cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第23部分

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。　Besides；　Tom　Russell　would　want　to　read　the　piece　the　moment　I　got　into　the　city。　I　also　had　to　paint　a　picture　before　I　wrote　the　article。　By　looking　at　it　（whatever　it　turned　out　to　be）；　it　would　be　a　simple　matter　to　describe　the　painting　with　it　sitting　in　front　of　me；　and　I　could　tie　the　other　paintings　to　it　somehow。
　　〃Berenice；〃　I　said；　〃we're　going　to　stop　here　in　Valdosta；　not　in　a　motel；　but　in　the　hotel　downtown；　if　they　have　one。　In　a　hotel　we　can　get　room　service；　and　two　rooms；　one　for　you　and…〃
　　〃Why　two　rooms？　Why　can't　I…〃
　　〃I　know　you　mean　well；　sweetheart；　and　you're　awfully　quiet　when　I'm　working；　but　you　also　know　how　it　bugs　me　to　have　you　tiptoeing　around　while　l'm　trying　to　write。　I　won't　have　time　to　talk　to　you　while　I'm　working；　and　I　won't　stop；　once　I　start；　until　I've　got　at　least　a　good　rough　draft　on　paper。　Take　a　long　nap；　a　good　tub　bath…motels　only　have　showers；　you　know…and　then　go　to　a　movie　this　afternoon。　And　tonight；　if　I'm　fairly　well　along　with　it；　we　can　have　dinner　together。〃
　　〃Shouldn't　you　sleep　for　a　few　hours　first？　I　had　some　catnaps；　but　you　haven't　closed　your　eyes。〃
　　〃I'll　take　a　couple　of　bennies。　I'm　afraid　if　I　go　to　sleep　I'll　lose　my　ideas。〃
　　Being　reasonable　with　Berenice　worked　for　once。　Downtown；　we　stopped　at　the　tattered…awninged　entrance　of　a　six…story　brick　hotel；　The　Valdosta　Arms。　I　asked　the　ancient　black　doorman　if　the　hotel　had　a　parking　garage。
　　〃Yes；　sir；〃　he　said。　〃If　you　checking　in；　drive　right　aroun'　the　corner　there　and　under　the　buildin'。　I'll　have　a　bellman　waitin'　there　for　your　bags。〃
　　I　reached　across　Berenice　and　handed　the　old　man　two　quarters。
　　〃If　you　want　out　here；　I'll　carry　your　car　aroun'　myself；〃　he　offered。
　　〃No；〃　I　shook　my　head。　〃I　like　to　know　where　my　car　is　parked。〃
　　He　was　limping　for　the　house　phone　beside　the　revolving　glass　doors　before　Berenice　got　the　car　into　gear。
　　I　wanted　to　know　where　the　car　was　parked　because　I　intended　to　return　for　the　canvas　and　art　materials　after　getting　Berenice　settled　in。　The　bellman　had　a　luggage　truck　waiting；　and　we　followed　him　into　the　service　elevator　and　up　to　the　lobby。
　　〃Two　singles；　please；〃　I　said　to　the　desk　clerk。　A　bored　middle…aged　man；　his　eyes　didn't　even　light　up　when　he　looked　at　Berenice。
　　〃Do　you　have　a　reservation；　sir？〃
　　〃No。〃
　　〃All　right。　I　can　give　you　connecting　rooms　on　three；　if　you　like。〃
　　〃Fine；〃　Berenice　said。
　　〃No。〃　I　smiled　and　shook　my　head。　〃You'd　better　separate　them。　I　have　to　do　some　typing；　and　we've　been　driving　all　night　and　it　might　disturb　her　sleep。〃
　　〃Five…ten；　and　Five…oh…five。〃　He　shifted　his　weary　deadpan　to　address　Berenice。　〃You'll　be　dreckly　across　the　hail　from　him；　Miss。〃
　　I　signed　a　register　card；　and　while　Berenice　was　signing　hers；　crossed　to　the　newsstand　and　looked　for　her　favorite　magazine　on　the　rack。　Unable　to　find　it；　I　asked　the　woman　behind　the　glass　display　case　if　she　had　sold　out　her　Cosmopolitans。　Setting　her　lips　in　a　prim　line；　she　reached　beneath　the　counter　and　silently　placed　a　copy　on　the　glass　top。　I　handed　her　a　dollar　and　she　rang　it　up　（a　man　who　buys　〃under　the　counter〃　magazines　has　to　pay　a　little　more）。　I　joined　Berenice　and　the　bellman　at　the　elevators　and　we　went　up　to　our　rooms。
　　The　first　thing　I　did　after　tipping　the　bellman　and　closing　the　door　was　to　change　out　of　my　jumpsuit。　From　the　guarded　but　indignant　looks　I　had　received　in　the　lobby　from　the　newsstand　woman；　the　bellman；　and　two　bluesuited　men　with　narrow　ties　（the　desk　clerk's　face　wouldn't　have　registered　surprise　if　I　had　worn　jockey　shorts）；　gentlemen　were　not　expected　to　wear　jumpsuits　in　downtown　Valdosta。　And　I　didn't　want　people　to　stare　at　me　when　I　went　down　to　the　basement　garage　for　my　art　materials。　I　put　on　a　pair　of　gray　slacks；　a　white　silk　shirt；　with　a　whiteon…white　brocade　tie；　and　a　lime　sports　jacket；　the　only　unrumpled　clothes　I　had。
　　By　taking　the　service　elevator　down　and　up；　I　was　back　in　my　room　in　fewer　than　five　minutes。　The　room　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　。　。　。
　　
　　
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　　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