always happened after someonehad attacked his painting, or claimed some overdue debt.
So Jay drank Pernod and explained: “I’m like Buddha who chose to live in poverty. I abandoned my
first wife and child for a religious life. I now depend on the bowl of rice
given to me by my followers.”
“What do you teach?” asked a young man who was
not susceptible to the contagion of Jay’s gaiety.
“A life from which all suffering is absent.”
But to the onlooker who saw them together,
Lillian, ever alert to deflect the blows which might strike at him, it seemed
much more as if Jay had merely unburdened all sadnesses upon her rather than as if he had found a secret for eliminating them
altogether. His disciples inevitably discovered they, too, must find themselves
a Lillian to achieve his way of life.
“I’m no teacher,” said Jay. “I’m just a happy
man. I can’t explain how I arr his entirt such a state.” He pounded his chest with delight.
“Give me a bowl of rice and I will make you as joyous as I am.”
This always brought an invitation to dinner.
“Nothing to worry about,” he always said to
Lillian. “Someone will always invite me to dinner.”
In return for the dinner Jay took them on a
guided tour of his way of life. Whoever did not catch his mood could go
overboard. He was no initiator. Let others learn by osmosis!
But this was only one of his self-portraits.
There were other days when he did not like to present himself as a laughing man
who communicated irresponsibility and guiltlessness, but as the great
barbarian. In this mood he exulted the warrior, the invaders, the pillagers,
the rapers . He believed in violence. He saw himself
as Attila avenging the impurities of the world by bloodshed. He saw his
paintings then as a kind of bomb.
As he talked he became irritated with the young
man who had asked him what he taught, for Jay noticed that he walked back and
forth constantly but not the whole length of the studio. He would take five
long steps, stop mechanically, and turn back like an automaton. The nervous
compulsion disturbed Jay and he stopped him: “I wish you’d sit down.”
“Excuse me, I’m really sorry,” he said,
stopping dead. A look of anxiety came to his face. “You see, I’ve just come out
of jail. In jail I could only walk five steps, no more. Now when I’m in a large
room, it disturbs me. I want to explore it, familiarize myself with it, at the
same time I feel compelled to walk no further.”
“You make me think of a friend I had,” said
Jay, “who was very poor and a damned good painter and of the way he escaped
from his narrow life. He was living at the Impasse Rouet ,
and as you know probably, that’s the last step before you land at the Hospital,
the Insane Asylum or the Cemetery. He lived in one of those houses set far back
into a courtyard, full of studios as bare as cells. There was no heat in the
house and most of the windows were cracked and let the wind blow through. Those
who owned stoves, for the most part, didn’t own any coal. Peter’s studio had an
additional anomaly: it had no windows, only a transom. The door opened directly
on the courtyard. He had no stove, a cot whose springs showed through the gored
mattress. No sheets, and only one old blanket. No doorbell, of course. No
electricity, as he couldn’t pay the bill. He used candles, and when he had no
money for candles he got fat from the butcher and burnt it. The concierge was
like an old octopus, reaching everywhere at once with her man’s voice and
inquisitive whiskers. Peter was threatened with eviction when he hit upon an
idea. Every year, as you know, foreign governments issued prizes for the best
painting, the best sculpture. Peter got one of the descriptive pamphlets from
the Dutch embassy where he had a friend. He brought it to the concierge and
read it to her, then explained: Fact one: he was the only Dutch painter in
Paris. Fact two: a prize would be given to the best painting
So Jay drank Pernod and explained: “I’m like Buddha who chose to live in poverty. I abandoned my
first wife and child for a religious life. I now depend on the bowl of rice
given to me by my followers.”
“What do you teach?” asked a young man who was
not susceptible to the contagion of Jay’s gaiety.
“A life from which all suffering is absent.”
But to the onlooker who saw them together,
Lillian, ever alert to deflect the blows which might strike at him, it seemed
much more as if Jay had merely unburdened all sadnesses upon her rather than as if he had found a secret for eliminating them
altogether. His disciples inevitably discovered they, too, must find themselves
a Lillian to achieve his way of life.
“I’m no teacher,” said Jay. “I’m just a happy
man. I can’t explain how I arr his entirt such a state.” He pounded his chest with delight.
“Give me a bowl of rice and I will make you as joyous as I am.”
This always brought an invitation to dinner.
“Nothing to worry about,” he always said to
Lillian. “Someone will always invite me to dinner.”
In return for the dinner Jay took them on a
guided tour of his way of life. Whoever did not catch his mood could go
overboard. He was no initiator. Let others learn by osmosis!
But this was only one of his self-portraits.
There were other days when he did not like to present himself as a laughing man
who communicated irresponsibility and guiltlessness, but as the great
barbarian. In this mood he exulted the warrior, the invaders, the pillagers,
the rapers . He believed in violence. He saw himself
as Attila avenging the impurities of the world by bloodshed. He saw his
paintings then as a kind of bomb.
As he talked he became irritated with the young
man who had asked him what he taught, for Jay noticed that he walked back and
forth constantly but not the whole length of the studio. He would take five
long steps, stop mechanically, and turn back like an automaton. The nervous
compulsion disturbed Jay and he stopped him: “I wish you’d sit down.”
“Excuse me, I’m really sorry,” he said,
stopping dead. A look of anxiety came to his face. “You see, I’ve just come out
of jail. In jail I could only walk five steps, no more. Now when I’m in a large
room, it disturbs me. I want to explore it, familiarize myself with it, at the
same time I feel compelled to walk no further.”
“You make me think of a friend I had,” said
Jay, “who was very poor and a damned good painter and of the way he escaped
from his narrow life. He was living at the Impasse Rouet ,
and as you know probably, that’s the last step before you land at the Hospital,
the Insane Asylum or the Cemetery. He lived in one of those houses set far back
into a courtyard, full of studios as bare as cells. There was no heat in the
house and most of the windows were cracked and let the wind blow through. Those
who owned stoves, for the most part, didn’t own any coal. Peter’s studio had an
additional anomaly: it had no windows, only a transom. The door opened directly
on the courtyard. He had no stove, a cot whose springs showed through the gored
mattress. No sheets, and only one old blanket. No doorbell, of course. No
electricity, as he couldn’t pay the bill. He used candles, and when he had no
money for candles he got fat from the butcher and burnt it. The concierge was
like an old octopus, reaching everywhere at once with her man’s voice and
inquisitive whiskers. Peter was threatened with eviction when he hit upon an
idea. Every year, as you know, foreign governments issued prizes for the best
painting, the best sculpture. Peter got one of the descriptive pamphlets from
the Dutch embassy where he had a friend. He brought it to the concierge and
read it to her, then explained: Fact one: he was the only Dutch painter in
Paris. Fact two: a prize would be given to the best painting
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