cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第35部分

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Free　Press　remending　the　article　to　would…be　revolutionary　painters　in　Southern　California。　This　was　more　newspaper　coverage　than　I　expected。
　　My　real　concern　was　with　the　concentric　ripples　in　the　art　journals　and　critical　quarterlies。　This　reaction　was　slow　in　ing；　because　a　lot　of　thought　had　to　be　put　into　them。　The　best　single　article；　which　set　off　a　long　string　of　letters　in　the　correspondence　department；　appeared　in　Spectre；　and　was　written　by　Pierre　Montrand。　A　French　chauvinist；　he　saw　Debierue's　〃American　Harvest〃　period　as　a　socialistic　rejection　of　DeGaullism。　This　was　an　absurd　idea；　but　beautifully　expressed；　and　controversial　as　hell。
　　With　my　photograph　of　Debierue；　many　newspapers　printed　sketchy　accounts　of　Debierue's　mysterious　immigration　to　the　United　States；　but　I　kept　my　promise　to　Cassidy　and　the　old　man。　I　never　divulged　Debierue's　Florida　address　after　Cassidy　had　him　admitted　under　a　false　name　to　the　Regal　Pines　Nursing　Home；　and　Cassidy　had　covered　his　tracks　so　well　the　reporters　never　found　him。　I　mailed　Debierue　the　tearsheets　of　my　article；　a　dozen　8〃　x　10〃　photographs　of　the　burning　newspaper　shot；　and　an　autographed　copy　of　my　book；　Art　and　the　Preschool　Child。　He　didn't　acknowledge　the　package；　but　I　knew　that　he　received　it　because　I　had　mailed　it　Return　Receipt　Requested。
　　For　the　first　week　after　my　return　to　New　York　I　bought　a　daily　copy　of　the　Atlanta　Journal…Constitution　（it　〃covers　Dixie　like　the　dew〃）；　and　searched　through　the　pages　to　see　if　there　was　any　mention　of　a　body　being　found　near　Valdosta。　But　I　disliked　the　newspaper；　and　searching　for　such　news　every　day　was　making　me　morbid。　I　quit　buying　the　paper。　If　they　found　her；　they　found　her；　and　there　was　nothing　I　could　do　about　it。　Inevitably；　though；　a　reaction　appeared　in　my　psyche；　caused；　naturally　enough；　by　the　death　of　Berenice。　It　wasn't　that　my　conscience　bothered　me；　although　that　was　a　part　of　my　reaction。　It　was　a　second…thought　overlap　of　self…doubt；　a　feeling　of　ambivalence　that　vitiated　my　value　judgments　of　the　new　work　I　witnessed。　I　overcame　this　feeling；　or　overreaction；　by　partmentalizing　Debierue　in　a　corner　of　my　mind。　I　was　able　to　rid　myself　of　my　ambivalence　by　setting　Debierue　apart　from　other　artists　as　a　〃one…of…a…kind〃　painter；　and　by　not　considering　him　in　connection　with　the　mainstream　of　contemporary　art。　It　didn't　take　too　many　weeks　before　I　adjusted　to　this　mental　suggestion。　I　was　able　to　function　normally　again　on　my　regular　critical　assignments。
　　My　reputation　as　a　critic　didn't　soar；　but　my　workload　doubled　and；　with　it；　my　ine。　Tom　Russell　gave　me　a　fifty…dollar　raise；　which　brought　me　up　to　four　fifty　a　month　at　the　magazine。　My　lecture　fee　was　raised；　and　I　gave　more　lectures；　including　a　lecture　at　Columbia　on　〃New　Trends　in　Contemporary　Art〃　to　the　art　majors…and　the　Fine　Arts　Department　paid　me　a　six…hundred…dollar　lecture　fee。　To　lecture　in　my　old　school；　where　I　had　once　been　a　povertystricken　graduate　student；　was　perhaps　the　high　point　of　the　entire　year。
　　My　agent　unloaded　some　older；　unsold　articles　I　had　written　months　before…two　of　them　to　art　magazines　which　had　earlier　rejected　them。
　　I　had　always　done　a　certain　amount　of　jury　work；　judging　art　shows　for　〃expenses　only；〃　and　more　often　without　any　pensation　at　all。　I　now　began　to　receive　some　decent　cash　offers　to　judge　and　hang　important　exhibits　at　major　museums。　On　a　jury　show　I　served　on　at　Hartford；　there　was　a　Herb　Westcott　painting　entered　in　the　show。　Westcott　had　changed　his　style　to　Romantic　Realism；　and　his　fine；　almost　delicate　draftsmanship　was　well　suited　to　the　new　style。　The　Hartford　show　had　an　antipollution　theme；　and　Westcott　had　painted　an　enormous　blowup　of　a　1925　postcard　view　of　Niagara　Falls。　The　painting　wasn't　in　the　First　Prize　category；　but　I　was　able　to　persuade　the　other　jury　members　（the　museum　director　and　Maury　Katz；　a　hardedge　painter）　to　tag　Westcott's　painting　with　an　honorable　mention　and　a　thousand…dollar　purchase　prize。　I　had　treated　Westcott　rather　shabbily　in　Palm　Beach；　running　out　on　him　and　his　show　at　Gloria's　Gallery；　and　it　pleased　me　to　give　him　a　leg　up…which　he　well　deserved　in　any　case。
