Sea Lovers by Valerie Martin Page B

when there appeared above the chattering heads of this inelegant crowd the expensively coiffed, unnaturally tan, and generally prosperous-looking head of Meyer Anspach.
    “Slumming,” Paul said to me when he spotted Anspach.
    I smiled. David Hines, the gallery owner, had come to riveted attention and flashed Paul and me a look of triumph as he stepped out to welcome Anspach. Greta, a friend of Paul’s who painted canvases that were too big for most gallery walls and who was, I knew, a great admirer of Anspach, set down her plastic cup on the drinks table and rubbed her eyes hard with her knuckles.
    David was ushering Anspach past the paintings, which he scarcely glanced at, to the corner where Paul and I stood openmouthed. Anspach launched into a monologue about how we had all been poor painters together, poor artists in Brooklyn, doing our best work, because we were unknown and had only ourselves to please. This was during his blue period, a long time ago, those paintings were some of his favorites, a turning point, the suffering of that time had liberated him, he couldn’t afford to buy back those paintings himself, that’s how valuable they had become.
    This was the first time I heard Anspach’s litany about his blue period.
    It was awful standing there, with David practically rubbing his hands together for glee and Paul emanating hostility, while Anspach went on and on about the brave comrade painters of long ago. Cheap wine, free love.
La vie de bohème
, I thought, only Maria didn’t die of tuberculosis. I couldn’t think of anything to say, or rather my thoughts came in such a rush I couldn’t sort one out for delivery, but Paul came to my rescue by pointing out with quiet dignity that he and I still lived in Brooklyn. Then David got the idea of taking a photograph of Anspach, and Anspach said he’d come to see the pictures, which nobody believed, but we all encouraged him to have a look while David ran to his office for his camera. Paul and I stood there for what seemed a long time watching Anspach stand before each painting with his mouth pursed and his eyebrows slightly lifted, thinking God knows what. In spite of my valid personal reasons for despising him, I understood that I still admired Anspach as a painter, and I wanted to know, once and for all, what he saw when he looked at my work. Paul eased his way to the drinks table and tossed back a full glass of the red wine. David appeared with his camera, and after a brief conversation with Anspach, he called Paul and me over to flank Anspach in front of my painting titled
Welfare. Welfare
had an office building in the foreground, from the windows of which floated heavenward a dozen figures of bureaucrats in coats and ties, all wearing shiny black shoes that pointed down as they went up, resembling the wings of black crows. In David’s photograph, two of these figures appear to be rising out of Anspach’s head, another issues from one of Paul’s ears. Anspach is smiling broadly, showing all his teeth. Paul looks diffident, and I look wide-eyed, surprised. When she saw this photo, Yvonne said, “You look like a sheep standing next to a wolf.”
    After the photograph session, Anspach stepped away from Paul and me and walked off with David, complaining that he had another important engagement. He did not so much as glance back at the door. He had appeared unexpectedly; now he disappeared in the same way. David returned to us with the bemused, wondering expression of one who has met up with a natural force and miraculously survived. He took from his coat pocket a sheet of red adhesive dots and went around the room carefully affixing them to the frames of various pictures. Anspach had bought four of mine and three of Paul’s.

    I don’t attribute my modest success to Anspach, but I guess there are people who do. I attribute it to the paintings, to the quality of the work. I have to do that or I’d just give up. Still, there’s always that nagging anxiety