Yellow Mesquite (7 page)

“Squint your eyes and look for the big patterns of light and dark,” Crump was saying to the group. “Lay in the large masses with the premixed number-five value, and the light areas with the number three. Establish the simple patterns of light and dark first.”

Harley had the form lightly sketched in on an eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch canvas. He had been studying the work of Degas and Vuillard, and more recently Diebenkorn, the odd way they sometimes composed their picture elements, and, taking a cue from these artists, he had roughed in the figure in the lower left-hand corner of the canvas—an old man collapsing in on himself, small and alone under the weight of empty space pushing him down and out of the picture plane. Harley exaggerated the skeletal angularity of the arms and legs, made the knees and elbows larger and sharper, caved in the chest cavity. He hung the head between the shoulders, attempting to emphasize the skull’s fragile eggshell quality. The old man had gone to sleep and his chest rose and fell under the large folds of his khaki shirt, skin stretched like a filigreed web over his skull.

Harley ignored the jars of premixed flesh tones. Instead, he squeezed an inch each of several colors around the perimeter of the palette, then selected a bristle brush the width of his thumb. The larger brush forced him to see in terms of mass rather than detail. He thinned the paint from clip-on cups of copal and turpentine, and laid a middle tone over the sketch. Then the figure began to take on definition as he established the areas of light and dark. Surprising how little detail was needed when those masses were right. If nothing else, he had learned that from Crump.

Harley’s concentration was broken by a sudden silence and he realized Crump was standing at his elbow, pointing with his brush.

“Class,” Crump began, “see the light on the eyebrow here, the frontalis where it joins the superciliary arch? That should be a number three value, not quite light enough here you’ll notice. Always a number three.”

Crump gestured delicately with the brush as the other students gathered around. Crump carried the brush like a riding crop and never used it except as a pointer. On occasions when he found the need for an actual demonstration, he used the student’s brush, taking it in hand with a kind of airy distaste, and when he had finished, went straight to the sink and scrubbed his hands.

“Now class, you’ll notice how the shadow under the eyebrow changes abruptly from a number three on the superciliary
arch to a number eight where the
superciliary cuts back under, above the eyelid—the orbicularis oculi muscle, if you will.” Crump prided himself on knowing the Latin names of every bone and muscle in the entire human body.
 

“That’s where the strongest contrast of light and dark will be most evident,” he continued, “where the form turns under and away from the light. Under the eyebrows, under the nose, the lips, the chin. These shadows give mass and form to the head. That’s because the figure is customarily lit from above, the sun, overhead lights. Look at your fellow artists, squint, and you’ll see what I’m talking about. Of course, lighting
can
be used successfully from other angles with dramatic effect, but this is usually found in illustration and theatrical works. Natural lighting is from above. Always.”

Crump stopped suddenly, peering at Harley’s canvas. “What is this?”

Harley looked at the painting, at Crump.

“That color,” Crump said. “Those shadows. You didn’t make that with viridian green.”

“Well, no…”

Crump looked at him sharply. “You don’t care to follow the premise, Mr. Buchanan?”

“I was just—”

“What
is
that color?” Crump demanded.

“Uh, that shadow? I used cobalt blue.”

“And why, may I ask, are you using cobalt blue rather than viridian?”

“Well, the other day I did this little sketch using cobalt instead of viridian, and it looked pretty good. The flesh had a kind of translucent porcelain look, like those little Japanese ceramics. You know?”

“Aha!” Crump threw his head back. “So! Now you know more than the masters, eh?”

“Uh, well, no. I was just experimenting.”

Crump turned to the others. “Ex-
per-i-
menting. Ex-
per-i
-menting, he says.”

The other students shuffled in place, arched their necks, blinked.
 

Crump went on. “Do you not believe something as basic as the color of flesh hasn’t been established and reestablished down through the ages?”

“Yessir. I’m sure it has.”

Crump narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you realize that the finest minds of the ages have worked all this out a million times over?”

“Well…”

“Do you feel it necessary to reinvent the wheel? Century upon century of study and experimentation?”

“I sorta like that blue there.”

