The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus (40 page)

To love Oriental art. Who does not? But which Orient, the near or the far? I loved them all. Maybe I loved this art so very different from our own because, in the words of Elie Faure, man is no longer at the center of life. Perhaps it was this leveling (and raising) of man, this promiscuity with all life, this infinitely small and infinitely great at one and the same time, which produced such exaltation when confronted with their work. Or, to put it another way, because Nature was (with them) something other, something more, than a mere backdrop. Because man, though divine, was no more divine than that from which he sprang. Also, perhaps, because they did not confound the welter and tumult of life with the welter and tumult of the intellect. Because mind—or spirit or soul—shone through everything, creating a divine irradiation. Thus, though humbled and chastened, man was never flattened, nullified, obliterated or degraded. Never made to cringe before the sublime, but incorporated in it. If there was a key to the mysteries which enveloped him, pervaded him, and sustained him, it was a simple key, available to all. There was nothing arcane about it.

Yes, I loved this immense, staggering world of the Indian which, who knows, I might one day see with my own eyes. I loved it not because it was alien and remote, for it was really closer to me than the art of the West; I loved the love from which it was born, a love which was shared by the multitude, a love which could never have come to expression had it not been of, by and for the multitude. I loved the anonymous aspect of their staggering creations. How comforting and sustaining to be a humble, unknown worker—an artisan and not a genius!—one among thousands, sharing in the creation of that which belonged to all. To have been nothing more than a water carrier—that had more meaning for me than to become a Picasso, a Rodin, a Michelangelo or a da Vinci. Surveying the panorama of European art, it is the name of the artist which always sticks out like a sore thumb. And usually, associated with the great names, goes a story of woe of affliction, of cruel misunderstanding. With us of the West the word genius has something of the monstrous about it. Genius, or the one who does not adapt; genius, he who gets slapped; genius, he who is persecuted and tormented; genius, he who dies in the gutter, or in exile, or at the stake.

It is true, I had a way of infuriating my bosom friends when extolling the virtues of other peoples. They asserted that I did it for effect, that I only pretended to appreciate and esteem the works of alien artists, that it was my way of castigating our own people, our own creators. They were never convinced that I could take to the alien, the exotic, or the outlandish in art immediately, that it demanded no preparation, no initiation, no knowledge of their history or their evolution. What does it mean? What are they trying to say? Thus they jeered and mocked. As if explanations meant anything. As if I cared what they meant.

Above all, it was the loneliness and the futility of being an artist which most disturbed me. Thus far in my life I had met only two writers whom I could call artists: John Cowper Powys and Frank Harris. The former I knew through attending his lectures; the latter I knew in my role of merchant tailor, the lad, in other words, who delivered his clothes, who helped him on with his trousers. Was it my fault, perhaps, that I had remained outside the circle? How was I to meet another writer, or painter or sculptor? Push my way into his studio, tell him that I too yearned to write, paint, sculpt, dance or what? Where did artists congregate in our vast metropolis? In Greenwich Village, they said. I had lived in the Village, walked its streets at all hours, visited its coffee shops and tea rooms, its galleries and studios, its bookstores, its bars, its dives and speak-easies. Yes, I had rubbed elbows, in some dingy bar, with figures like Maxwell Bodenheim, Sadakichi Hartman, Guido Bruno, but I had never run into a Dos Passes, a Sherwood Anderson, a Waldo Franck, an E.E. Cummings, a Theodore Dreiser or a Ben Hecht. Nor even the ghost of an O’Henry. Where did they keep themselves? Some were already abroad, leading the happy life of the exile or the renegade. They were not in search of other artists, certainly not raw novices like myself. How wonderful it would have been if, in those days when it meant so much to me, I could have met and talked with Theodore Dreiser, or Sherwood Anderson, whom I adored I Perhaps we would have had something to say to one another, raw as I then was. Perhaps I would have derived the courage to start sooner—or to run away, seek adventure in foreign lands.

