Sometimes, alone in the apartment, unable to work, Polly gave herself up to storms of dizzying rage: cursing, smashing of glass, scalding, angry tears — all of them echoed, as July baked into August, and Elsa went on vacation, by bad summer weather: thunder and sheet lightning and a hot dust-laden breeze that didn’t clear the air. But in the end it was her rage that saved Polly from despair. In the temper she had tried so hard to control for years she found her strength. Goddamn it, she had reason to be angry. Goddamn this world, goddamn Jim Meyer. It was then, on a hot thundery evening, alone in the apartment after having refused for the second time to meet the husband of a friend for “lunch,” that she resolved to stop trying to please men.
The good effects of this decision were immediate. For one thing, it was a relief to stop searching faces at parties and openings to see if, maybe, here was someone interesting and unattached — (There never was, anyhow.) It was a relief to give up distorting her face and body: to eat whatever the hell she liked; to throw away the fashionable pointed shoes that hurt, and the tubes and bottles of colored grease and soot with which, though she’d called herself a feminist, she had continued to paint her face.
Over a few weeks Polly’s whole appearance changed, or rather changed back. In school and college everyone had called her “cute”: she was small and sturdy, with a solid rounded figure. She had thick untidy short curls, a naturally high color, big light-brown eyes, and a lively, sensual, puppy-dog expression. Now this self reappeared, not much the worse for wear. She strode purposefully on flat heels, stopped shaving her legs, never went to the hairdresser, and made no further effort to starve herself into thinness. Men on the street still gave her warm, interested looks, but she ignored them. She wasn’t ready to go out with anybody yet; maybe she would never be ready. Maybe that side of her life was over.
Last month, in their final session, Elsa had suggested that eventually she would be able to relate positively to men again. But Polly wasn’t counting on it. Even if she did meet a man who seemed possible, it wouldn’t be any use. If she couldn’t trust Jim, what man could be trusted? In the end no good had ever come to her from them, unless you count erotic pleasure. And Polly suspected now that erotic pleasure was the bait to a trap, a way to get the squirrel into the cage so that it — or rather, she — could spend the rest of her life running around a wire treadmill, breathless with love and fear.
PAOLO CARDUCCI,
owner and director of the Apollo Gallery, New York, Lorin Jones’s former dealer
Yes, in nineteen-fifty-four. She had two little oils in our Christmas group show that year, as you say.
Both of them sold quite soon. Of course, as an unknown, her prices were minuscule. But I think it did give her considerable encouragement.
Through Garrett, yes. Though naturally, if I hadn’t seen something interesting in her work, that would have made not the slightest difference.
Well, it’s hard to say. These intuitions are so very private and intangible. But I was correct, you see, wasn’t I?
Two watercolors and a large oil in nineteen-fifty-seven? I imagine that’s right. But I’ll ask Jacky Herbert, my assistant, to check our files and give you all the details.
Yes, I think you could say that both the one-woman shows were successful.
I don’t believe everything was sold, no. But on balance we did rather well. But again, you can get the data from Jacky.
That’s a rather difficult question. Perhaps it’s best to say that I didn’t feel she was ready for another exposure yet.
No, it wasn’t exactly a matter of her not having enough paintings on hand.
Very well, to be frank with you, yes. As Garrett says, there was a definite falling-off in the quality of her work. And a gallery like this has a reputation to maintain, you must realize.
It’s hard to answer that. I think what I saw was a certain confusion, a lack of control, a series of experiments that didn’t seem to be going anywhere.
Of course, it might have been temporary, but unfortunately —
Naturally, you have a right to your opinion. But I believe it’s generally agreed that those late paintings —
How do I explain it? Well, I’m afraid it’s something one occasionally sees in an artist’s work. There is a brilliant debut, but no staying power. Take, for example ...
Yes, to tell the truth, I do think that it happens more often with the women.
No. As a matter of fact, in my honest opinion, there’s never been a woman artist of the very first rank.
Certainly, Cassatt did some rather fine things. But even her best work is a bit derivative, isn’t it? And when you compare her to her contemporaries, her masters: Manet, Renoir. Well, now, really —
O’Keeffe? Yes, she’s very popular just now. And of course she was a remarkable personality. But just between us, Miss Alter, isn’t there something a little forced there, a little slick? Those smooth flat surfaces, those creamy pastels; rather like the American advertising art of the thirties, I’ve always thought.
No, I was very glad to show Lorin’s work. She had a definite talent, and her paintings were accessible. A dealer can’t always fill his gallery with masterpieces, you know.
Well of course there are many anomalies in nature. I wouldn’t want to predict that there never will be one. But essentially I think it goes against the grain. It is the same in music and the theater. Women have been magnificent performers, oh yes. Singers, concert artists, dancers, actresses; because it is natural for the woman to display herself. But as composers, or dramatists — well, you know as well as I do —
In literature, yes, to some extent. But then a novel or a poem is a kind of performance, is it not? And even so, the highest level of achievement is very rare. You see, it goes against the grain. A real woman, like my wife, she doesn’t have the impulse to create works of art; she is a work of art.
Yes, I have heard that argument.
Please, don’t mistake me. I said nothing about critics; women have excelled at criticism for centuries, unfortunately.
If you want to believe that, of course it is your privilege.
I really can’t answer that question, I’m afraid.
I have no idea; and I do not sit here to listen to insults of my profession.
All right, Miss Alter, you are sorry; very well. But excuse me, I don’t give you any more time now. I’m expecting a client.
I suppose you could try calling my secretary next week. She may be able to set up another appointment.
2
TWO WEEKS LATER, IN one of those West Village bistros that strive to resemble a country-house garden, with sandblasted brick walls, rough scrubbed pine chairs and tables, and rampant ivy and pink geraniums, Polly sat opposite Lorin Jones’s half brother, Professor Leonard Zimmern. It was the first time in months that she’d been alone in a restaurant with a man, and not her own idea. She had proposed interviewing Zimmern in his office at the university, but he had refused, saying that there would be too many damn interruptions. Maybe so, but it would have been more professional.
From her dealings with him at the time of the show, “Three American Women,” Polly knew Lennie Zimmern to be a difficult person, moody and given to cutting remarks. He was tall and thin, with a short pointed gray beard like a man in an Elizabethan miniature, theatrical dark eyebrows, strongly marked features, and a sharp, ironic expression. So far today he had been agreeable enough; but why the hell shouldn’t he be? He was Lorin Jones’s nearest surviving relative, and the owner of all her unsold paintings; it was in his interest that they should become better known and therefore more and more marketable.