cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第19部分

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s　junk。　Things　are　needed　for　visual　stimulation　and　possible　ideas。　This　clutter　is　not　confined　to　their　studios　either。　It　generally　spills　over　into　their　everyday　habitat；　including　the　kitchen　and　bathroom。
　　And　a　Surrealist；　like　Debierue；　dealing　in　the　juxtaposition　of　the　unlikely；　would　ordinarily　require　a　great　many　unrelated　objects　in　his　home…studio　to　nudge　his　subconscious。　But　then；　Debierue　was　an　anomaly　among　painters。　My　experience　with　the　habits　of　other　painters　could　hardly　apply　to　him。　Besides；　I　had　not；　as　yet；　seen　the　inside　of　his　studio。　。　。　。
　　〃As　you　see；　I　am　an　orderly；　clean　old　man。　Always　it　was　so；　even　as　a　young　man。　So　it　may　be；　after　all；　that　I　am　not　the　Surrealist。　Is　it　not　so？〃　The　grooved　amusement　lines　crowding　his　blue　eyes　deepened　as　he　smiled。
　　〃It's　a　relative　term；〃　I　said　politely。　〃A　convenient　label。　'Superrealist'　or　'Subrealist'　would　both　have　served　as　well。　The　term　'Dada'　itself　was　just　a　catchall　word　at　first；　but　the　motto　'Dada　hurts；'　when　it　was　truly　followed　or　lived　up　to　in　plastic　expression；　was　quite　important　to　me。　In　fact　it　stifi　is；　but　I've　always　considered　'Surrealism'　as　a　misnomer。〃
　　〃Debierue　does　not　like　any　label。　Debierue　is　Debierue。　Marcel　Duchamp　I　admired　very　much；　and　he　too　did　not　like　labels。　Do　you　remember　what　Duchamp　did　when　a　young　writer　asked　him　for　permission　to　write　his　biography？〃
　　〃No；　sir。〃
　　〃When　Duchamp　was　asked　for　the　quite　personal　information　about　himself　he　said　nothing。　He　did　not　have　to　think。　He　emptied　all　of　the　drawers　from　his　desk　onto　the　floor　and　walked　out　of　the　room。〃
　　〃An　existential　act。〃　The　story　was　one　I　hadn't　heard。
　　〃Another　label；　M。　Figueras？〃　He　clucked　his　tongue。　〃So　now　on　the　floor　are　odds　and　ends；　little　things　saved　in　the　desk　for　many　years　for　no　good　reason。　Snapshots；　little　notes　one　receives　or　makes　for　himself。　Old　letters　from　friends；　enemies；　ladies。　And；　what　is　it？…the　doodles；　little　pencil　squigglings。　And　pretty　canceled　stamps；　saved　because　they　are　exotic　perhaps。　Stubs　from　the　theater。〃　He　shrugged。
　　〃It　sounds　like　my　desk　in　New　York。〃
　　〃But　this　was　the　Duchamp　biography。　The　clever　young　man　picked　up　everything　from　the　floor　and　went　away。　He　pasted　all　of　the　objects　in　a　big　book；　entitled　it　The　Biography　of　Marcel　Duchamp　and　sold　it　for　a　large　sum　of　dollars　to　a　rich　Texas　Jew。〃
　　〃It's　funny！　never　heard　about　it。　I　thought　I　knew　practically　everything　about　Duchamp　there　was　to　know　。　。　。〃
　　〃And　so　did　the　young　man　who　'wrote'　the　biography　about　Duchamp　out　of　odds　and　ends　from　a　desk。〃
　　〃Nevertheless；〃　I　said；　〃I'd　like　to　take　a　look　at　that　book。　Every　scrap　of　information　about　Duchamp　is　important　because　it　helps　us　to　understand　his　art。〃
