The Burnt Orange Heresy

"In Westcott's case, she'd have given all of them to me." I grinned. "But you aren't talking about integrity now, Mr. Cassidy, you're talking about my profession. I've never taken a free picture. The walls of my apartment in the Village are bare except for chance patterns of flaking paint. But if I ever took one picture, just one, that I could resell for two or three hundred bucks, the word would be out that I was on the take. From that moment on I would be dead as a critic. And a good review for pay, which is still being done in Paris, has damned near ruined serious art criticism in France.

"There are some exceptions, naturally, and those of us in the trade know who they are. So the way things are, I can't even afford to take legitimate art gifts from friends, even when I know that there are no strings attached. The strings would be there inadvertently. The mere fact that I took the gift might influence my opinion if I ever had to cover the man's show. By the same token, I don't buy anything either. And I've had some chances to buy some things that even I could afford. But if I owned a painting, you see, there might be a temptation on my part to push the artist beyond his worth-possibly-I don't know that I would-in order to increase the value of my own painting. I don't mean that I am completely objective either. That's impossible. I merely try to be most of the time, and that allows me to go overboard and be subjective as hell when I see something I really flip over."

I finished the last of my drink and set the glass down a little harder than I had intended. When I looked up, there was a smile on Cassidy's Irish face. Perhaps he had been baiting me, but I had been through this kind of probing before. It was natural, in America, for people to think that a critic had been paid off when he gave some artist a rave write-up, especially when they didn't know anything about art. But Cassidy knew better.

"You know all this, Mr. Cassidy, so don't give me any undeserved credit for integrity. I like money as much as anyone, and I made more money when I taught art history at CCNY than I do now. I'm ambitious, yes, but for a reputation, not for money. When I have a big enough reputation as a critic, then I'll make more money, but never a huge amount. That isn't the game. The trick-and it's a hard one-is to earn a living as an art critic, or, if you prefer, art expert. If you want me to authenticate a painting for you, I'll charge you a fee. Gladly. If you want to ask my advice on what to buy next for your collection, I'll give you suggestions free of charge." I held up my empty glass. "Except for another drink. Or is the bar closed for me, too?"

"I'll get the bottle." Cassidy left the room and returned almost immediately with an open bottle of Cutty Sark and a plastic bucket of cubes. I poured a double shot over two ice cubes and lit a cigarette. Cassidy picked up a yellow legal pad from his desk, sat down with it, and unscrewed the top from a fountain pen.

"I don't have any pictures for you to authenticate, James. And I didn't intend to ask you for any advice on collecting, but since you made the offer, what do you have in mind?"

I decided to tell him about my pet project.

"Entartete Kunst. Degenerate art."

"How do you spell that?"

I told him and he wrote it on the pad.

"It's a term that was used by Hitler's party to condemn modern art. At the time, Hitler was on an ethnic kick, and the official line was folk, or people's, art. Modern art, with its subjective individualistic viewpoint, was considered political and cultural anarchy, and Hitler ordered it suppressed. Even ruthlessly. Then, as now, no one was quite sure what modern art was, and it became necessary to make up a show of 'degenerate art' so that party men throughout Germany would know what in the hell they were supposed to prevent. So, in July 1937, they opened an exhibit of modern art in Munich. It was for adults only, so no children would be corrupted, and the exhibit was called Entartete Kunst. It was supposed to be an example, a warning to artists, and to people who might find such art attractive. After the Munich showing, it traveled all over Germany."

I leaned forward. "Listen to the names of the painters represented-Otto Dix, Emil Nolde, Franz Marc, Paul Klee, Kandinsky, Max Beckmann, and many more. I have a copy of the original catalogue in New York, locked away in the bottom drawer of my desk at the office."

"Those paintings would be worth a fortune today."