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to raise the window。 The huge air…conditioner occupied the bottom half of the window； and the top half of the window was nailed shut； with rusty red paint covering the nailheads。 But there was an overhead fan； and the switch still worked。 The fan； with wobbly two…foot blades； turned lazily in the high ceiling。 The room was still close； so I unlocked the door； and kept it ajar with an old…fashioned brass hook…and…eye attachment that held the door cracked open for approximately four inches。 No one could see in from the corridor and within minutes the room was perfectly fortable with just enough fresh air ing in from the hallway to be gently wafted about by the slow and not unpleasantly creaking overhead fan。
An hour later I was still physically fortable。 I had smoked three Kools。 I was still staring at the virgin canvas； and realized； finally； that I was unable to paint an original Debierue painting。 Not even if I sat there for four straight hours every day 。 。 。
2
My eyes； bright and alert； stared at the blank； shining canvas； and my stout heart； stepped up slightly； if inaudibly； from the depressing uppityness of two nugatory bennies； pumped willing blood to my even more willing fingers。 I had forgotten； for two wasted hours； the hardlearned lesson of our times。 In this； the Age of Specialization； where we can only point to Hugh Hefner or； wilder yet； to the early Marlon Brando as our contemporary 〃Renaissance Men；〃 I had tackled my problem ass…backwards。
I was a writer confined by choice but still confined to contemporary art…writing about it； not painting it。 I could wield a paintbrush； of course； passably。 I had learned to paint in college studio courses before going on to my higher calling； in the same way that a man who wants to bee a brigadier general and mand an Air Force wing must first learn how to fly an airplane。 The general does not have to be a superior pilot to mand a wing； but he attains his position because； as an ex… or now part…time pilot； he understands the daily flight problems of the pilots under his mand。 The system doesn't work very well； of course； because the man who wants to fly an Air Force jet； and plans his career accordingly； seldom enters that active occupation with the preconceived plan of ending up some day at a desk where he rarely flies。 The 〃hot〃 pilot does not make a good paper…shuffling general because the makeup of a man who wants to fly does not include a love of administration； writing letters； and enforcing discipline。
I had learned how to paint because I had to learn the problems confronting painters； and I had taught college students because that was what I had to do to survive as an art historian。 But in my secret heart I had intended to bee an art critic from the very beginning。 And although my major passion was contemporary art； during my year in Europe I had grimly made my rounds in the Louvre； in Florence； in Rome； tramping dutifully through ancient galleries because I knew that I had to examine the art of the past to understand the art of the present。
I was a writer； not a painter； and a writer gets his ideas from a blank piece of paper； not from a blank piece of canvas。 I moved my chair to the desk and my typewriter and immediately started to write。
This is the way it works。 The contemporary painter approaches his canvas without an idea （in most cases）； fools around with charcoal； experimenting with lines and forms； filling in here； using a shaping thumb； perhaps； to add some depth to a form that is beginning to interest him； and sooner or later he sees something。 The painting develops into a position and he pletes it。 His subconscious takes over； and the pleted painting may turn out well or； more often than not； like most writing； turn out badly。 Even when the painter begins with an idea of some kind his subconscious takes over the painting once he starts working on it。 The same theory essentially； holds true for the writer。 A man paints or writes both consciously and subconsciously beginning with； at most； a few relevant mental notes。
So once I sat at my typewriter； the article began to take shape。 One idea led quickly to another。 It was an inspired piece of work； because it was morally right to write it。 My honor and Debierue's were both at stake。 And yet； although it was in some respects easy to write； it was one of the most difficult pieces I had ever written because of the fictional elements it contained。
My creative talents flagged when it came to describing the pictures Debierue had failed to paint； although； once over this block； it was a simple matter to interpret the paintings because I could visualize them perfectly in my mind's eye。 I was familiar enough with Debierue's background to summarize the historical details of his earlier acplishments。 It was also simple enough to record a tightly edited version of our conversation； with a few embellishments for clarity； and a few bits of profundity for reader interest。 Perhaps there is a little something of the fiction writer inside every professional journalist。
My imaginative powers were strong enough to describe the paintings that I； myself； would have liked to paint if I had had the ability to paint them； but I ran into conceptual difficulties because； at first； I thought I had to describe the paintings that Debierue wanted to paint。 But this was a futile path。 I could not possibly see the world as Debierue did。 And if I was unable to live in his arcane world； I could never verbalize it into visual art。
My predetermined term； 〃American Harvest；〃 for Debierue's so…called American period； provided me with the correlative link I needed to visualize mental pictures I was capable of describing。 I began with red； white； and blue… the colors of France's noble tricolor and our own American flag。 Seeing these three colors on three separate panels I began to rearrange the panels in my mind。 Side by side； in a row； close together； well separated； overlapping； horizontal and vertical with the floor； and scattered throughout a room on three different walls。 But there are four walls to a room。 A fourth panel was required…not for symmetry； because that doesn't matter…but for variety； for the sake of an ordered environment。 Florida。 Sun。 Orange。 An autumnal sun for Debierue's declining years。 Burnt orange。 But not a panel of burnt orange in toto…that would be heresy； because Debierue； even at his great age； was still painting； still creating； still growing。 So the ragged square of burnt orange required a lustrous border of blue to surround the dying sun and to overflow the edges of the rectangle。 Bluebird blue？ Sky blue？ No； not sky nor Dufy blue； because that meant using cobalt oil paint； and cobalt blue； with the passage of years； gradually turns to bluish gray。 Prussian blue； with a haughty whisper of zinc white added to make it bitterly bold。 Besides； right here in this hotel room； I had a full tube of Prussian blue。
Texture？ Tactile quality？ Little if any。 Pure； smooth even colors。
The four paintings； 30〃 x 24〃； were the only paintings Debierue had painted since ing to Florida。 The paintings were for his personal aesthetic satisfaction； to enjoy during the harvest years of his stay in America； and yet they were in keeping with his traditionally established principles of Nihilistic Surrealism。
Every morning when Debierue arose at six A。M。； depending upon his waking mood； he hung one of the red； white； or blue panels next to the permanently centered burnt orange； blue…bordered panel； the painting representing the painter…the painter's 〃self。〃 For the remainder of the day； when he was not engaged in the planning of another （undisclosed to the writer） work of art； he studied and contemplated the two bilateral paintings which reminded him of America's multiple 〃manifest destinies；〃 the plexities of American life in general； and his personal artistic mitment to the new world。
Did he ever awaken in a mood buoyant enough to hang two or perhaps three panels at once alongside the burnt orange panel？
〃No；〃 he said。
I had typed eighteen pages for a total of 4；347 words。 Now that the concept was firmly established； I could have gone on to write another dozen pages of interpretive mentary； but I forced myself to stop with the negative。 Wasn't it about time？ Does every contemporary work of art have to end with an affirmative？ Joyce； with his coda of yesses in Ulysses； Beckett； with the 〃I will go on〃 of his trilogy； and those 1；001 phallically erected obelisks and church spires pointing optimistically toward the heavens…for once； just once； let a negative prevail。
My conclusion was not a lucky accident。 It was a valid； pertinent statement of Debierue's life and art。 Skipping two spaces； I put a 〃…30…〃 to the piece。
I was suddenly tired。 My neck and shoulders were sore and my back ached。 I looked at my watch。 Six o'clock。 There was a plaintive rumble in my hollow stomach。 Except for going into the can three times； I had been at the typewriter for almost six straight hours。 I got up； stretched； rubbed the back of my neck； and walked around the coffee table shaking my hands and fingers above my head to get rid of the numb feeling in my arms。
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