cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第23节

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！


igarette　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　picture。　But　each　day　he　faced　the　slavery　of　the　attempt　to　paint；　and　the　subsequent　daily　failure。　After　each　day　of　failure　he　was　destroyed；　only　to　be　reborn　on　the　next　day…each　new　day　bringing　with　it　a　new　chance；　a　new　opportunity。　How　could　he　be　so　strong　willed　to　face　this　daily　death；　this　vain　slavery　to　hope？　He　had　dedicated　his　life　to　Nothing。
　　The　most　primitive　nescience　in　man　cannot　remain　pletely　negative…or　so　I　had　always　believed。　Forms　and　the　spectrum　range　of　colors；　the　sounds　a　man　makes　with　his　mouth；　the　thousands　of　daily　perceptions　of　sights　and　sound；　invade　our　senses　from　moment　to　moment；　consciously　and　subconsciously。　And　all　of　these　sights　and　sounds…and　touch；　too；　of　course…demand　an　artistic　interpretation。　Knowing　this　basic　natural　truth；　I　knew　that　Debierue；　an　intelligent；　sentient　human　being；　must　have　had　hundreds；　no；　literally　thousands　of　ideas　for　paintings　during　the　innumerable　years　he　sat　before　an　empty　canvas。　But　these　ideas　were　unexpressed；　locked　inside　his　head；　withheld　from　graphic　presentation　because　of　his　fear　of　releasing　them。　He　was　afraid　to　take　a　chance；　he　was　unable　to　risk　the　possibility…a　distinct　possibility…of　failure。　His　dread　of　failure　was　not　a　concern　with　what　others　might　think　of　his　work。　It　was　a　fear　of　what　he；　Debierue；　the　Artist；　might　think　of　his　acplished　work。　The　moment　an　artist　expresses　himself　and　fails；　or　mits　himself　to　an　act　of　self…expression　by　action；　and　realizes　that　he　did　not；　that　he　cannot；　succeed；　and　that　he　will　never　be　able　to　capture　on　canvas　that　which　he　sees　so　vividly　in　his　mind's　eye；　he　wifi　know　irrevocably　that　he　is　a　failure　as　an　artist。
　　So　why　should　he　paint？　In　fact；　how　can　he　paint？
　　How　many　times　had　Debierue　leaned　forward；　reaching　out　timidly　toward　the　shining　canvas　before　him　with　a　crumbling　piece　of　charcoal　in　his　trembling　fingers？　How　many　times？…and　with　the　finished；　varnished；　luminous　masterpiece　glowing　upon　the　museum　wall　of　his　febrile　mind？…only　to　stay　his　hand　at　the　last　possible　moment；　the　tip　of　the　black　charcoal　a　fraction　of　an　inch　away　from　the　virgin　canvas？
　　〃Nonono！　Not　yet！〃
　　The　fear…crazed　neural　message　would　race　down　the　full　length　of　the　motor　neuron　in　his　extended　arm　（vaulting　synapse　junctions）；　and　in　time；　always　in　the　nick　of　time；　the　quavery　hand　would　be　jerked　back。　The　virgin　canvas；　safe　for　another　day；　would　once　again　remain　unviolated。
　　Another　day；　another　morning　of　unmitted；　untested　acplishment　had　been　hurdled；　but　what　difference　did　it　make？　What　did　anything　matter；　at　high　noon；　so　long　as　he　had　delayed；　put　off　until　tomorrow；　postponed　the　execution　of　the　feeble　idea　he　had　today　when　there　would　be　a　much　better　idea　tomorrow？　If　he　did　not　prove　to　himself　today　that　he　could　paint　the　image　in　his　mind；　or　that　he　could　not　paint　it；　a　tendril　of　fort　remained。　And　hope。
　　Faith　in　his　untried　skills　provided　a　continuum。
　　Why　not？　Wasn't　he　trying？　Yes。　Was　he　not　a　dedicated　artist？　Yes。　Did　he　ever　fail　to　put　in　his　scheduled　work　period　every　day？　No。　Was　he　not　faithful　to　the　sustained　effort？…the　devoted；　painful；　mental　concentration？…the　agony　of　creation？　Yes；　yes；　and　yes　again。
