentine　and　linseed　oil；　lined　up　the　brushes　on　the　coffee　table；　and　stared　at　the　canvas。　After　fifteen　minutes；　I　brought　the　other　straightbacked　chair　over　from　the　desk；　sat　down　on　it；　and　stared　at　the　blank　canvas　some　more。
　　Twenty　minutes　later；　still　staring　at　the　white　canvas；　I　was　shivering。　I　turned　the　reverse…cycle　air…conditioner　to　〃Heat；〃　and　fifteen　minutes　later　I　was　roasting；　with　perspiration　bursting　out　of　my　forehead　and　clammy　streams　of　sweat　rolling　down　my　sides　from　my　damp　armpits。　I　turned　off　the　air…conditioner　and　tried　to　raise　the　window。　The　huge　air…conditioner　occupied　the　bottom　half　of　the　window；　and　the　top　half　of　the　window　was　nailed　shut；　with　rusty　red　paint　covering　the　nailheads。　But　there　was　an　overhead　fan；　and　the　switch　still　worked。　The　fan；　with　wobbly　two…foot　blades；　turned　lazily　in　the　high　ceiling。　The　room　was　still　close；　so　I　unlocked　the　door；　and　kept　it　ajar　with　an　old…fashioned　brass　hook…and…eye　attachment　that　held　the　door　cracked　open　for　approximately　four　inches。　No　one　could　see　in　from　the　corridor　and　within　minutes　the　room　was　perfectly　fortable　with　just　enough　fresh　air　ing　in　from　the　hallway　to　be　gently　wafted　about　by　the　slow　and　not　unpleasantly　creaking　overhead　fan。
　　An　hour　later　I　was　still　physically　fortable。　I　had　smoked　three　Kools。　I　was　still　staring　at　the　virgin　canvas；　and　realized；　finally；　that　I　was　unable　to　paint　an　original　Debierue　painting。　Not　even　if　I　sat　there　for　four　straight　hours　every　day　。　。　。
　　
　　
　　2
　　
　　My　eyes；　bright　and　alert；　stared　at　the　blank；　shining　canvas；　and　my　stout　heart；　stepped　up　slightly；　if　inaudibly；　from　the　depressing　uppityness　of　two　nugatory　bennies；　pumped　willing　blood　to　my　even　more　willing　fingers。　I　had　forgotten；　for　two　wasted　hours；　the　hardlearned　lesson　of　our　times。　In　this；　the　Age　of　Specialization；　where　we　can　only　point　to　Hugh　Hefner　or；　wilder　yet；　to　the　early　Marlon　Brando　as　our　contemporary　〃Renaissance　Men；〃　I　had　tackled　my　problem　ass…backwards。
　　I　was　a　writer　confined　by　choice　but　still　confined　to　contemporary　art…writing　about　it；　not　painting　it。　I　could　wield　a　paintbrush；　of　course；　passably。　I　had　learned　to　paint　in　college　studio　courses　before　going　on　to　my　higher　calling；　in　the　same　way　that　a　man　who　wants　to　bee　a　brigadier　general　and　mand　an　Air　Force　wing　must　first　learn　how　to　fly　an　airplane。　The　general　does　not　have　to　be　a　superior　pilot　to　mand　a　wing；　but　he　attains　his　position　because；　as　an　ex…　or　now　part…time　pilot；　he　understands　the　daily　flight　problems　of　the　pilots　under　his　mand。　The　system　doesn't　work　very　well；　of　course；　because　the　man　who　wants　to　fly　an　Air　Force　jet；　and　plans　his　career　accordingly；　seldom　enters　that　active　occupation　with　the　preconceived　plan　of　ending　up　some　day　at　a　desk　where　he　rarely　flies。　The　〃hot〃　pilot　does　not　make　a　good　paper…shuffling　general　because　the　makeup　of　a　man　who　wants　to　fly　does　not　include　a　love　of　administration；　writing　letters；　and　enforcing　discipline。
　　I　had　learned　how　to　paint　because　I　had　to　learn　the　problems　confronting　painters；　and　I　had　taught　college　students　because　that　was　what　I　had　to　do　to　survive　as　an　art　historian。　But　in　my　secret　heart　I　had　intended　to　bee　an　art　critic　from　the　very　beginning。　And　although　my　major　passion　was　contemporary　art；　during　my　year　in　Europe　I　had　grimly　made　my　rounds　in　the　Louvre；　in　Florence；　in　Rome；　tramping　dutifully　through　ancient　galleries　because　I　knew　that　I　had　to　examine　the　art　of　the　past　to　understand　the　art　of　the　present。
　　I　was　a　writer；　not　a　painter；　and　a　writer　gets　his　ideas　from　a　blank　piece　of　paper；　not　from　a　blank　piece　of　canvas。　I　moved　my　chair　to　the　desk　and　my　typewriter　and　immediately　started　to　write。
