should be further burdened by the consequences of my having chosen a similar profession. How much better it would have been for him if I had embarked on a stable and well-paid career in which personal advancement was based on worth and not on the marketing of a capricious thumbs-up or thumbs-down. A real profession, not the irresponsible prolongation of childhood that is the nature of artistic endeavors. A profession that would bring me swift returns so that I could overlook his failings.
Itâs easy to imagine that my father, always worried about money, wouldnât have wanted me to live with the same fear, and not just because he presumed that if I wasnât in need, I would be less likely to blame him for anything. He knew lifeâs ups and downs: he had gone from being a nearly established artist in his thirties, in the pay of a successful gallery, to a period of drought in which he had to dream up other jobs to survive, and then on to an intrepid rebirth in which, while developing a mature and powerful oeuvre, among the greatest of his generation, and despite his recovered prestige, he hadnât managed to make himself known beyond a small circle of insiders, which translated into respectful but modest reviews each time he had a show, almost no public promotion by important museums, and scanty sales compared with other artists. He knew that in professions like his, either youâre a success or you canât pay the electric bill, and he knew that talent, with few exceptions, isnât what gives you an edge, that itâs other qualities, like luck or the abilityânot so common among the giftedânot to rouse hatred, prejudice, or envy, which doesnât mean being invisible, but does mean being inoffensive to the egos of those who possess only ego and a tiny bit of power; he knew all this and also how devastating it can feel to be undeservedly brushed aside, and he would have preferred that I not run the risk.
Iâm not talking only about material limitations; Iâm talking about obstacles to the satisfaction of the artistâs exposed vanity, about the recognition, necessary recognition, that my father came close enough to touch and that consequently needled him as late as May 2006, when, in an entry in his diary, he put it this way (I quoted part of this earlier, but I canât resist setting it down in its entirety): âSilence since April 6, and now itâs May. I was planning to write something about my state of things but whenever I start, the why? gets to me. Now Iâm listening to old Gilbert Bécaud songs after slopping paint on an 8 à 6 canvas that will go to join all the others that I donât know what to do with [â¦]. I have strange feelings in my stomach and my gut and the tiredness has let up a little.â He goes on for a brief paragraph talking about me, about the peaceâhe saysâthat Iâve brought him lately, and he continues: âTo paint is to make something that didnât exist before. It isnât to erase or to forget; itâs to make and to live, so I plan to keep doing it. The paint on this canvas will turn into something that even I canât know; everything will evolve until a certain something appears that demands my recognition and acceptance.â
It moves me to imagine my father, sick by now, writing this entry in his diary. Alone in his studio, trying to âmake something that didnât exist before,â something provocative and suggestive out of some splotches on a canvas. It moves me that he still had the strength not to âerase or to forget,â but to âmake and to live.â Whatâs more, it makes me proud. But what do we do with the doubts? What do we do with the feeling that weâve been denied something (or lost it ourselves because in our foolish confidence we let it pass by) that others with less talent enjoy?
Though he may have appreciated my determination and the disdain
Itâs easy to imagine that my father, always worried about money, wouldnât have wanted me to live with the same fear, and not just because he presumed that if I wasnât in need, I would be less likely to blame him for anything. He knew lifeâs ups and downs: he had gone from being a nearly established artist in his thirties, in the pay of a successful gallery, to a period of drought in which he had to dream up other jobs to survive, and then on to an intrepid rebirth in which, while developing a mature and powerful oeuvre, among the greatest of his generation, and despite his recovered prestige, he hadnât managed to make himself known beyond a small circle of insiders, which translated into respectful but modest reviews each time he had a show, almost no public promotion by important museums, and scanty sales compared with other artists. He knew that in professions like his, either youâre a success or you canât pay the electric bill, and he knew that talent, with few exceptions, isnât what gives you an edge, that itâs other qualities, like luck or the abilityânot so common among the giftedânot to rouse hatred, prejudice, or envy, which doesnât mean being invisible, but does mean being inoffensive to the egos of those who possess only ego and a tiny bit of power; he knew all this and also how devastating it can feel to be undeservedly brushed aside, and he would have preferred that I not run the risk.
Iâm not talking only about material limitations; Iâm talking about obstacles to the satisfaction of the artistâs exposed vanity, about the recognition, necessary recognition, that my father came close enough to touch and that consequently needled him as late as May 2006, when, in an entry in his diary, he put it this way (I quoted part of this earlier, but I canât resist setting it down in its entirety): âSilence since April 6, and now itâs May. I was planning to write something about my state of things but whenever I start, the why? gets to me. Now Iâm listening to old Gilbert Bécaud songs after slopping paint on an 8 à 6 canvas that will go to join all the others that I donât know what to do with [â¦]. I have strange feelings in my stomach and my gut and the tiredness has let up a little.â He goes on for a brief paragraph talking about me, about the peaceâhe saysâthat Iâve brought him lately, and he continues: âTo paint is to make something that didnât exist before. It isnât to erase or to forget; itâs to make and to live, so I plan to keep doing it. The paint on this canvas will turn into something that even I canât know; everything will evolve until a certain something appears that demands my recognition and acceptance.â
It moves me to imagine my father, sick by now, writing this entry in his diary. Alone in his studio, trying to âmake something that didnât exist before,â something provocative and suggestive out of some splotches on a canvas. It moves me that he still had the strength not to âerase or to forget,â but to âmake and to live.â Whatâs more, it makes me proud. But what do we do with the doubts? What do we do with the feeling that weâve been denied something (or lost it ourselves because in our foolish confidence we let it pass by) that others with less talent enjoy?
Though he may have appreciated my determination and the disdain
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