Jack Livings - The Blizzard Party

Perhaps it was the rum, perhaps it was the only sane response, but she said, That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

The man, his eyes still trained on the painting, said, Well, stick around, because I’m just getting started. He unzipped his coat and dug around inside until he’d located a pack of Camels. He shook them and presented to her the extended finger of a filter, which she waved off. Without remark, he brought the packet to his mouth and caught the cigarette with his lips, replaced the packet, lit the cigarette, and dropped the match to the floor, where it sizzled in his boot puddle. All the while, studying the painting as though it were a plaque affixed to a building in a foreign city, written in a language he didn’t speak. He leaned closer, exhaled smoke, squinted, flexed his teeth.

See this patch here? He waved the cigarette. Indecision. Couldn’t figure out whether to let the blue dominate or soften it with white, and what she ends up with is this purple morass, but instead of painting over it there’s this little wedge of red over here, and it looks like an accident but it’s a lifeboat. It keeps that purple from bringing down the whole painting. She left that mark of confusion in on purpose. It’s pretty bold to leave the question mark right there for everyone to see.

What? my mother thought. Um, she said.

No, you’re absolutely right. A stupid criticism. The indecision is what makes the painting. The rest of the painting’s smoke, and there’s the fire, right there.

Could be, my mother said.

Ah well. Nice knowing you, Joan Mitchell, the man said to the painting. For the first time since they’d been talking he looked away from the canvas. I tell you another thing, he said. I had a painting like this, I’d put it in a room with a chair in front of it, and I’d close the door and watch it move in the light.

Would you? my mother said, taking a sip and crossing her arms.

You better believe it. Having it out here where you pass it on the way to the can? Philistines.

You and my husband would get along just fine.

No philistine, he?

Oh no, he’s definitely a philistine. Just one with a chip on his shoulder.

She painted this last year, the man said. She asks me if I want it. I can’t decide—it’s that purple, you know. I didn’t understand it then, but it’s the purple that put me off. I bought another one instead.

You have that one locked up in a room with a chair?

I use it as a dartboard. I tape Bo’s photo to it and… It’s nothing compared to this one. He looked back at the painting. You probably think I only want it because I can’t have it. But this really is the superior painting. It might be the superior painting. And I’ve got four Rothkos.

Oh, be still my beating heart.

This one is better, is all I’m saying.

Hm, my mother said.

You don’t go in for rankings. I get it. I don’t agree with you, but I get it. You think you can’t rank art like you can’t rank your children, right? Something like that? Lies we tell ourselves. You can line them up one to ten, and you do. You’re just lying to yourself if you say you don’t.

Spoken like a man with too many Rothkos.

And too many kids. I’m not saying the Rothkos aren’t sublime, I’m just saying that I know which canvas goes with me when I wake up and smell smoke, and it ain’t one of the Rothkos.

Is this before or after you get your kids out?

Ah, they can take care of themselves. I don’t need them all, anyway.

That’s why you order in bulk.

They eat everything, you know? They eat everything in the cabinets and then they eat the cabinet doors, and then they start gnawing on the furniture.

I only have one.

Consider yourself blessed. You know, he said, you’re going to crack a tooth doing that.

Yeah, yeah, she said around an ice cube. You know what they say.

That it’s a sign of intelligence?

Right.

He looked back at the painting. I would never put good art out in the—what is this? The forum—

Foyer.

Yeah. I might be a philistine, but I’m not a philistine like this philistine, he said, jerking his thumb in the general direction of the party. Even worse, he’d never even know who she was if I hadn’t introduced them while we were over there.

There being Paris?

Paris. Paris. Yes. Bo never would have left the hotel. I had to drag him to the Louvre. Then I drag him to the Centre Pompidou. Then I drag him to her studio. It’s wall-to-wall canvases; they’re on the floor, they’re everywhere, and he’s whispering to me about how it’s all finger painting. We leave, and do you know what he says? Was that smell her or the dogs? Can you believe this guy? Next thing I know, this.

The man pointed at the canvas. Bastard was playing me, he said. He knew exactly who Mitchell was. He knew exactly what he was looking at. I love him to death but what a complete piece of shit he is.

I thought I detected the odor of sulfur, said a voice behind my mother.

Speak his name and he appears, yea verily, the man said.

Hello, Sarah, Bo said, hand on shoulder, kiss on cheek. I see you’ve met the esteemed Doctor Jonas Salk.

Yeah, said the man. He extended his hand to my mother. Neil. Neil Ford.

I had no idea you were out, Bo said. I’d heard syphilis was three months, but god bless you, looks like they cured you in two.

Entirely based on advances they made treating you, Neil said. Said they’d never seen anything like it. Pushed the absolute limits of scientific knowledge.

He hasn’t tried to rape you, has he? Bo said to my mother.

Only a little, she said.

Well, he was passed around like an old sock at Sing Sing, so it’s not entirely his fault.

How Christian of you to vouch for him, my mother said.

Sarah Saltwater, Bo said to Neil.

I know, he said, prompting my mother to raise an eyebrow. Hey, what? he said. I know good work.

I guess you do, she said.

All right, Ford, let her loose, Bo said. She’s got better places to be. I heard there’s a bris around the corner. And didn’t you see the sign outside? No boots and coats in here. Bad dog.

You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving my stuff out there, Neil said, pointing at the door.

Gentlemen, a pleasure, my mother said. And in a way, it had been. She headed off in the direction of the bedrooms. She was aware of their silence as she went, the fact that they were watching her, probably staring at her ass, and just before she turned into the hallway she casually flipped them off over her shoulder.

She knows Joan Baez, Bo said.

No shit, Neil said.

She’s older than she looks.

Baez?

Sarah.

Okay, Neil said.

Husband’s a complete fucking weirdo. I can’t figure it out. We had them out to the house over the weekend and among other things he obliterates a tray of my grandfather’s crystal tumblers, wandering around in the middle of the night, wakes up the whole house.

I heard he’s a drunk.

Drinker, not a drunk. Said he was looking for a pencil because he didn’t want to disturb anyone with his typewriter. He makes me nervous. Just a weird weekend. Sarah was trying to talk Jane into buying one of her paintings.

Did she go for it? Neil said.

Nah. Don’t mix business and friendship.

Rookie mistake. She’s a good painter, Neil said. I might know someone who’s in the market.

Don’t do it, Bo said. She’s not like that.

I’m not doing anything. I’m not going to buy it. When I say I know someone I mean I know someone.

Client? Bo said.

Yeah, Neil said.

You like the painting? Bo said, nodding at the wall.

What painting? Where?

I put it up. Just. For. You, Bo said, tagging him on the nose with his index finger.