Death Sentences (12 page)

"Really I do. So-"

Breton prompted him.

"Yes! Yes, Mr. Breton. I have returned, to Paris, that is. About three months ago. I am currently living in the Chaillot area. I have rented an old apartment. I obtained your address from Mr. Arshile Gorky. That's right. Mr. Gorky wanted very much to see you. He asked me to tell you about this in the letter that he wrote. I don't know if you have heard, but last year his studio caught fire, and most of his works were destroyed in the fire. What's more, he had to have an operation for cancer. Things are really terrible for him. Oh my ... and all this even though he is such a fine artist ... really I just ..."

"Hang on a minute."

Breton asked in surprise: "Did you say Arshile Gorky? Are you acquainted with him?"

It came as quite a surprise.

Breton knew Gorky quite well. In fact, he had known him quite a long time.

What surprised him was the combination of Gorky and Who May.

Gorky, a painter, had been living in America.

Breton first met Gorky in 1944 when he sought refuge in New York. The sculptor Isamu Noguchi had introduced him to Breton.

Born in Armenia, Gorky had immigrated to America at the age of sixteen. He stood out from the crowd, sporting a luxuriant moustache that lent him a decidedly foreign air.

His name had originally been Vostanik Adoyan, but apparently he had taken the name Arshile in honor of an Armenian nobleman who had done a great deal to preserve Armenian literature, and Gorky, which meant "heartless" in Russian, was also the name of his favorite writer. Or so someone had told Breton.

In any event-

When someone showed him a collection of Gorky's sketches, at a glance Breton recognized in them the rare quality of genius. They had truly inspired in him wonder and admiration.

Breton promptly decided to include Gorky at the forefront of surrealism, and the following year, 1945, the catalog for the first solo exhibition of Gorky's work held at Julien Levy's gallery included a short essay titled "The Eye-Spring: Arshile Gorky."

Characterizing Gorky's works as "heterogeneous forms in which human emotions are directly deposited," Breton lavished praise on him, writing, "of all the surrealist artists, Gorky is the only one who maintains direct contact with nature-sits down to paint before her to reveal the very rhythm of life."

And yet, for all that, there seemed to be something about Gorky himself as an individual that did not really agree with surrealism as a movement.

Gorky's spirit was, for lack of a better term, wild.

It combined the tenderness and ferocity of the wild.

As such, it appeared at once risky and overly sentimental for the surrealist movement, which was based on a certain intellectuality.

Breton nonetheless went to great lengths to bring him into surrealism.

And as Gorky began to frequent Breton's circle, surrealism had an actual impact on him.

Even after he returned to France in 1946, Breton continued to worry about him.

Accounts of the fire and Gorky's operation for cancer had already reached his ears.

Still, he never imagined that he would hear the name Arshile Gorky from Who May.

There were reasons for this-

By the time Breton met Gorky in 1944, Who May had already vanished without a trace from Breton's circle of friends.

And one week after that day in June 1943 when Breton had made Marcel Duchamp read Who May's "Another World"-

Breton found a large envelope stuffed in his apartment mailbox. It had not been delivered by post.

There were no stamps or postmark on the envelope.

It was addressed, however, to Breton, and instead of a return address there was only Who May's name, and nothing else.

Probably he had dropped off the envelope himself.

In any event-

As soon as he spied Who May's name, he immediately telephoned Marcel Duchamp as promised.

And Duchamp, as promised, hurried right over.

He was in very good humor.

He took the envelope from Breton with an extravagant gesture, exhaling sharply in anticipation.

"So this is it!"

He tore open the envelope.

A manuscript appeared, handwritten in fine letters on typing paper, just like "Another World."

There was a title on the first line.

It was titled "Mirror."

Duchamp read the first page and then passed it to Breton. His heart pounded in his chest. His feelings were mixed.

It-

It had begun with a phrase that repeated endlessly like a Mobius strip.

And then without warning ...

"... foolishness."

Duchamp mumbled impatiently about halfway through reading it.

Hearing his voice, Breton raised his head. Their eyes met. And then they simultaneously looked away. They continued reading in silence.

In the midst of reading Breton became aware that the numbering of the pages did not follow the usual order. The first page was i. The subsequent pages ran in the usual sequence of 2, 3, 4, and so on till io, but the next page was 9, and after that, 8.

As Duchamp passed him the pages, the numbers continued to decrease, and the last page was 2.

In other words-this meant or, rather, indicated that from the last page you were to return again to the first page, i.

Eighteen pages in all, and without end-

In keeping with this schema, Duchamp, reaching the last page marked 2, once again picked up the first page that he had already passed to Breton and began to read again.

Breton followed him.

It was entirely natural to do so. It was a structure that made it possible to continue reading endlessly.

The manuscript went back and forth between Duchamp and Breton time and again. Time and again ...

All of a sudden-

Duchamp slapped the table hard with one hand.

At the sound, Breton returned to himself, pulling his eyes away from the lines of words.