　　Now　included　in　my　books　to　review　were　books　that　the　managing　editor　used　to　reserve　for　himself…beautiful；　expensive；　handsomely　ifiustrated；　coffee…table　art　books…　that　retailed　for　twenty…five；　thirty…five；　and　even　fifty　dollars。　After　being　reviewed；　these　expensive　books　can　be　sold　at　half　of　their　wholesale　price　to　bookdealers。　This　pocketed　cash　is　found　money　I。R。S。　investigators　cannot　discover　easily。
　　I　no　longer　slept　well。　I　didn't　sleep　well　at　all。
　　I　knew　that　Debierue　had　read　my　article；　and　although　I　had　made　an　educated　guess　that　he　would　say　nothing；　I　could　not　be　positive　that　he　would　continue　to　say　nothing。　I　had　dared　to　assume　that　four　important　European　art　critics　had　also　invented　imaginary　paintings　by　Debierue　to　write　about。　But　they　couldn't　denounce　me。　Only　Debierue　could　do　that　and；　thanks　to　the　fire　I　had　set；　he　couldn't　actually　prove　anything。
　　Nevertheless；　late　at　night；　I　often　awoke　from　a　fitful　sleep；　covered　with　perspiration。　Sitting　in　the　dark　on　the　edge　of　my　bed；　trying　to　keep　my　mind　as　blank　as　possible；　I　would　light　one　cigarette　after　another；　afraid　to　go　back　to　sleep。　In　time；　I　would　tell　myself；　all　in　good　time；　my　nightmares　would　run　their　course　and　stop。
　　A　year　later；　almost　to　the　day　that　I　returned　to　New　York；　Debierue　died　in　Florida。　Mr。　Cassidy　wired　me；　inviting　me　to　the　funeral；　but　I　was　tied　up　with　other　work　and　couldn't　get　away　on　such　short　notice。　Bodies；　in　Florida；　must　be　buried　within　twenty…four　hours；　according　to　the　state　law。　I　wrote　the　obituary…a　black…bordered　one…page　tribute…for　the　magazine；　of　course；　inasmuch　as　I　was　the　authority　on　Debierue；　and　had　already　written　the　definitive　piece　on　him　for　the　forthing　International　Encyclopedia　of　Fine　Arts。
　　Ten　days　after　Debierue's　death　I　received　a　long；　bulky　package　at　the　office。　When　I　unwrapped　it　at　my　desk　I　discovered　the　dismantled　baroque　frame　that　had　once　been　Debierue's　famous　No。　One。　This　unexpected　gift　from　beyond　the　grave　made　me　cry；　the　first　time　I　had　wept　in　several　months。　There　was　no　personal　note　or　card　with　the　frame。　Debierue　had　probably　left　word　with　someone　at　the　nursing　home　to　mail　it　to　me　after　he　died。　But　the　fact　that　he　sent　me　the　frame　meant　exoneration。　Not　only　a　plete　exoneration；　it　proved　that　he　had　been　pleased　by　my　critique　of　his　〃American　Harvest〃　period。　From　all　of　his　many　critics；　Debierue　had　singled　me　out　as　his　beneficiary　for　No。　One。
　　The　dismantled　frame　had　no　intrinsic　value；　of　course。　I　probably　could　have　sold　it　somewhere；　or　donated　it　to　the　Museum　of　Modern　Art　for　its　curiosity　value；　but　I　couldn't　do　that　to　the　old　man。　His　gesture　deeply　moved　me。
　　I　walked　down　the　hall　to　throw　the　frame　down　the　incinerator。　As　I　opened　the　metal　door；　I　noticed　a　small　dead　fly　scotch…taped　to　one　of　the　sides　of　the　frame。　The　old　man；　despite　his　age；　had　a　keen　memory。　After　seeing　the　fly；　I　couldn't　throw　the　parts　down　the　chute。　On　my　way　home　from　the　office　I　left　the　bundled　frame　under　my　seat　in　the　subway　instead。
　　I　had　some　correspondence　with　Joseph　Cassidy　concerning　The　Burnt　Orange　Heresy。　He　wanted　me　to　suggest　the　best　place　for　unveiling　it　for　the　public；　New　York　or　Chicago。　I　advised　him　to　wait　and　to　exhibit　the　painting　at　Palm　Beach　instead；　at　the　opening　of　the　next　season；　to　coincide；　as　nearly　as　possible；　with　the　publication　date　of　the　International　Encyclopedia　of　Fine　Arts；　which　would　have　a　full…page　color　plate　of　the　painting　facing　my　definitive　article　on　the　painter　。　。　。
　　
　　
　　。　。　。　I　opened　the　heavy　volume　and　found　my　piece　on　Jacques　Debierue。　The　color　plate　of　The　Burnt　Orange　Heresy　was　a　beautiful　reproduction　of　the　painting。　Reduced　in　size；　color　photographs　often　look　better　than　the　original　oils。　And　this　colored　photo；　on　expensive；　whitecoated　stock；　shone　like　burnished　gold。
　　I　read　my　article　carefully。　There　were　no　erro