Why I Won't Be Going To Lunch Anymore. Douglas Atwill
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much time to waste in pleasantries.
The Pierson couple came in behind Miss Harkness, peering around the studio with obvious delight. Morrison’s work place held many tableaus and props to interest collectors: baskets and pots, feathered head-dresses, war shields, dried floral arrangements, and a long row of coat-hooks with Indian costumes.
Mrs. Pierson spoke first. “Mr. Morrison, we love your work. Especially the Nambé Pueblo pieces.”
“Call me Magnus, please.” He took Mrs. Pierson’s hand, smiling. “How nice of you.”
Miss Harkness interceded, “The Piersons had the discerning taste to buy the very last pair of your Pueblo maidens. They will join the rest of the Pierson Collection at the Art Museum in McPherson, Indiana.”
Miss Harkness’ face betrayed nothing of her feelings. “The Piersons would like to organize a museum exhibit of your work next winter in McPherson. The museum would pay for everything and you could stay right with the Piersons.”
Mrs. Pierson said, “Herbert and I have been collecting in New Mexico since the Thirties. We have Maria pots, Gaspards, Sharps, Ufers and all the right artists of Taos and Santa Fe. Our small Victor Higgins may be his very best and we’re hoping to bag a John Sloan view of the cathedral. You would be in good company, we can assure you.”
What a horrible idea, Morrison thought. “Thanks, so much. Give me time to think about it.”
“Of course, Magnus. Give it your earnest consideration. We sponsor these exhibits every few years to share our new purchases with the people of Indiana. We’ll be at La Fonda Hotel for the rest of the week,” Mrs. Pierson said. Already Morrison was regretting giving permission to use his first name.
“I’ll be in touch soon.”
Miss Harkness wrapped the two small paintings in several layers of brown paper and the Piersons departed into the swirling storm, heading farther up Canyon Road to other studios and galleries. Morrison wondered who else would be included in the Pierson collection this day.
“I object, Miss Harkness, to being something people from Indiana want to ‘bag,’ like a ten-pointed elk or a champion-sized zebra,” Morrison said.
“Quite right, Magnus. I gave them no encouragement at all in what your answer might be. You must turn them down completely.”
“Good, because that’s exactly what I am going to do.”
“Mrs. Pierson seems to be the guiding light at the museum. It must be a very small, very provincial museum, but whatever she wants, they do, she told me.”
“Women like her use the museum to add luster and value to their own collections. It’s totally a matter of dollars, despite how much she throws around the compliments. Deposit the check tomorrow, will you please, Miss Harkness. Then, we’ll say no.”
“Yes, Magnus.” Miss Harkness turned off the lights and put the “Closed” sign in the window. She walked away into the dark afternoon.
The snow continued for several more days. In the quiet gallery Morrison thought about the sale of the last two of the Nambé paintings. Surely, there was one of those incomplete versions in his racks, one he could supply with final changes to add one more to the series. He went to search for it but with no success. Then he recalled using those canvases for another, more favored motif, painting over Milla’s legs or arms with thick loads of gesso.
How had he not saved one or two of his best paintings from the past years? Why was it so important to sell the work that came from that high plateau of his painting years? Now they were all dispersed to places like California and North Carolina, the last two now in the hands of those Piersons from Indiana. Why was earning the dollar so necessary that he brought upon himself this sense of loss?
He should have called Miss Harkness, after all, giving her the day off. He knew that he could never rekindle the flame of excitement and skill of those summer afternoons by the orchard with Milla. Now, they were a just remote memory under the falling snow.
The Gilded Square
“Let’s go to the opening at Halcyon Gallery tonight,” Charles said. “It’s the new work by Julia Brownell and I saw a piece of hers that I liked at the restaurant last night.”
Charles McKenna could be counted on to get me out of the house and off to summer events in Santa Fe. He was an old friend who visited me every summer for a month or so, savoring the change from his patterns in New York City. His choice in activities usually differed widely from the staid, museum-centered events of my own life.
“Very well”, I said, “but let’s not stay. It’ll be a crush of people, hot and steamy. And Halcyon never has good wine.”
“Art would wither if you were left to water it,” he said.
“I’m not sure art is what we’ll see at a Brownell showing.”
“Envy, envy.” He shook his finger at me.
Charles hit the nail on the head. I was envious of Julia Brownell, a fellow painter in Santa Fe. Her vast success had eclipsed all the other young painters of the time, including me. Some years she had two exhibits a year, selling everything on the walls with collectors arguing loudly over a popular piece. This was at a time when there were few galleries in Santa Fe and keen competition for representation. Some were happy for her, but her patrician, overbearing demeanor and arrogant behavior set most against her. It seemed vastly unfair that she had beauty, ability and success all on her side. I held that art should entail struggle, deprivation, and lonely travels in the wilderness, none of which guided Brownell.
Charles and I walked down to the exhibit at the gallery just off Santa Fe’s plaza. Although it was only five in the afternoon, the crowd spilled out the front door onto the sidewalk and we could hear the roar of gallery talk from down the street.
“Let’s make straight for the bar,” I said. “It’s always in the far back.”
“Follow me,” said Charles plunging into the gossiping throng.
I learned from experience to keep moving in an opening night crowd until you made it to the far innards of the gallery. Then, with a small glass of white wine you could slowly work your way to the street. This was the sociable part of an art exhibit where you exchanged opinions with other artists, I preferring the anti-Brownell faction on this night.
It was hard to see her work since only narrow vistas were available between the gossiping groups. I pushed my way to the outside perimeter between the throng and the paintings, a narrow walkway on which I could view the work itself. The large paintings, six feet square, had a theme of gold and gilding. Brownell gold-leafed sections of these panels, while other portions she filled in with gold radiator paint from a spray can and commercial, grainy golden paints. All of the paints she used were sloppy and wet, long drips falling straight down to the bottom of the pictures, now dried with small nubbins at the end of each drip.
The canvases were entwined in circulations of string and small rope, which in turn were gilded or covered with golden papers right over the twine. Sections of deep yellow wood, faux gold, had been pasted on here and there, and many golden rings of varying diameters were enmeshed under translucent golden gels. More areas of gel had glitter imbedded in them. Long strips of gilded masking tape went this way and that, taped right over the welter of other elements.
I was appalled. She had paid no attention to the traditional methods of painting, flaunting any attempt at technical excellence. Charles had quite an opposite view.
Above the din he said, “I think they are brilliant. I must have one.”
“Why in the world?”
“I can just imagine one of them in my new apartment. New and exciting. My New York friends will be so envious.”
“Not people from Santa Fe?”
“No, I wouldn’t think so.