　　And　who　knew？　Who　knows？　The　day　might　arrive　soon；　perhaps　tomorrow！　that　bright　day　when　an　idea　for　a　painting　would　e　to　him　that　was　so　powerful；　so　tremendous　in　scope　and　conception；　that　his　paint…loaded　brush　could　no　longer　be　withheld　from　the　canvas！　He　would　strike　at　last；　and　a　pictorial　masterpiece　would　be　born；　delivered；　created；　a　painting　that　would　live　forever　in　the　hearts　of　men！
　　All　through　life　we　protect　ourselves　from　countless　hurtful　truths　by　being　a　little　blind　here…by　ignoring　the　something　trying　to　flag　our　attention　on　the　outer　edges　of　our　peripheral　vision；　by　being　a　little　shortsighted　there…by　being　a　trifle　too　quick　to　accept　the　easiest　answer；　and　by　squinting　our　eyes　against　the　bright；　ining　light　all　of　the　time。　Emerson　wrote　once　that　even　a　corpse　is　beautiful　if　you　shine　enough　light　on　it。
　　But　that　is　horseshit。
　　Too　much　light　means　unbearable　truth；　and　too　much　truthful　light　sears　a　man's　eyes　into　an　unraging　blindness。　The　blind　man　can　only　smell　the　crap　of　his　life；　and　the　sounds　in　his　ears　are　cacophonous　corruptions。　Without　vision；　the　terrible　beauty　of　life　is　irrevocably　gone。　Gone！
　　And　as　I　thought　of　all　Debierue's　lost　visions；　never　to　appear　on　canvas　for　the　exhilaration　of　my　eyes；　scalding　tears　ran　down　my　cheeks。
　　
　　
　　
　　　PART　THREE
　　　
　　　IF　ANYTHING　WAS　PREHENSIBLE；
　　　IT　WOULD　BE　INMUNICABLE
　　　
　　
　　1
　　
　　I　took　my　time。
　　What　I　had　to　do　had　to　be　done　right　or　not　at　all。　Once　I　mitted；　although　my　concern　for　Berenice　（frightened　and　waiting　for　me　in　the　tall　grass　by　the　highway）　did　not　diminish；　it　would　have　been　foolhardy　to　rush。　I　might　have　overlooked　something　important。
　　I　looked　in　the　kitchen　for　string　and　wrapping　paper；　but　there　was　neither。　There　was　newspaper；　but　it　would　have　been　awkward　to　wrap　a　canvas　in　newspaper　when　there　was　no　string　to　tie　the　bundle。　There　were　several　large　brown　paper　grocery　sacks　under　the　sink；　and　I　took　one　of　these　back　to　the　studio　to　hold　the　art　materials　I　would　need。　I　took　a　clean　sheet　from　the　hall　linen　closet　and　wrapped　one　of　the　new　canvases　from　the　plastic　rack　in　it。　I　then　filled　the　brown　sack　with　several　camel's…hair　brushes；　a　can　of　turpentine；　one　of　linseed　oil；　and　a　halfdozen　tubes　of　oil　paint。　With　cadmium　red；　chrome　yellow；　Prussian　blue；　and　zinc　white　I　can　mix　almost　any　shade　or　tint　of　color　I　desire　（this　much　I　had　learned　in　my　first　oil　painting　course　because　the　tyrannical　teacher　had　made　us　learn　how　to　mix　primary　colors　if　he　taught　us　nothing　else）。　I　added　tubes　of　burnt　sienna　and　lampblack　to　the　others　because　they　were　useful　for　skin　tones　（there　were　no　positional　ideas　in　mind　at　the　time；　just　nebulous　multicolored　swirls　floating　loosely　about　in　my　head）　if　some　figures　became　involved　in　the　position。　The　palette　knife　was　also　useful　and　I　dropped　it　into　the　sack；　but　I　didn't　take　the　expensive　palette。　It　was　too　expensive　and　could　be　traced；　and　I　wouldn't　want　to　be　caught　with　it　in　my　possession。
　　These　art　materials　could　be　purchased　anywhere；　of　course；　as　could　the　prepared　30〃　x　24〃　canvas；　but　I　needed　Debierue's　materials　in　the　event　the　authenticity　of　the　painting　was　ever　questioned。　Mr。　Cassidy；　who　had　purchased　everything　for　Debierue；　would　have　a　bill　from　the　art　store　listing　these　materials；　their　brands；　and　so　would　Rex　Art。　My　mind　was　racing；　but　I　was　clearheaded　enough　to　realize　how　close　a　scrutiny　the　painting　would　receive　when　and　if　it　were　ever　painted　and　exhibited。
　　I　put　the　wrapped　canvas；　the　sackful　of　supplies；　and　the　hammer　and　tire　iron　into　the　trunk　of　the　car；　and　returned　to　the　studio。
　　I　ran　into　trouble　with　the　fire。　Turpentine　is　flammable；　highly　flamma