The Burnt Orange Heresy

There were no other pictures on the walls, and the living room was furnished cheaply and austerely with Sears furniture. Mr. Cassidy had certainly spared expense in furnishing the house for the famous visitor. There wasn't a hi-fi stereo, a radio, or television set, and there were no drapes to mask the severe horizontal lines of the Venetian blinds covering the windows. Except for two Danish chairs, a Marfak-topped coffee table, a black Naugahyde twoseater couch, and one floor lamp-all grouped in a tight oblong-the huge living room, with its carpetless terrazzo floor, was bare. A Miami Herald and a superslick copy of Realites were on the coffee table. There were two tall black wrought-iron barstools at the counter. Debierue either had to have his meals at this bar-counter or take his food out to the porch and eat on a Samsonite card table.

Mr. Cassidy would not, I knew, tip Debierue off that I was coming, but if the old painter asked me how I had found him, what could I say?' He didn't appear surprised by my sudden appearance. If he asked, I would say that my editor had told me and that he sent me down on an assignment. These thoughts nagged at my mind as Debierue prepared the frozen orange juice. He placed an aluminum pitcher on the table, opened the frozen can with an electric can opener, and then made three trips to the sink to fifi the empty can with tap water.

He worked methodically, with great concentration, adding each canful of water to the pitcher like a chemist preparing an experiment. With a long-handled spoon he stirred the mixture, smiled, and beckoned for us to come and sit at the bar. Berenice and I climbed onto the stools, and he filled three plastic glasses to their brims.

Without touching his glass he looked beyond me to No. One on the wall. "This is the new world, M. Figueras, and there are no cracks in the wall of the new world. Here the concrete, brick, and stucco walls are hurricane-proof. My insurance policy guarantees this."

This might be a good opening or closing sentence for my article, I thought. I leaned forward, prepared to explore his thinking on the "new world" in more detail, but he shook his head as a signal for me to remain silent.

"I will not suggest to you that only M. Cassidy could have directed you here, M. Figueras. It is unimportant now that you are here, and we are both aware that M. Cassidy is, like all collectors, a most peculiar man."

Grateful for the easy out, I asked for permission to smoke. Debierue took a saucer from the cabinet, set it between us, and waited until I lighted Berenice's cigarette and mine before he continued. He refused a cigarette by waving his hand.

"What can I say to you, M. Figueras, that would dissuade you from writing about me for your magazine?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid. You make me feel like a complete bastard, but-"

"I'm sorry for your feelings. But as a favor to me, do you have so much zeal that you must tell my address in your magazine?' Much privacy is needed for my work, as it is for all artists. Every day I must work for at least four hours, and to have frequent interruptions-"

"That's no concession at all, sir. I'll dateline my piece 'Somewhere in Florida.' I know how you feel, of course. The Galt article was damned unfair to you, I know-"

"How do you know?" Again the sad, sweet smile.

"I know Galt's attitude toward art, that's how I know. He's got a one-track mental set. He invariably puts everything he sees into a highly subjective pattern-whether it fits or not.

"Is not all art subjective?"

"Yes." I grinned. "But didn't Braque say that the subject was not the object?"

"Perhaps. I don't know whether Braque said this himself, or whether some clever young man-a man like yourself, M. Figueras-said that he said it."

"I-I don't recall," I replied lamely, "where the quote originated, not at the moment, but he is supposed to have said it himself. And if not . . . well . . . the play on words has a subtle validity, for . . . the art of our times. Don't you think . . . ?"

"The word 'validity' cannot be used validly for the art of any time."

I hesitated. He was testing me. By going into theoretical entebechy I could have answered him easily, but I didn't want to argue with him-I shrugged and smiled.

"By validity," he smiled back, "do you mean that the eye contains the incipient action?" The corners of his eyes wrinkled with amusement.

"Not exactly, sir. Cartesian dualism, as an approach to aesthetics, no longer has intrinsic value-and that's Galt's fault. He has never been abbe to transcend his early training. Not to be summational is the hardest task facing the contemporary critic. To see the present alone, blocking out the past and future, calls for optic mediation." My face grew warm under the force of his steady blue eyes. "I don't mean to run Galt down, sir, or to give you the impression that I'm a better critic than he is. It's just that I'm twentyfive years younger than Galt, and I've looked at more contemporary art than he has-"