The Burnt Orange Heresy

But there was a major difference between the old German philosopher and this old French painter. Schopenhauer had accepted the flood of congratulations on his birthdays during his seventies as a well-deserved tribute, as a vindication. Debierue, on the other hand, while grateful, seemed bewildered and even humbled by the letters he received.

"But I am not sorry I came to Florida, M. Figueras. Your sun is good for me."

"And your work?' Has it gone well for you, too?"

"The artist"-he looked into my eyes-"can work anywhere. Is it not so?"

I cleared my throat to make the pitch I had been putting off. "M. Debierue, I respect your stand on art and privacy very much. In fact, just to sit here talking to you and drinking your fresh orange juice-"

"The fresh frozen," he emended.

". . . is an honor. A great honor. I'm well aware of your reluctance to show your work to the public and to critics, and I can't say that I blame you. You have, however, on occasion, permitted a few outstanding critics to examine and write about your work. You've only been in Florida for a few months, as I understand it, and I don't know if you've completed any paintings you'd be willing to show an American critic. But if you have, I would consider it a privilege-"

"Are you a painter, M. Figueras?"

"No, sir, I'm not. I had enough studio courses in college to know that I could never be a successful painter. My talent, such as it is, is writing, and I'm a craftsman rather than an artist, I regret to say. But I am truly a superior craftsman as a critic. To be frank, in addition to the personal pleasure I'd get from seeing your American paintings, an exclusive, in-depth article in my magazine would be a feather in my cap. The sales of the magazine would jump, and it would be the beginning for me of some very lucrative outside assignments from other art journals. As you know, only one photograph of any single one of your paintings would be art news big enough to get both of us international attention-"

"Do you sculpt?' Or work with collage, ceramics?"

"No, sir." I tried to keep the annoyance I felt out of my voice. "Nothing like that. I'm quite inept when it comes to doing work with my hands."

"But I do not understand, M. Figueras. Your critical articles are very sensitive. I do not understand why you do not paint, or-"

"At one time this was a rather sore point with me, but I got over it. I tried hard enough, but I simply couldn't draw well enough-too clumsy, I guess. If I didn't have a welldeveloped verbal sense I'd probably have a tough time making a living."

"I've got to go to the restroom, Mr. Debierue," Berenice said shyly.

"Certainly." Debierue came around the bar and pointed down the hallway. "The door at the far end."

I climbed off the stool when she did and looked down the hallway past Debierue's shoulder. Berenice was undoubtedly bored, but she also undoubtedly had to go to the can. At the end of the short hallway there were two more doors en face, in addition to the door to the bathroom straight ahead. One door was padlocked, and one was not. The padlocked door, with its heavy hasp, was probably Debierue's studio and formerly the master bedroom of the original owner.

I took the Polaroid camera out of its leather case, and checked to see if there was an unused flash bulb in the bounce reflector.

"This camera," I said, "is so simple to operate that an eight-year-old child can get good results with it almost every time. It's that simple." I laughed. "But before I learned how to work the damned thing I ruined ten rolls of film. It's ridiculous, I know. And with typing, which I had to learn, I was equally clumsy. I took a typing course twice, but the touch system was too much for me to master." I held up my index and second fingers. "I have to type my stuff with these four fingers. So you can see why I quit trying to paint. It was too frustrating, so I quit trying before I suffered any emotional damage."

He looked at me quizzically, and stroked his hooked nose with a long finger.

"I guess I sound a little stupid," I said apologetically.

"No, no. The critic-all critics-arouses my curiosity, M. Figueras."

"It's quite simple, really. I'm purported to be an expert, or at least an authority, on art and the preschool child. And what it boils down to is this. Most motor activity is learned before the age of five. A preschool child can only learn things by doing them. And if you have a mother who does everything for you-little things like tying shoelaces, brushing your teeth, feeding you, and so on, you don't do them yourself. After five or six, when you have to do them yourself, in school, for example, it's too late ever to master the dexterity and motor control a painter wifi need in later years. Overly solicitous mothers, that is, mothers who wait on their children hand and foot, inadvertently destroy incipient artists."

"Have you ever written about this theory?"