　　The　artist　shrugged。　〃There　is　no　such　book。　The　story　is　apochryphal…I　made　it　up　myself　and　spread　it　to　a　few　friends　many　years　ago　to　see　what　would　happen。　And　because　it　is　something　Duchamp　might　do；　many　believed　it　as　you　were　prepared　to　do。　The　chance　debris　of　an　artist's　life　does　not　explain　the　man；　nor　does　it　explain　the　artist's　work。　The　true　artist's　vision　es　from　here。〃　He　tapped　his　forehead。
　　Debierue's　face　was　expressionless　now；　and　I　was　unable　to　tell　whether　he　was　serious；　teasing　me；　or　getting　hostile。　He　turned　to　Berenice　and　smiled。　He　took　her　right　hand　in　both　of　his　and　spoke　in　English。
　　〃If　a　man　had　a　wife　and　children；　perhaps　a　short　biography　to　leave　his　family；　a　record　for　them　to　remember　him。　。　。　but　old　Debierue　has　no　wife；　children；　no　relatives　now　living；　to　want　such　a　book。　The　true　artist；　my　dear；　is　too　responsible　to　marry　and　have　a　family。〃
　　〃Too　responsible　to　fall　in　love？〃　Berenice　asked　softly。
　　〃No。　Love　he　must　have。〃
　　I　cleared　my　throat。　〃The　entire　world　is　the　artist's　family；　M。　Debierue。　There　are　thousands　of　art　lovers　all　over　the　world　who　would　like　to　read　your　biography。　Those　who　write　to　you；　I　know；　and　those　who…〃
　　He　patted　my　arm。　〃Let　us　be　the　friends。　It　is　not　friendly　to　talk　about　nothing　with　such　seriousness　on　your　face。　It　is　getting　late；　and　you　will　both　stay　to　dinner　with　me；　please。〃
　　〃Thank　you　very　much。　We　would　like　very　much　to　stay。〃　He　had　changed　the　subject　abruptly；　but　the　longer　I　stayed　the　better　my　chances　became　to　gain　information　about　the　old　man。　Or　did　they？
　　〃Good！〃　He　rubbed　his　dry　hands　together　and　they　made　a　rasping　sound。　〃First　I　will　turn　on　my　electric　oven　to　four…two…five　degrees。　I　do　not　have　the　printed　menu；　but　you　may　decide。　There　is　the　television　turkey　dinner。　Very　good。　There　is　the　television　Salisbury　steak。　Also　very　good。　Or　maybe；　M。　Figueras；　you　would　most　like　the　television　patio　dinner？　Enchilada；　tamale；　Spanish　rice；　and　refried　beans。〃
　　〃No；〃　I　said。　〃I　guess　I'll　have　the　turkey。〃
　　〃I'd　rather　have　the　Salisbury　steak；〃　Berenice　said。　〃And　let　me　help　you…〃
　　〃No。　Debierue　will　also　have　the　turkey！〃　He　smiled　happily；　and　turned　toward　the　stove。　Relenting；　he　changed　direction；　went　to　the　sideboard　and　got　out　a　box　of　Piknik　yellow　plastic　forks　and　spoons。　There　was　a　four…mat　set　of　sticky　rubber　yellow　place　mats　in　the　drawer。　He　handed　the　mats　and　the　box　of　plastic　utensils　to　Berenice　and　asked　her　to　set　the　card　table　on　the　porch。
　　So　far；　I　thought　bitterly；　as　I　glumly　watched　this　bustling　domestic　activity；　except　for　a　few　gossipy　ments　on　a　low　curiosity　level；　I　had　picked　up　damned　little　information　of　any　real　interest　from　the　old　artist。　If　anything；　he　had　learned　more　about　me　than　I　had　about　him。　He　had　refused　to　let　me　see　his　work；　and　just　as　he　had　started　to　open　up　he　had　slammed　the　lid　on　what　might　have　been　an　entire　trunkful　of　fascinating　material。　He　was　a　bewildering　old　man；　all　right；　and　I　couldn't　decide　whether　he　was　somewhat　senile　（no；　not　that）；　putting　me　down；　with　some　mysterious　purpose　in　mind；　or　what。。。