Crump’s mouth snapped shut. Then: “Mr. Buchanan, any flesh tone of any race in the world can be duplicated with yellow ocher, cadmium red, viridian green, and white and black. Any hue, any value, any intensity.”
 

“Even that translucent blue shadow there?”

“That blue shadow is
abnormal
.”

“What about the Impressionists?”

Crump’s eyes flickered.

“They used a lot a that color,” Harley offered.

“We’re not studying the Impressionists,” Crump said, a flush creeping over his ears. He held the pointer brush before him in both hands, as though he might break it.

Harley wanted to ask about Matisse and Picasso, not to mention the Abstract Expressionists and some of the newer people. He had discovered that there was a lot more going on in the world of art than Crump was making them privy to. Nevertheless, this was a long way from Separation, Texas, and, all said and done, Crump was his only link with any kind of real art. And he
had
learned a lot from him.
 

“I guess you’re right,” he mumbled.

Mr. Crump straightened, nodding triumphantly to the others. “You’d do well, Mr. Buchanan, to follow the premise, to work with the premixed colors and values.” He took a starched white handkerchief from his apron pocket and blotted the oily shine on his forehead. “With discipline and attention to application, you might eventually become a decent enough painter.” He walked away, slapping the brush against his leg.

THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY,
Harley got a letter from his mother, a part of which read:
Darlene and Billy Wayne Hinchley got married last weekend. Of course, Doris and Russell are all tore up about it….

Harley wasn’t present at the boardinghouse meal that evening, and he wasn’t at work the next day. Neither was he at Crump’s studio Thursday night.
 

Friday morning he showed up at the
DP&L
lot.
 

“You look like hell,” Pellerd said. “Where you been, anyway?”
 

“Minding my own business. That’s where I’ve been.”
 

Berry and Moon stood back, glancing from one to the other.
 

Harley set about shoveling sand into the back of the pickup. He was aware of Pellerd watching him.

Pellerd turned on Berry and Moon: “Okay, dickheads, let’s hit it!” Pellerd stabbed his own shovel into the sand.

Chapter 7

Sidney

O
NE SATURDAY IN
November, he was selecting tubes of oil paint in Flagg's Color Mart on Lemmon Avenue in North Dallas when he became aware of a commotion over in the paint and wallpaper department. He turned to see a man in white paint-splattered overalls, the pant legs cuffed several inches above his bare ankles. The man wore a pair of worn-out black-and-white wingtip shoes without laces or socks. He waved his arms over his head, gesturing with a handful of money at Mr. Flagg, the owner. Flagg leaned his soft frame against the counter by the cash register, shook his head.

The man making all the noise looked to be in his mid-fifties. He had a shock of defiant white hair standing straight up from a high forehead, and a gray Vandyke beard that jumped out belligerently when he shouted at Flagg.
 

“Two dollars,” he yelled. “Two lousy dollars! What kind of man are you, Flagg, not to give two dollars’ credit to your best customer? Tell me that!”

Mr. Flagg continued to shake his head. “My best customer? My worst maybe.”

“Your worst—” The man drew himself up, brows peaked. “Every cent I get goes into your miserable store, Flagg. Every cent! I hardly eat. I go without because of your greedy profit margin.”

“You owe more than you've ever spent,” said Flagg.
 

“Capitalist!” the man cried.

Flagg nodded. “I have to make a living.”
 

“In Europe they treat artists like human beings. With re
spect
!”

“Sorry, Sidney. Why don't you just put back two dollars worth and take what you can pay for?”

“Because I
need
this paint! Every can! Otherwise, would I be here, pleading like a common beggar?”

“Sorry. I can't carry you for any more.”
 

“Demeaning! That's what it is!” Sidney brightened suddenly. “How about I make you some more sale cards?”

“Nope. Couldn't anybody read the last ones.”

“Ye gads!” Sidney rolled his eyes. “That's America for you. Can't even read their own language! How can you expect them to appreciate a great artist!”

“Those cards were pretty far-out, even for you, Sid.”
 

“Look, I've got to have this paint.” Sidney shook his finger in Flagg's face. “I have a big show coming up in Basil, Switzerland. You understand? I must have this paint!”

