abstract work now; they were looking for hard-edged color-field painting or photorealism.
Sometimes, alone in the apartment, unable to work, Polly gave herself up to storms of dizzying rage: cursing, smashing of glass, scalding, angry tears — all of them echoed, as July baked into August, and Elsa went on vacation, by bad summer weather: thunder and sheet lightning and a hot dust-laden breeze that didn’t clear the air. But in the end it was her rage that saved Polly from despair. In the temper she had tried so hard to control for years she found her strength. Goddamn it, she had reason to be angry. Goddamn this world, goddamn Jim Meyer. It was then, on a hot thundery evening, alone in the apartment after having refused for the second time to meet the husband of a friend for “lunch,” that she resolved to stop trying to please men.
The good effects of this decision were immediate. For one thing, it was a relief to stop searching faces at parties and openings to see if, maybe, here was someone interesting and unattached — (There never was, anyhow.) It was a relief to give up distorting her face and body: to eat whatever the hell she liked; to throw away the fashionable pointed shoes that hurt, and the tubes and bottles of colored grease and soot with which, though she’d called herself a feminist, she had continued to paint her face.
Over a few weeks Polly’s whole appearance changed, or rather changed back. In school and college everyone had called her “cute”: she was small and sturdy, with a solid rounded figure. She had thick untidy short curls, a naturally high color, big light-brown eyes, and a lively, sensual, puppy-dog expression. Now this self reappeared, not much the worse for wear. She strode purposefully on flat heels, stopped shaving her legs, never went to the hairdresser, and made no further effort to starve herself into thinness. Men on the street still gave her warm, interested looks, but she ignored them. She wasn’t ready to go out with anybody yet; maybe she would never be ready. Maybe that side of her life was over.
Last month, in their final session, Elsa had suggested that eventually she would be able to relate positively to men again. But Polly wasn’t counting on it. Even if she did meet a man who seemed possible, it wouldn’t be any use. If she couldn’t trust Jim, what man could be trusted? In the end no good had ever come to her from them, unless you count erotic pleasure. And Polly suspected now that erotic pleasure was the bait to a trap, a way to get the squirrel into the cage so that it — or rather, she — could spend the rest of her life running around a wire treadmill, breathless with love and fear.
PAOLO CARDUCCI,
owner and director of the Apollo Gallery, New York, Lorin Jones’s former dealer
Yes, in nineteen-fifty-four. She had two little oils in our Christmas group show that year, as you say.
Both of them sold quite soon. Of course, as an unknown, her prices were minuscule. But I think it did give her considerable encouragement.
Through Garrett, yes. Though naturally, if I hadn’t seen something interesting in her work, that would have made not the slightest difference.
Well, it’s hard to say. These intuitions are so very private and intangible. But I was correct, you see, wasn’t I?
Two watercolors and a large oil in nineteen-fifty-seven? I imagine that’s right. But I’ll ask Jacky Herbert, my assistant, to check our files and give you all the details.
Yes, I think you could say that both the one-woman shows were successful.
I don’t believe everything was sold, no. But on balance we did rather well. But again, you can get the data from Jacky.
That’s a rather difficult question. Perhaps it’s best to say that I didn’t feel she was ready for another exposure yet.
No, it wasn’t exactly a matter of her not having enough paintings on hand.
Very well, to be frank with you, yes. As Garrett says, there was a definite falling-off in the quality
Sometimes, alone in the apartment, unable to work, Polly gave herself up to storms of dizzying rage: cursing, smashing of glass, scalding, angry tears — all of them echoed, as July baked into August, and Elsa went on vacation, by bad summer weather: thunder and sheet lightning and a hot dust-laden breeze that didn’t clear the air. But in the end it was her rage that saved Polly from despair. In the temper she had tried so hard to control for years she found her strength. Goddamn it, she had reason to be angry. Goddamn this world, goddamn Jim Meyer. It was then, on a hot thundery evening, alone in the apartment after having refused for the second time to meet the husband of a friend for “lunch,” that she resolved to stop trying to please men.
The good effects of this decision were immediate. For one thing, it was a relief to stop searching faces at parties and openings to see if, maybe, here was someone interesting and unattached — (There never was, anyhow.) It was a relief to give up distorting her face and body: to eat whatever the hell she liked; to throw away the fashionable pointed shoes that hurt, and the tubes and bottles of colored grease and soot with which, though she’d called herself a feminist, she had continued to paint her face.
Over a few weeks Polly’s whole appearance changed, or rather changed back. In school and college everyone had called her “cute”: she was small and sturdy, with a solid rounded figure. She had thick untidy short curls, a naturally high color, big light-brown eyes, and a lively, sensual, puppy-dog expression. Now this self reappeared, not much the worse for wear. She strode purposefully on flat heels, stopped shaving her legs, never went to the hairdresser, and made no further effort to starve herself into thinness. Men on the street still gave her warm, interested looks, but she ignored them. She wasn’t ready to go out with anybody yet; maybe she would never be ready. Maybe that side of her life was over.
Last month, in their final session, Elsa had suggested that eventually she would be able to relate positively to men again. But Polly wasn’t counting on it. Even if she did meet a man who seemed possible, it wouldn’t be any use. If she couldn’t trust Jim, what man could be trusted? In the end no good had ever come to her from them, unless you count erotic pleasure. And Polly suspected now that erotic pleasure was the bait to a trap, a way to get the squirrel into the cage so that it — or rather, she — could spend the rest of her life running around a wire treadmill, breathless with love and fear.
PAOLO CARDUCCI,
owner and director of the Apollo Gallery, New York, Lorin Jones’s former dealer
Yes, in nineteen-fifty-four. She had two little oils in our Christmas group show that year, as you say.
Both of them sold quite soon. Of course, as an unknown, her prices were minuscule. But I think it did give her considerable encouragement.
Through Garrett, yes. Though naturally, if I hadn’t seen something interesting in her work, that would have made not the slightest difference.
Well, it’s hard to say. These intuitions are so very private and intangible. But I was correct, you see, wasn’t I?
Two watercolors and a large oil in nineteen-fifty-seven? I imagine that’s right. But I’ll ask Jacky Herbert, my assistant, to check our files and give you all the details.
Yes, I think you could say that both the one-woman shows were successful.
I don’t believe everything was sold, no. But on balance we did rather well. But again, you can get the data from Jacky.
That’s a rather difficult question. Perhaps it’s best to say that I didn’t feel she was ready for another exposure yet.
No, it wasn’t exactly a matter of her not having enough paintings on hand.
Very well, to be frank with you, yes. As Garrett says, there was a definite falling-off in the quality
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