The Burnt Orange Heresy

"No, no," he protested, still patting her hand, "I am too old now to learn how to drive an automobile."

"You could take some students," Berenice said eagerly. "There would be a lot of students who would like to work with you in your studio! And I bet they'd come with cars from all over"-she turned to me-"wouldn't they, James?"

Debierue laughed, and I joined him, although I was laughing more at Berenice's droll expression-half anger and half bewilderment-because we were laughing at her. For any other painter of equal stature, Picasso, for instance, the suggestion of a student working with a master was valid enough. But for Debierue, who showed his work to no one, the idea was absurd. Debierue had sidetracked me neatly. It was time to get back to business.

I put an affectionate arm around Berenice's waist and squeezed her as a signal to keep quiet. "You didn't answer my question a while ago, M. Debierue," I said soberly. "You have been very nice to me-to us both-even though we've invaded your privacy. But I would like to see your present work-"

He sighed. "I'm sorry, M. Figueras. You have made your visit without reason. You see," he shrugged, "I have no work to show you."

"Nothing at all?' Not even a drawing?"

The corners of his mouth drooped morosely. "Work I have, yes. But what things I have done in Florida are not deserving of your attention."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

His strained half-smile was weary, but his features stiffened with a mask of discernible dignity. His voice dropped to a husky whisper. "The artist alone is the final judge of his work, M. Figueras."

I flushed. "please don't misunderstand me," I said quickly. "I didn't mean what I said to come out that way. What I meant was that I don't intend to criticize your work, or judge it in any way. I meant to say that I would prefer to be the judge of whether I'd like to see it or not. And I would. It would be an honor."

"No. I am sorry but I must refuse. You are a critic and you cannot help yourself. For you, to see a picture is to make a judgment. I do not want your judgment. I paint for Debierue. I please myself and I displease myself. For a young man like you to say to me, 'Ah, M. Debierue, here in this corner a touch of terracotta might strengthen the visual weight," or 'I like the tactile texture, but I believe I see a hole in the overall composition...:" He chuckled drily. "I must say No, M. Figueras."

"You are putting me down, sir," I said. "I know there are critics such as you describe, but I'm not one of them." My face was flaming, but my voice was under control.

"With the art of Debierue, one man is a crowd. Me. Debierue. Two people are a noisy audience. But to have one spectator with a pen, the critic, is to have many thousands of spectators. Surrealism does not need your rationale, M. Figueras. And Debierue does not paint 'bicephalous centaursY'

"He won't let you see his pictures, will he?" Berenice guessed, looking at my face.

I shook my head.

"Maybe," she turned and looked coyly at Debierue, "you'll let me see them instead, Mr. Debierue?"

He stepped back a few feet and examined her figure admiringly. "You have a wide pelvis, my dear, and it will be very easy for you to have many fine, beautiful babies."

"By that he means No for me too, doesn't he?"

"What else?" I shrugged, and lit a cigarette.

As I had suspected, Debierue had disliked Galt's criticism. I could have begged, but that would have been abhorrent to me. If this was the way he felt there was no point in pursuing the matter anyway. In one way, he was right about me. It would have been impossible for me to look at his work without judging it. And although I would not have said anything derogatory about his work, no matter how I felt about it, there was bound to be some indication of how I felt-pro or con-reflected in my face. If he didn't actually believe that his paintings were worthy (although his faculty for criticism was certainly not as good as mine), all I could do now was take him at his word. I felt almost like crying. It was one of the greatest disappointments of my life.

"Perhaps another time, then, M. Debierue," I said.

"Yes, perhaps." He stroked his beaked nose pensively and studied my face. Not rudely, but earnestly. He glanced toward the hallway leading to his padlocked studio, looked back at me, smiled at Berenice, and tugged pensively at his lower lip. I suspect that he had expected me to put up a prolonged, involved argument, and now he didn't know whether to be grateful or disappointed by my failure to protest.

"Tell me something, M. Figueras. I am called the Nihilistic Surrealist, but I have never known why. Do you see much disorder here, in my little house?"

"No, sir' I looked around. "Far from it."