what we understand so badly? Morality has a thousand sources and endless means of expression. As for the soul, who understands its mechanism? Remember,
the thief on the cross was the one who rose to heaven with Our Lord.” He coughed at length. “Keep in mind that the girl of her free will chose her calling, not I. She was in it without finesse or proficiency, although she is of course adequate. Her advantage is her youth and a certain directness but she needs advice and managerial assistance. Have you seen the hat she wears? Twice I tried to burn it. Obviously she lacks taste. The same is true for her clothes but she’s very stubborn to deal with. Still, I devote myself to her and manage to improve conditions, for which I receive a modest but necessary commission. Considering the circumstances, how can this be an evil thing? The basis of morality is recognizing one another’s needs and cooperating. Mutual generosity is nothing to criticize other people for. After all, what did Jesus teach?”
Ludovico had removed his hat. He was bald with several gray hairs parted in the center.
He seemed, now, depressed. “You aren’t in love with her, are you, maestro? If so, say the word and I disappear. Love is love, after all. I don’t forget I’m an Italian.”
F thought for a minute.
“Not as yet, I don’t think.”
“In that case I hope you will not interfere with her decision?”
“What decision do you have in mind?”
“As to what she will do after I speak to her.”
“You mean if she decides to leave?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s up to her.”
The pimp ran a relieved hand over his perspiring head and replaced his hat. “The relationship may be momentarily convenient, but for a painter who has his work to think of you’ll be better off without her.”
“I didn’t say I wanted her to go,” said F. “All I said was I wouldn’t interfere with her decision.”
Ludovico bowed. “Ah, you have the objectivity of a true artist.”
On his way out, he tossed aside the alcove curtain with his cane and uncovered F’s painting on the kitchen table.
He seemed at first unable to believe his eyes. Standing back, he had a better look. “Straordinario,” he murmured, kissing his fingertips.
F snatched the canvas, blew off the dust and carefully tucked it behind his bureau.
“It’s work in progress,” he explained. “I don’t like to show it yet.”
“Obviously it will be a very fine painting, one sees that at a glance. What do you call it?”
“‘Mother and Son.’”
“In spirit it’s pure Picasso.”
“Is it?”
“I refer to his remark: ‘You paint not what you see but what you know is there.’”
“That’s right,” F said, his voice husky.
“We all have to learn from the masters. There’s
nothing wrong with trying to do better that which they do best themselves. Thus new masters are born.”
“Thank you.”
“When you finish let me know. I am acquainted with people who are interested in buying fine serious contemporary work. I could get you an excellent price, of course for the usual commission. Anyway, it looks as though you are about to give birth to a painting of extraordinary merit. Permit me to congratulate you on your talent.”
F blushed radiantly.
Esmeralda returned.
Ludovico fell to his knees.
“Go fuck yourself,” she said.
“Ah, signorina, my misfortune is your good luck. Your friend is a superb artist. You can take my word for it.”
How do you paint a Kaddish?
Here’s Momma sitting on the stoop in her cotton housedress, awkward at having her picture taken yet with a dim smile on the dry old snapshot turning yellow that Bessie sent me years ago. Here’s the snap, here’s the painting of the same idea, why can’t I make one out of both? How do you make art of an old photo, so to say? A single of a double image, the one in and the one out?
The painting, 51 x 38, was encrusted in places (her hands and feet) (his face) almost a quarter of an inch
the thief on the cross was the one who rose to heaven with Our Lord.” He coughed at length. “Keep in mind that the girl of her free will chose her calling, not I. She was in it without finesse or proficiency, although she is of course adequate. Her advantage is her youth and a certain directness but she needs advice and managerial assistance. Have you seen the hat she wears? Twice I tried to burn it. Obviously she lacks taste. The same is true for her clothes but she’s very stubborn to deal with. Still, I devote myself to her and manage to improve conditions, for which I receive a modest but necessary commission. Considering the circumstances, how can this be an evil thing? The basis of morality is recognizing one another’s needs and cooperating. Mutual generosity is nothing to criticize other people for. After all, what did Jesus teach?”
Ludovico had removed his hat. He was bald with several gray hairs parted in the center.
He seemed, now, depressed. “You aren’t in love with her, are you, maestro? If so, say the word and I disappear. Love is love, after all. I don’t forget I’m an Italian.”
F thought for a minute.
“Not as yet, I don’t think.”
“In that case I hope you will not interfere with her decision?”
“What decision do you have in mind?”
“As to what she will do after I speak to her.”
“You mean if she decides to leave?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s up to her.”
The pimp ran a relieved hand over his perspiring head and replaced his hat. “The relationship may be momentarily convenient, but for a painter who has his work to think of you’ll be better off without her.”
“I didn’t say I wanted her to go,” said F. “All I said was I wouldn’t interfere with her decision.”
Ludovico bowed. “Ah, you have the objectivity of a true artist.”
On his way out, he tossed aside the alcove curtain with his cane and uncovered F’s painting on the kitchen table.
He seemed at first unable to believe his eyes. Standing back, he had a better look. “Straordinario,” he murmured, kissing his fingertips.
F snatched the canvas, blew off the dust and carefully tucked it behind his bureau.
“It’s work in progress,” he explained. “I don’t like to show it yet.”
“Obviously it will be a very fine painting, one sees that at a glance. What do you call it?”
“‘Mother and Son.’”
“In spirit it’s pure Picasso.”
“Is it?”
“I refer to his remark: ‘You paint not what you see but what you know is there.’”
“That’s right,” F said, his voice husky.
“We all have to learn from the masters. There’s
nothing wrong with trying to do better that which they do best themselves. Thus new masters are born.”
“Thank you.”
“When you finish let me know. I am acquainted with people who are interested in buying fine serious contemporary work. I could get you an excellent price, of course for the usual commission. Anyway, it looks as though you are about to give birth to a painting of extraordinary merit. Permit me to congratulate you on your talent.”
F blushed radiantly.
Esmeralda returned.
Ludovico fell to his knees.
“Go fuck yourself,” she said.
“Ah, signorina, my misfortune is your good luck. Your friend is a superb artist. You can take my word for it.”
How do you paint a Kaddish?
Here’s Momma sitting on the stoop in her cotton housedress, awkward at having her picture taken yet with a dim smile on the dry old snapshot turning yellow that Bessie sent me years ago. Here’s the snap, here’s the painting of the same idea, why can’t I make one out of both? How do you make art of an old photo, so to say? A single of a double image, the one in and the one out?
The painting, 51 x 38, was encrusted in places (her hands and feet) (his face) almost a quarter of an inch
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