Duchamp was glaring at the ceiling, a page of the manuscript still gripped in his fist.

"I remember reading something a lot like this."

Duchamp fairly spat out the words.

"In some passages said to be decoded from Mayan pictograms, there were repetitive incantations much like these. Indeed ... truly like ..."

...incantations."

Breton murmured in reply. Once again-spells.

Surrealism is not unaware of the value of spells. In fact, the concepts of wizardry, black arts, and arcane teachings are a profound source of energy for surrealism.

Indeed, Breton had once declared, "In the depths of surrealism I seek the truth within arcane teachings."

But-nevertheless, nevertheless-

"Is his name really Who May? The name sounds Chinese or Mongolian, or something like that. If so, it may be that he attained some knowledge of the ancient arcane teachings of the Orient and is putting it to use in these passages."

Duchamp asked.

"He ... Who May is in fact of Oriental descent. But his father is French, and he said that he was born in Paris."

Breton shook his head.

"He's definitely French. It's clear from his grasp of French usage."

Duchamp chuckled slightly.

"Certainly, he knows how to use French. That much is evident. But-there is no one else who uses French as he does. I doubt there is anyone else like him."

Sharply, as if angry, Duchamp raised his voice.

"What do you think, Andre? What on earth do you think it is, this-this thing written in French?"

2

Such a question left Breton at a loss.

It was easy to answer, and yet not so easy.

The answer was already written on the first page of the manuscript, as a title. "Mirror"-that was the answer.

"What do you think this thing is, Andre?"

Thus pressed, Breton reluctantly muttered, "Mirror, isn't it? It ... it's a mirror. That's how it seems to me."

Duchamp burst out laughing. It was uneasy laughter.

His usually handsome features appeared distorted with laughter, somehow demonic.

"Mirror! Mirror! Mirror! But why? How can you make a mirror with words?"

Duchamp yelled.

"This thing is indeed a mirror. I saw myself reflected in it. Was it the same for you, Andre? Did you too see yourself reflected in it?!"

Breton clammed up. And he lowered his eyes.

"Why is it? How is it? How can a mirror be made using the French language? I cannot even make a guess. Yet it is nonetheless possible. And the proof lies right here before us. It would seem that, with words, with the French language, something that reflects light was somehow possible. But! But still-"

Duchamp could not find the words to continue.

His laugher gradually took on a chirping sound, like a bird.

Breton wanted to say something. He wanted to reply. But there was nothing he could say.

Reading the text was nothing other than reading oneselfthat was all one could say.

No one can truly read the author's text. People always read the words, the text, as a reflection of themselves.

For example, one might consider the term woman. The "woman" thus portrayed is nothing but "woman" for the individual reader, inseparable from each reader's life experiences and mind-set.

In this respect, all words are like mirrors. Words present an image of the reader. Words can only present an image of the reader.

He wished to approach Duchamp at such a conceptual level of theory.

Words are mirrors-

And that's why ... that's why ... But, no, this was different.

(This thingwas different!)

Breton's cheeks trembled slightly.

This-what now stood before his eyes-was not a product of such a conceptualization.

No-I'm not really sure-it may be-an incantation, or it may be similar to hypnotism ... an optical illusion generated by the skillful use of words-but, in any case ... in either case ...

Just as Duchamp had said, it is undoubtedly some thing, made of lines of words that could transform the French language into something that reflected light, into a veritable mirror. It is not a concept. Words ... are sending back a reflection, connecting the "image" of the reader himself to that site where the magical moment of stringing words together conjures forth a boundary.

In any event-it was a "work" that possessed definite qualities.

For a long time the silence deepened between the two men.

Neither one of them was about to look at the manuscript still lying on the table.

Both sat there, gazing off into space.

Duchamp was clearly in a bad mood. He had been laughing, but as soon as he stopped a deep crease appeared between his eyebrows.

He seemed to be deep in thought. Or maybe he was trying not to think. It was surely one or the other.

"Well, that's that."

Duchamp finally parted his lips. He spoke as if to himself.

"Let's meet with Who May. And we'll ask him. We'll get the answer from him. We'll just have to have him tell us ... why he wanted to write something like this ... why he thought something like this could be written."

"That's fine by me."

Feeling like he'd been saved, Breton stood up.

He went to his study, to get the manuscript of "Another World."

Who May's contact information was written on it. He found the manuscript.

Breton picked up the phone on his desk.

Duchamp came into the room after him.

Breton put his ear to the receiver. He gave the number to the operator.

The connection went through. The phone began to ring.

After seven or eight rings, someone picked up the phone at the other end.

Who May had said that it was his landlord's number.

Breton gave his name and asked the landlord if he could call Who May.

"Who May? Is that someone's name?"

The landlord didn't know Who May.

Come to think of it, Who May was supposed to be living with his stepfather.

"Could you wait one minute?"

Searching his memories, Breton just managed to remember the stepfather's name.

"Carron, that's it, I'd like to speak to Mr. Carron's son."

"Carron, I know. You mean the guy with the Oriental son?"