　　This　is　the　way　it　works。　The　contemporary　painter　approaches　his　canvas　without　an　idea　（in　most　cases）；　fools　around　with　charcoal；　experimenting　with　lines　and　forms；　filling　in　here；　using　a　shaping　thumb；　perhaps；　to　add　some　depth　to　a　form　that　is　beginning　to　interest　him；　and　sooner　or　later　he　sees　something。　The　painting　develops　into　a　position　and　he　pletes　it。　His　subconscious　takes　over；　and　the　pleted　painting　may　turn　out　well　or；　more　often　than　not；　like　most　writing；　turn　out　badly。　Even　when　the　painter　begins　with　an　idea　of　some　kind　his　subconscious　takes　over　the　painting　once　he　starts　working　on　it。　The　same　theory　essentially；　holds　true　for　the　writer。　A　man　paints　or　writes　both　consciously　and　subconsciously　beginning　with；　at　most；　a　few　relevant　mental　notes。
　　So　once　I　sat　at　my　typewriter；　the　article　began　to　take　shape。　One　idea　led　quickly　to　another。　It　was　an　inspired　piece　of　work；　because　it　was　morally　right　to　write　it。　My　honor　and　Debierue's　were　both　at　stake。　And　yet；　although　it　was　in　some　respects　easy　to　write；　it　was　one　of　the　most　difficult　pieces　I　had　ever　written　because　of　the　fictional　elements　it　contained。
　　My　creative　talents　flagged　when　it　came　to　describing　the　pictures　Debierue　had　failed　to　paint；　although；　once　over　this　block；　it　was　a　simple　matter　to　interpret　the　paintings　because　I　could　visualize　them　perfectly　in　my　mind's　eye。　I　was　familiar　enough　with　Debierue's　background　to　summarize　the　historical　details　of　his　earlier　acplishments。　It　was　also　simple　enough　to　record　a　tightly　edited　version　of　our　conversation；　with　a　few　embellishments　for　clarity；　and　a　few　bits　of　profundity　for　reader　interest。　Perhaps　there　is　a　little　something　of　the　fiction　writer　inside　every　professional　journalist。
　　My　imaginative　powers　were　strong　enough　to　describe　the　paintings　that　I；　myself；　would　have　liked　to　paint　if　I　had　had　the　ability　to　paint　them；　but　I　ran　into　conceptual　difficulties　because；　at　first；　I　thought　I　had　to　describe　the　paintings　that　Debierue　wanted　to　paint。　But　this　was　a　futile　path。　I　could　not　possibly　see　the　world　as　Debierue　did。　And　if　I　was　unable　to　live　in　his　arcane　world；　I　could　never　verbalize　it　into　visual　art。
　　My　predetermined　term；　〃American　Harvest；〃　for　Debierue's　so…called　American　period；　provided　me　with　the　correlative　link　I　needed　to　visualize　mental　pictures　I　was　capable　of　describing。　I　began　with　red；　white；　and　blue…　the　colors　of　France's　noble　tricolor　and　our　own　American　flag。　Seeing　these　three　colors　on　three　separate　panels　I　began　to　rearrange　the　panels　in　my　mind。　Side　by　side；　in　a　row；　close　together；　well　separated；　overlapping；　horizontal　and　vertical　with　the　floor；　and　scattered　throughout　a　room　on　three　different　walls。　But　there　are　four　walls　to　a　room。　A　fourth　panel　was　required…not　for　symmetry；　because　that　doesn't　matter…but　for　variety；　for　the　sake　of　an　ordered　environment。　Florida。　Sun。　Orange。　An　autumnal　sun　for　Debierue's　declining　years。　Burnt　orange。　But　not　a　panel　of　burnt　orange　in　toto…that　would　be　heresy；　because　Debierue；　even　at　his　great　age；　was　still　painting；　still　creating；　still　growing。　So　the　ragged　square　of　burnt　orange　required　a　lustrous　border　of　blue　to　surround　the　dying　sun　and　to　overflow　the　edges　of　the　rectangle。　Bluebird　blue？　Sky　blue？　No；　not　sky　nor　Dufy　blue；　because　that　meant　using　cobalt　oil　paint；　and　cobalt　blue；　with　the　passage　of　years；　gradually　turns　to　bluish　gray。　Prussian　blue；　with　a　haughty　whisper　of　zinc　white　added　to　make　it　bitterly　bold。　Besides；　right　here　in　this　hotel　room；　I　had　a　full　tube　of　Prussian　blue。
　　Texture？　Tactile　quality？　Little　if　any。　Pure；　smooth　even　colors。
　　The　four　paintings；　30〃　x　24〃；　were　the　only　paintings　Debierue　had　painted　since　ing　to　Florida。　The　paintings　were　for　his　personal　aesthetic　satisfaction；　to　enjoy　duri