“Sorry.”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Sidney slapped one palm against his forehead. “Isn't anyone sympathetic to the poor artist anymore? Is the whole world a slave to the hundred percent markup?” His gaze fixed on Harley in the art department.

“I wish I could do something,” Flagg was saying, “but you owe me near four hundred dollars already.”

Sidney turned on Flagg again, arms flying, “Four hundred dollars? My friend, what is four hundred dollars? I've sold mere pencil sketches for four hundred dollars!”

“Why don't you sell one then.”

“Because first I have to have something to make drawings with!”
 

“Sorry, Sidney.”

Sidney beat the air. “Well, let me tell you, Flagg, I'm not the first genius to have a difficult time with pea-brained commercialism. And you won't be the first fat merchant to go down in history as a cheap miser and a fool, either!” Sidney's gray beard jutted at Flagg. “And how are you going to like being remembered like
that?
The man who refused the great Sidney Siegelman credit!”

Flagg shrugged. “Four hundred bucks already.”

“Ye gads! Two miserable dollars.” Sidney pounded on the counter. His bouncing gaze skidded to a stop on Harley again. He blinked like a chicken. His head craned forward and he came flat-footing down the aisle, feet splaying out to either side, paint-splattered cuffs slapping against bare ankles. His arms lifted and his head tilted as if greeting a long-lost friend.

“Aha!” he said. “Another poor artist, I take it. Another fallen comrade on the battlefield of creativity, sucked bloodless by these anal-retentive vampires of commerce, no doubt.”

“ ’Scuse me?”

Sidney stopped directly in front of Harley, craning into his face, hands clasped. “Would you, dear brother in suffering, float a two-dollar loan to a bereaved genius? A disciple of Cézanne and a dedicated devotee to the true light of modernism?”

“The true—”

“A loan, my friend, a loan! I need two bucks to get my paint out of this Babylonian den of materialism and home to my simple but honest studio, my humble place of abode.”

Harley couldn't help but grin.

“Well?” Sidney leaned into Harley's face, rubbing his hands impatiently. His white hair stood up, lines fanned back from the sharp hump of his nose.

“You’re a real artist?'

Sidney's eyes rolled up, his shoulders hunched; he gestured toward the heavens with open palms. “My friend, not only am I a real artist, I'm a
great
artist, probably the greatest artist you'll ever meet, much less have the opportunity of befriending with a two-buck loan. What do you say?”
 

“You wouldn't be trying to beat me out of two bucks, would you?” But he was already reaching into his back pocket, taking two dollars from his wallet.

Sidney swelled with pleasure. He sighed. His craggy face went soft, his eyes riveted on Harley and Harley's wallet with gentle affection. “Bless you, my son, bless you. May the muse wrap her legs around you until your balls burst.”

Harley grinned. This was worth two bucks. He picked up his own basket of colors and followed Sidney's jaunty step back into the paint and wallpaper section, where Mr. Flagg stood near the cash register.

Sidney drew himself up before Flagg. “A young man with re
spect
!”
he announced. Flagg smiled dryly. Harley figured they both took him for a sucker, giving two bucks to a raving lunatic. He dumped his own tubes on the counter.

“You really having a show in Switzerland?”
 

Sidney arched his brows. “Indeed I am, my friend. Indeed I am.” He closed his eyes and smiled dreamily, deep lines breaking pleasantly around his eyes. “Ah. Basil. Now, there's a city for you.”

Harley glanced at the cluster of cans on the counter—several quarts of oil-based house paint. “What kinda work do you do?”

“What kind?” Sidney smiled, head back, looking down his nose. “
Brilliant
work. Simply brilliant.”

“You one of those abstract painters? You know, ‘the true light of modernism,’ or whatever it was you said back there?”

“My friend, there is only one kind of art, and that is
art
.” Sidney was counting his money one more time before laying it on the counter before Flagg.
 

“What do you mean, ‘art is art’?”

Flagg totaled Harley’s bill and he paid out. Flagg had put Sidney's purchases in three cardboard boxes. Sidney took one up under each arm. “Here,” he said to Harley of the third, “bring that along, will you?”