William Bayer - Blind Side

The Duquayne loft took up an entire floor of a castiron building on Spring Street. The moment we entered I was struck by its luxury: chairs and sofas upholstered in glove-soft leather, and superbly lit large-scale contemporary paintings on the walls. I counted a Schnabel, a Fischl, a Bacon and a very good Kitaj. There was also a collection of framed photographs, vintage prints by Arbus, Outerbridge, Mapplethorpe and Man Ray.

Amanda Duquayne greeted us warmly. She and Kimberly embraced like very close friends. Harold Duquayne turned out to be stocky and short. He spoke in a gravelly whisper, and twitched his nostrils the way cocaine users like to do.

The other guests were the distinguished and elderly art critic Philip Treacher; his sluttish student-lover, Ivan somebody; and a husband-wife writing team, specialists in cooking and luxury, whom I recognized from the photo on the front jacket of their book The Good Life: Entertaining with the Vanderkamps. . With the arrival of the soup course, a California version of mulligatawny, the Vanderkamps launched into a vicious attack upon a well-known restaurant critic.

"Have you seen her lately? She must weigh two hundred pounds."

"She loathes salt. She adores desserts."

"We hear she takes bribes. Don't quote us, of course."

"No other explanation when she gives four stars to that fraud Desforges."

Philip Treacher interrupted.

"We ate at Desforges the other night. Thought it was pretty good."

The Vanderkamps exchanged a look.

"He uses bottled Maggi instead of stock."

"I didn't know that," Treacher said.

"He says, 'Zee Americans don't know zee difference."

"All these French chefs-when they come over here they think they're slumming." And meantime," added Mrs. V., "they make carloads of money!"

The Vanderkamps continued to interrupt each other, each vying to make the better bon mot.

"Course they're all hypocrites. Only decent places left to eat are in Chinatown," Mr. V. proclaimed. "Except for a certain divine little Mexican bistro tucked away in Chelsea. We use it as our local canteen."

"What's it called?" I asked. Mr. V. brought his finger to his mouth.

"Can't tell you. Word'Il get out and the place'll be ruined." I looked over at Kim. She smiled and rolled her eyes.

"Well, I like greasy hamburgers," I said.

"And I love greasy anything," Ivan added, turning to Treacher, running his tongue across his upper lip. With the pasta course, borne by a beaming Hispanic woman, the conversation turned to the current art scei about which Harold Duquayne made a little speech, gist of which was that the new painters, the ones still in ,their twenties, had no guts because they had no appetite for money.

"they rebel against my generation by tightening down their scale. The latest fad is to paint small and be trivial. And they try to make a virtue out of being noncompetitive. they call us 'overblown,' say we're consumed by money, fame, rivalry and envy."

"But you are, dear boy!" Treacher said.

Duquayne laughed wickedly.

"Stick it up your ass, Philip. You know more about envy than anyone in the room." He turned to me. "What do you think, Barnett?""

"I think you've got a point," I said, not wanting to tangle with the little tyrant.

Isn't it the same in photography? The way the level of ambition keeps dropping? Just wait-in a couple of years you'll be grateful for anything that isn't a Polaroid."

"I noticed your collection," I said.

"Who do you like in photography?"

"No one. I detest photography. I collect only for investment. No tactile experience. Everything's glossy and small. to me the talent of Arbus was in finding all those freaks. Then it was just stick it in their faces and 'Pretty for the picture!'

He was taunting me. I glanced again at Kim, who encouraged me with a nod. When I turned back to Duquayne and saw his smirk, I decided to take him on.

"If it weren't for photography," I told him, "you wouldn't have anything to paint."

He flushed.

"What the hell're you talking about?"

"All those little scenes you blow up so big-the girl mashing down the lever of the toaster, the father barbecuing hot dogs on the patio. You got those images from print ads in magazines. In other words-photographs."

For a moment he looked stunned. Then he said, "But look what I do with them."

"You gussy them up with ideas you got from looking at photographs of Greek and Russian icons."

"Well said, lad." Philip Treacher beamed. He and Ivan were holding hands.

"I think you're being a little hard on my husband, Mr. Barnett." We all turned. Amanda had been quiet till then.

"Well, isn't that the essence of New York?" I said.

"We warm up tearing into the latest eateries, then go on to tearing up each other?"

"Hey! That's it, man!" Duquayne liked me now.

"You're okay. Glad you could come. When Kimberly called and said she had this photographer friend-we didn't know what to expect."

"Kimberly has brought around some of the oddest men," Amanda said. She smiled at Kim.

"Haven t you, dear?"

"Guess that depends on what you mean by odd. they always seemed to fit in here," Kim said. Something about the way she and Amanda smiled at each other suggested an undercurrent, some kind of complicity.

With the main course, a platter of rabbit sausage and al dente vegetables, the conversation turned back to painting. Big sums of money were mentioned, gallery owners' seductions were analyzed, collectors were mocked, and half a dozen major artists were exposed as frauds. With the salad we dissected some current films, and with dessert the subject returned to food, a discussion again dominated by the Vanderkamps, who decreed that no matter what famous restaurant one went to in New York, one was doomed to disappointment.

Outside the air was sticky and thick. Kim and I quarreled the moment we hit the street.

"How do you know such people?"

"Harold and Amanda-I think they're kind of cute."

"Yeah. Like a couple of vipers."

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself."

"How do you know them anyway?"

"I just know them, okay?" Her forehead was glossy.

"What's the matter, Geoffrey?"

"It was a wasted evening."

"Why use that word?"

"Their unearned opinions, clever put-downs. I hated the whole thing. Everyone was repulsive."

"Maybe they were. But why do you have to be so sour all the time?"

"You said that to me once before."

She glared at me.

"And now it seems we have the proof. I was offended. I knew she was right, but I didn't want to hear it.

"Maybe we're seeing too much of each other," she said.

"Maybe we need a little rest."

"I'm sorry you feel that way. Until just now I thought we were getting along pretty well."

"Did you?" She gave me a withering look, then stepped into the street and raised her hand to flag a cab.

"Hey! Wait! Not so fast!"

"No, Geoffrey. I think we need a break." The cab pulled up. She opened the door.

"Time I slept in my own apartment for a change….

She got in the cab and slammed the door. Then she looked straight ahead. I called to her, but she wouldn't turn. When the light changed, the cab sped uptown. I stood watching until it disappeared.

I couldn't sleep that night. I missed her. I hadn't expected her to walk away. For a long time I'd lived alone, reclusive, turned inward, in a kind of somnambulant state. Then she came into my life and I woke up again. Now, alone in my bed, I felt frightened of slipping back.

I got up at 3:00 A.M., dressed, packed my tripod and Deardorff, and went out to prowl the streets. The air was dense, still and humid. Within minutes my clothes were soaked.

I never got around to setting up my equipment, just roamed and felt the city's emptiness. Around 4:00, I wandered over to Desbrosses to find that stretch of wall where she and I had met. The phone booth on the corner was empty as a coffin, Lil's was closed, and there was no one around. The figure in the shadow painting looked as if he'd just been executed. I stared at him, felt wretched about myself. Then, without taking a single photograph, I shuffled my way back home.