　　Working　away；　stripping　the　cardboard　outer　covers　from　the　aluminum　TV　dinners　he　had　taken　from　the　freezer　partment　of　the　purple　Kentone　refrigerator；　Debierue　sang　a　repetitious　French　song　in　a　cracked　falsetto。
　　No　matter　how　he　downgraded　himself；　false　modesty　or　not；　he　was　the　world's　outstanding　Nihilistic　Surrealist。　That　was　the　reason　I　wasn't　getting　anywhere　with　him。　I　was　trying　to　talk　to　him　as　if　he　were　a　normal　person。　Any　artist　who　has　isolated　himself　from　the　world　for　threefourths　of　his　life　either　has　to　be　a　Surrealist　or　crazy。　But　Debierue　was　as　sane　as　any　other　artist　I　had　ever　met。　Even　the　fact　that　he　denied　being　a　Surrealist　emphasized　the　fact　that　he　was　one。　What　else　could　he　be？　This　was　the　rationale　of　the　purposeful　irrationality　of　Surrealism。　The　key。　But　the　key　to　what？
　　How　could　a　man　live　all　alone　as　he　did…without　a　phone；　a　TV；　a　radio…for　months　on　end　without　going　off　his　rocker？　Even　Schweitzer；　when　he　exiled　himself　to　Africa；　took　an　organ　along；　and　surrounded　himself　with　sick；　freeloading　black　men。　。　。　。
　　From　this　desperate　brooding；　my　pedestrian　mind　came　up　with　one　of　the　best　original　ideas　I　ever　had；　an　idea　so　simple　and　direct　I　almost　lost　it。　The　thought　was　still　formless；　but　I　didn't　let　the　idea　get　away　from　me。　Berenice　put　three　webbed　chairs　up　to　the　table　on　the　porch。　She　reentered　the　living　room；　and　I　clutched　her　wrist。
　　〃I'm　going　to　do　something　strange；〃　I　whispered。　〃But　don't　let　on；　no　matter　what　happens。　Understand？〃
　　She　nodded；　and　her　blue　eyes　widened。
　　Debierue　came　out　of　the　kitchen　and　tapped　my　wristwatch。　〃Sometimes　I　do　not　hear　so　well　the　timer　on　the　oven；　so　you　will　please　watch　the　time　for　us。　And　in　thirty…five　minutes　when　you　say　'Now；　we　will　have　the　dinner　all　ready　to　eat！〃　He　beamed　his　jack…o'…lantern　smile　at　Berenice。　〃So　simple。　The　television　dinner　is　the　better　invention　for　wives　than　the　television　itself。　Is　it　not　so；　my　dear？〃
　　〃Oh；　absolutely；〃　Berenice　said　cheerfully。
　　〃Look；　M。　Debierue；〃　I　said；　taking　my　Polaroid　from　the　bar；　〃I　know　it's　a　lot　to　ask；　at　least　from　your　viewpoint；　but　I've　got　this　Polaroid　here；　and　you　can　see　the　results　for　yourself　in　about　ten　seconds。　While　we　wait　for　dinner；　let　me　take　a　few　shots　of　you；　and　until　we　get　one　that　you　think　is　all　right；　you　can　just　tear　them　up。　Fair　enough？〃
　　〃In　only　ten　seconds？　A　picture？〃
　　〃That's　all。　Maybe　fifteen　seconds　inside　the　house　here；　for　a　little　extra　snap　and　contrast。〃
　　He　frowned　slightly；　and　fingered　his　white　whiskers。　〃My　beard　isn't　trimmed。　。　。〃
　　〃In　a　photo；　it　doesn't　matter。　No　one　can　tell　from　a　black…and…white　picture；〃　I　promised　recklessly。
　　He　hesitated。　His　eyes　were　wary；　but　he　was　wavering。　〃Should　I　put　on　a　necktie？〃
　　〃No；　not　for　an　informal　picture；〃　I　said；　before　he　could　change　his　mind。　Taking　him　by　the　arm；　I　guided　him　to　a　point　in　front　of　the　coffee　table。　I　picked　up　the　Miami　Herald；　flipped　through　it　to　find　the　classified　ad　section；　opened　it　and　thrust　the　paper　into　his　hands。
　　〃There。　Just　spread　the　paper；　and　pretend　to　read　it。