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nd 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 during the harvest years of his stay in America； and yet they were in keeping with his traditionally established principles of Nihilistic Surrealism。
Every morning when Debierue arose at six A。M。； depending upon his waking mood； he hung one of the red； white； or blue panels next to the permanently centered burnt orange； blue…bordered panel； the painting representing the painter…the painter's 〃self。〃 For the remainder of the day； when he was not engaged in the planning of another （undisclosed to the writer） work of art； he studied and contemplated the two bilateral paintings which reminded him of America's multiple 〃manifest destinies；〃 the plexities of American life in general； and his personal artistic mitment to the new world。
Did he ever awaken in a mood buoyant enough to hang two or perhaps three panels at once alongside the burnt orange panel？
〃No；〃 he said。
I had typed eighteen pages for a total of 4；347 words。 Now that the concept was firmly established； I could have gone on to write another dozen pages of interpretive mentary； but I forced myself to stop with the negative。 Wasn't it about time？ Does every contemporary work of art have to end with an affirmative？ Joyce； with his coda of yesses in Ulysses； Beckett； with the 〃I will go on〃 of his trilogy； and those 1；001 phallically erected obelisks and church spires pointing optimistically toward the heavens…for once； just once； let a negative prevail。
My conclusion was not a lucky accident。 It was a valid； pertinent statement of Debierue's life and art。 Skipping two spaces； I put a 〃…30…〃 to the piece。
I was suddenly tired。 My neck and shoulders were sore and my back ached。 I looked at my watch。 Six o'clock。 There was a plaintive rumble in my hollow stomach。 Except for going into the can three times； I had been at the typewriter for almost six straight hours。 I got up； stretched； rubbed the back of my neck； and walked around the coffee table shaking my hands and fingers above my head to get rid of the numb feeling in my arms。
I was tired but I wasn't sleepy。 I was exhilarated by pleting the article in such a short time。 Every part had fallen neatly into place； and I knew that it was a good piece of writing。 I had never felt better in my entire life。
I sighed； put the cover on the Hermes； moved the typewriter to the bed； and sat at the desk again to read and correct the article。 I righted spelling errors； changed some diction； and penciled in a rough transitional sentence between two disparate paragraphs。 It wasn't good enough； and I made a note in the margin to rewrite it。 One long convoluted sentence with three semicolons and two colons made me laugh aloud。 My mind had really been racing on that one。 I reduced it； without any trouble； to four clear； separate sentences…
The phone rang； a loud； jangling ring designed to arouse traveling salesmen who had been drinking too much before going to bed。 I almost jumped out of my chair。
Berenice's voice was husky。 〃I'm hungry。〃
〃Who isn't？〃
〃I've been sleeping。〃
〃I've been working。〃
〃I've been awake for a half hour； but I'm too lazy to get out of bed。 Why don't you e over and get in with me？〃
〃Jesus； Berenice； I've been working all day and I'm tired as hell。〃
〃If you eat something； you'll feel better。〃
〃All right。 Give me an hour； and I'll be over。〃
〃Should I order dinner sent up？〃
〃No。 I prefer to eat something hot； and I've never had a hot meal served in a hotel room。 We'll go down to the dining room。〃
〃I'll do my nails。〃
〃In an hour。〃 I racked the phone。
I finished reading and proofing the typescript and put the manuscript in a manila envelope before tucking it safely away in my suitcase。 There were only minimal changes to be made in New York。 Only two pages would require rewriting。 I put the canvas； ashtray palette； and other art materials into the closet。 I could paint the picture after dinner。
The tub in the bathroom was huge； the old…fashioned kind with big claw feet clutching metal balls。 The hot water came boiling out； and I shaved while the tub filled。 The water was much too hot to get into； but I added a little cold water at a time until the temperature dropped to the level I could stand。 Sliding down into the steaming； man…sized tub until I was fully submerged； except for my face； I soaked up the heat。 The soreness gradually left my back and shoulders。 I finished with a cold shower； and by the time I was dressed； I felt as if I had had eight hours' sleep。 I called the bar； ordered two Gibsons to be sent to 510； Berenice's room； and studied the road maps I had picked up at the last Standard station。
After dinner； I figured I could paint the picture in an hour or at most an hour and a half。 Now that the article was finished there was no point in staying overnight at the hotel。 I wasn't sleepy； and with both of us driving we could make it to New York in about thirty hours。 The front wheels of the old car started to shimmy if I tried to push it beyond fiftyfive mph； but thirty hours from Valdosta was a fairly accurate estimate。 I had forty dollars in my wallet and some loose change。 My Standard credit card would get the car to New York； but I decided to save my cash。 Berenice had traveler's checks； and she could use some of them to pay the hotel tab。 Through the cracked door； I heard the bellman knock on 510 across the way。 I waited until Berenice signed the chit and the waiter had caught the down elevator before I crossed the hallway and knocked on her door。
Berenice was willowy in a blue slack suit with lemon； quarter…inch lines forming windowpane checks； and the four tightly grouped buttons of the double…breasted jacket were genuine lapis lazuli。 The bells of the slacks were fully sixteen inches in diameter； and only the toes of her white wedgies were exposed。 There was a silk penny…colored scarf around her neck。 She had done her nails in Chen Yu nail varnish； that peculiar decadent shade of red that resembles dried blood （the sexiest shade of red ever made； and so Germanic thirtiesish that Visconti made Ingrid Thulin wear it in The Damned）； and she had painted her lips to match。 During her six weeks in Palm Beach； Beremce had learned some peculiar things about fashion； but the schoolteacher from Duluth had not disappeared。
She giggled and pointed to the tray on the coffee table。 〃These are supposed to be Gibsons！〃
There were two miniatures of Gilbey's gin and another of Stock dry vermouth （two tenths of gin； an eighth of vermouth）； a glass pitcher with chunks； not cubes； of ice； and a tiny glass bowl containing several cocktail onions。
I shrugged。 〃I don't think they're allowed to serve mixed drinks in this Georgia county； although the waiter would've mixed them for you if you'd tipped him。 Actually〃 …I twisted the metal caps off the two gin miniatures… 〃it's better this way。 Most bartenders overuse vermouth in Gibsons； and I'd rather make my own anyway。〃
〃It just struck me funny； that's all；〃 Berenice said。
While I mixed the Gibsons； I tried to work out a simple plan and a way of presenting it to Berenice to keep her away from my room until we were ready to leave。
〃Did you go to a movie this afternoon？〃
She shook her head； and sipped her cocktail。 〃I wouldn't go to a movie alone back home； much less in a strange town。 I'm not the scary type； you know that； James； but there are some things a woman shouldn't do alone； and that's one of them。〃
〃At any rate； you got through the day。〃
〃I slept like the dead。 How's the article ing？〃
〃That's what I wanted to talk to you about。 I finished it。〃
〃Already？ That's wonderful； James！〃
〃It's a good rough draft；〃 I admitted； 〃but it'll need a few things filled in up in New York…〃
〃Am I in it？ Can I read it？〃
〃No。 It's an article about Debierue and his art； not about you and me。 When did you bee interested in art criticism？〃 I grinned。
〃When I met Mr。 Debierue； that's when。〃 She smiled。 〃He's the nicest； sweetest old gentleman I ever met。〃
〃I'd rather you'd wait tifi I have the final draft； if y