Was it shyness, timidity, lack of self-esteem which kept me apart and alone throughout these barren years? A rather ludicrous incident leaps to mind. Of a time when, cruising about with O’Mora, searching desperately for novelty and excitement, anything for a lark, we went one night to a lecture at the Rand School. It was one of those literary nights when members of the audience are asked to voice their opinions about this author and that. Perhaps that evening, we had listened to a lecture on some contemporary and supposedly revolutionary writer. It seems to me that we had, for suddenly, when I found myself on my feet and talking, I realized that what I was saying had nothing to do with what had gone before. Though I was dazed—it was the first time I had ever risen to speak in public, even in an informal atmosphere such as this—I was conscious, or half-conscious, that my audience was hypnotized. I could feel, rather than see, their upturned faces strained to catch my words. My eyes were focused straight ahead, at the figure behind the lectern who was slumped in his seat, gazing at the floor. As I say, I was utterly dazed; I knew not what I was saying nor where it was leading me. I spouted, as one does in a trance. And what was I talking about? About a scene from one of Hamsun’s novels, something concerning a peeping Tom. I remember this because at the mention of the subject, and I probably went into the scene in detail, there was a slight titter in the audience followed immediately by a hush which signified rapt attention. When I had finished there was a burst of applause and then the master of ceremonies made a flattering speech about the good fortune they had had in hearing this uninvited guest, a writer no doubt, though he was regretfully ignorant of my name, and so on. As the group dispersed he jumped down from the platform and rushed up to me to congratulate me anew, to ask who I was, what I had written, where did I live, and so forth and so on. My reply, of course, was vague and non-committal. I was in a panic by this time and my one thought was to escape. But he clutched me by the sleeve, as I turned to go, and in utter seriousness said—and what a shock it was!—Why don’t you take over these meetings? You’re much better equipped for it than I am. We need some one like you, some one who can create fire and enthusiasm.

I stammered something in reply, perhaps a lame promise, and edged my way to the exit. Outside I turned to O’Mara and asked—What did I say, do you remember?

He looked at me strangely, wondering no doubt if I were fishing for a compliment.

I don’t remember a thing, said I. From the moment I rose to my feet I was out. I only vaguely know that I was talking about Hamsun.

Christ In he said, What a pity I You were marvelous; you never hesitated a moment; the words just rolled out of your mouth.

Did it make sense, that’s what I’d like to know.

Make sense? Man, you were almost as good as Powys.

Come, come, don’t give me that!

I mean it, Henry, he said, and there were tears in his eyes as he spoke. You could be a great lecturer. You had them spell-bound. They were shocked too. Didn’t know what to make of you, I guess.

It was really that good, eh? I was only slowly realizing what had happened.

You said a lot before you launched into that Hamsun business.

I did? Like what, for instance?

Jesus, don’t ask me to repeat it. I couldn’t. You touched on everything, it seemed. You even talked about God for a few minutes.

No! That’s all a blank to me. A complete blank.

What’s the difference? he said. I wish 7 could go blank and talk that way.

There it was. A trifling incident, yet revelatory. Nothing ever came of it. Never again did I attempt, or even dream, of opening my mouth in public. If I attended a lecture, and I attended many in this period, I sat with eyes, mouth and ears open, entranced, subjugated, as impressionable and waxen a figure as all the others about me. It would never occur to me to stand up and ask a question, much less offer a criticism. I came to be instructed, to be opened up. I never said to myself—You too could stand up and deliver a speech. You too could sway the audience with your powers of eloquence. You too could choose an author and expound his merits in dazzling fashion. No, never any such thoughts. Reading a book, yes, I might lift my eyes from the page upon the conclusion of a brilliant passage, and say to myself: You could do that too. You have done it, as a matter of fact. Only you don’t do it often enough. And I would read on, the submissive victim, the all-too-willing disciple. Such a good disciple that, when the occasion presented itself, when the mood was on me, I could explain, analyze and criticize the book I had just read almost as if I had been the author of it, employing not his own words but a simulacrum which carried weight and inspired respect. And of course always, on these occasions, the question would be hurled at me—Why don’t you write a book yourself? Whereupon I would close up like a clam, or become a clown—anything to throw dust in their eyes. It was always a writer-to-be that I cultivated in the presence of friends and admirers, or even believers, for it was always easy for me to create these believers .

