that?"
"Not fit to show," I said.
"Ruin the old career because the little girls would scream 'Eeek, a mouse!'"
"You know much about painting?" I asked her.
"Probably more than you think," she said with a little teenage bravado. Just a tiny crack in the adult poise. Subtle lift to her baby-soft chin as she exhaled the smoke. "Oh, yeah?"
"Grew up in the Prado for starters," she said. "Used to go there every day with my nurse, practically memorized Hieronymus Bosch. Spent a couple of summers in Florence with a Nanny who didn't want to do anything but go to the Uffizi."
"And you liked it?"
"Loved it. Loved the Vatican, too. When I was ten, I used to hang out at the Jeu de Paume in Paris. I'd rather go there or the Pompidou than go to the movies. I was sick of the movies. Damned sick of the movies. When I was in London, it was the Tate and the British Museum. I've put in my time on capital A art."
"Pretty impressive," I said.
We were making all the green lights, and the sad, faded Victorians were giving our now to the restored mansions of the Marina. Ahead was the sight that never fails to stun me, the distant mountains of Marin under a perfect sky, cradling the brilliantly blue water of San Francisco Bay.
"All I'm trying to say is, I'm no Valley girl who can't tell a Mondrian from a place mat."
I broke up. "That puts you ahead of me," I said, "by a long way. I don't know what the hell to think about abstract art. I never did."
"You're a primitive, you know it?" she said. "A primitive who knows how to draw. But back to the roach and rat paintings-"
"You sound like Newsweek magazine," I said. "And you're hurting my feelings. Little girls shouldn't do that to old men."
"Did Newsweek really say that?"
"Newsweek and Time and Artforum and Artweek and Art in America and Vogue and Vanity Fair. And God knows who else, and now even the love of my life."
She gave me a little polite laugh.
"And let me tell you something else," I said. "I don't understand Andy Blatky's sculptures anymore than I do Mondrian. So don't get me into any over-hearable discussions in the gallery. I'll make a fool of myself. Abstract art is just plain over my head."
She laughed in a sweet genuine way, but she was definitely surprised by what I was saying. Then she said:
"Soon as I've had a look around the gallery, I'll answer any questions you might have."
"Thanks, I knew I was a good judge of character. I can spot a girl who's made the grand tour when I see one. And I bet you thought it was your charm."
Union Street was bustling with the usual sunny day expensive shopping crowd. Florists, gift shops, ice cream parlors swam with well-heeled tourists and locals. This was the place to buy a silk-screened hand towel, every brand of semisoft cheese known to the Western world, a painted egg. Even the corner grocery had turned its fruits and vegetables into artifacts, heaping them into pyramids in baskets. The fern bars and the outside caf6s were packed.
The gallery doors were open. People blocked the busy sidewalk-usual mixture of the bohemian and the well to do complete with the inevitable plastic glasses of white wine. I slowed, looking for a parking space.
"OK," she said, tapping my arm. "I've done the grand tour and I know the territory. Now back to the rat and roach paintings. Why are they locked up?"
"All right. The stuff looks good, but it lacks something," I said. "It's an easy kind of ugliness. The pictures don't mean like my books mean." She didn't say anything right away.
"It's seductive, but it isn't finished, and if you look at it more clearly, you'll see that I'm right."
"It's not just seductive, Jeremy, it's more interesting," she said.
I had spotted a parking spot right on Union. Now the trick was to get into it. She was silent while I pulled up, then back, then angled, slamming the bumper in front of me only twice.
I turned off the ignition. I was aware that I felt very uncomfortable. "That is not true," I said.
"Jeremy," she
"Not fit to show," I said.
"Ruin the old career because the little girls would scream 'Eeek, a mouse!'"
"You know much about painting?" I asked her.
"Probably more than you think," she said with a little teenage bravado. Just a tiny crack in the adult poise. Subtle lift to her baby-soft chin as she exhaled the smoke. "Oh, yeah?"
"Grew up in the Prado for starters," she said. "Used to go there every day with my nurse, practically memorized Hieronymus Bosch. Spent a couple of summers in Florence with a Nanny who didn't want to do anything but go to the Uffizi."
"And you liked it?"
"Loved it. Loved the Vatican, too. When I was ten, I used to hang out at the Jeu de Paume in Paris. I'd rather go there or the Pompidou than go to the movies. I was sick of the movies. Damned sick of the movies. When I was in London, it was the Tate and the British Museum. I've put in my time on capital A art."
"Pretty impressive," I said.
We were making all the green lights, and the sad, faded Victorians were giving our now to the restored mansions of the Marina. Ahead was the sight that never fails to stun me, the distant mountains of Marin under a perfect sky, cradling the brilliantly blue water of San Francisco Bay.
"All I'm trying to say is, I'm no Valley girl who can't tell a Mondrian from a place mat."
I broke up. "That puts you ahead of me," I said, "by a long way. I don't know what the hell to think about abstract art. I never did."
"You're a primitive, you know it?" she said. "A primitive who knows how to draw. But back to the roach and rat paintings-"
"You sound like Newsweek magazine," I said. "And you're hurting my feelings. Little girls shouldn't do that to old men."
"Did Newsweek really say that?"
"Newsweek and Time and Artforum and Artweek and Art in America and Vogue and Vanity Fair. And God knows who else, and now even the love of my life."
She gave me a little polite laugh.
"And let me tell you something else," I said. "I don't understand Andy Blatky's sculptures anymore than I do Mondrian. So don't get me into any over-hearable discussions in the gallery. I'll make a fool of myself. Abstract art is just plain over my head."
She laughed in a sweet genuine way, but she was definitely surprised by what I was saying. Then she said:
"Soon as I've had a look around the gallery, I'll answer any questions you might have."
"Thanks, I knew I was a good judge of character. I can spot a girl who's made the grand tour when I see one. And I bet you thought it was your charm."
Union Street was bustling with the usual sunny day expensive shopping crowd. Florists, gift shops, ice cream parlors swam with well-heeled tourists and locals. This was the place to buy a silk-screened hand towel, every brand of semisoft cheese known to the Western world, a painted egg. Even the corner grocery had turned its fruits and vegetables into artifacts, heaping them into pyramids in baskets. The fern bars and the outside caf6s were packed.
The gallery doors were open. People blocked the busy sidewalk-usual mixture of the bohemian and the well to do complete with the inevitable plastic glasses of white wine. I slowed, looking for a parking space.
"OK," she said, tapping my arm. "I've done the grand tour and I know the territory. Now back to the rat and roach paintings. Why are they locked up?"
"All right. The stuff looks good, but it lacks something," I said. "It's an easy kind of ugliness. The pictures don't mean like my books mean." She didn't say anything right away.
"It's seductive, but it isn't finished, and if you look at it more clearly, you'll see that I'm right."
"It's not just seductive, Jeremy, it's more interesting," she said.
I had spotted a parking spot right on Union. Now the trick was to get into it. She was silent while I pulled up, then back, then angled, slamming the bumper in front of me only twice.
I turned off the ignition. I was aware that I felt very uncomfortable. "That is not true," I said.
"Jeremy," she
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