But alone, reviewing my words or deeds soberly, the sense of being cut off always took possession of me. They don’t know me, I would say to myself. And by this I meant that they knew me neither for myself nor for what I might become. They were impressed by the mask. I didn’t call it that, but that is how I thought of my ability to impress others. It was not me doing it, but a persona which I knew how to put on. It was something, indeed, which any one with a little intelligence and a flair for acting could learn to do. Monkey tricks, in other words. Yet, though I regarded these performances in this light, I myself at times would wonder if perhaps it was not me, after all, who was behind these antics.

Such was the penalty of living alone, working alone, never meeting a kindred spirit, never touching the fringe of that secret inner circle wherein all those doubts and conflicts which ravaged me could be brought out into the open, shared, discussed, analyzed and, if not resolved, at least aired.

Those strange figures out of the world of art—painters, sculptors, particularly painters—was it not natural that I should feel at home with them? Their work spoke to me in mysterious fashion. Had they used words I might have been baffled. However remote their world from ours, the ingredients were the same: rocks, trees, mountains, water, theatre, work, play, costumes, worship, youth and old age, harlotry, coquetry, mimicry, war, famine, torture, intrigue, vice, lust, joy, sorrow. A Tibetan scroll, with its mandalas, its gods and devils, its strange symbols, its prescribed colors, was as familiar to me, some part of me, as the nymphs and sprites, the streams and forests, of a European painter.

But what was closer to me than anything in Chinese, Japanese or Tibetan art was this art of India born of the mountain itself. (As if the mountains became pregnant with dreams and gave birth to their dreams, using the poor human mortals who hollowed them out as tools.) It was the monstrous nature, if we may speak of the grandiose as such, yes, the monstrous nature of these creations which so appealed to me, which answered to some unspoken hunger in my own being. Moving amidst my own people I was never impressed by any of their accomplishments; I never felt the presence of any deep religious urge, nor any great aesthetic impulse: there was no sublime architecture, no sacred dances, no ritual of any kind. We moved in a swarm, intent on accomplishing one thing—to make life easy. The great bridges, the great dams, the great skyscrapers left me cold. Only Nature could instill a sense of awe. And we were defacing Nature at every turn. As many times as I struck out to scour the land, I always came back empty-handed. Nothing new, nothing bizarre, nothing exotic. Worse, nothing to bow down before, nothing to reverence. Alone in a land where every one was hopping about like mad. What I craved was to worship and adore. What I needed were companions who felt the same way. But there was nothing to worship or adore, there were no companions of like spirit. There was only a wilderness of steel and iron, of stocks and bonds, of crops and produce, of factories, mills and lumber yards, a wilderness of boredom, of useless utilities, of loveless love…

18.

A few days later. A telephone call from MacGregor. You know what, Hen? No, what?

She’s coming round. All on her own too. Don’t know what’s come over her. You didn’t go to see her, did you?

No. In fact I’ve hardly had a chance to think about her.

You bastard! But you brought me luck, just the same. Or rather your pictures did. Yeah, those Japanese prints you had on your wall. I went and bought a couple, beautifully framed, and I sent them to her. Next day I get a telephone call. She was all excited. Said they were just what she always longed for. I told her that it was from you I got the inspiration. She pricked up her ears. Surprised, I guess, that I had a friend who cared anything about art. Now she wants to meet you. I said you were a busy man, but I’d call you and see if we could come to your place some evening. A queer girl, what? Anyway, this is your chance to fix things for me. Throw a lot of books around, will you? You know, the kind I never read. She’s a school teacher, remember. Books mean something to her … Well, what do you say? Aren’t you happy? Say something!

I think it’s marvelous. Watch out, or you’ll be marrying again.

Nothing would make me happier. But I have to go easy. You can’t rush her. Not her! It’s like moving a stone wall.

Silence for a moment. Then—Are you there, Hen?

Sure, I’m listening.

I’d like to get a little dope from you before I see you … before I bring Guelda, I mean. Just a few facts about painters and paintings. You know me, I never bothered to brush up on that stuff. For instance, Hen, what about Breughel—was he one of the very great? Seems to me I’ve seen his stuff before—in frame stores and book shops. That one you have, with the peasant ploughing the field … he’s up on a cliff, I seem to remember, and there’s something falling from the sky … a man maybe … heading straight for the ocean. You know the one. What’s it called?