Read ‘ em and Weep

READ 'EM AND WEEP Steve Bovée

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It was around my third year of artistic failure that I started making paintings of crying Indians. Frankly, it was an act of desperation. I'd begun my career painting representational landscapes and done all right with them in terms of sales. But in time, I grew dissatisfied and bored with realism. I went more abstract in approach. My landscapes grew flatter, more distorted. The sales faltered and then dwindled to practically nothing. Finally, I abandoned landscape altogether in favor of human figures—gaunt, twisted figures with haunted, staring eyes. Personally, I found them compelling, but apparently I was the only one who did. “Barney Googles with anorexia, ” my friend Vercammon called them, mockingly. And he was an artist! The public, of course, didn 't get them at all; nobody bought a single piece. The viewers just laughed. This galled me. It was good work. They were good paintings. Maybe they did look a little bit like Barney Google on a starvation diet, but the quality was high. Very possibly, that was the problem. People wanted claptrap, not art—I’d come to realize that much. I read all the fine-art magazines, and it appalled me to see how much money clearly inferior work was fetching on the market. I knew of one painter—a fellow with a national reputation by the name of Gizmo or something—who painted nothing but broken-hearted Indians on horseback. His work went for five figures, and it was absolutely dreadful. I could do better blindfolded. I knew I could. And then I thought to myself, well, why not try a few Indians myself? It wasn 't as though Gizmo owned Indians. They were fair game. Stylistically, Gizmo and I were worlds apart, so it wouldn 't be theft. I wasn 't poaching. I didn 't need his permission to paint Indians, or anyone ' s permission. What did I have to lose?

I didn 't just jump right into it. You have to get a feel for your subject. I did my research. I must have looked at a couple thousand old black-and-white photographs of Indians. It wasn ’t until I could close my eyes and conjure up an image of these handsome people that I started sketching and making studies. Once I mastered the iconography, I had no more need for photographs, or even models; I made it all up out of my own head. My first major portrait was a night scene. It showed a young brave staring into the coals of a campfire. Very dra-

matic lighting. Georges de La Tour couldn ’t have done a better job with the firelight. Honestly, I was struck with the sheer excellence of the painting. And it was subtle in a way Gizmo never dared to be. The brave was crying, all right, but he wasn 't bawling or anything. His eyes were just beginning to brim over, and you had to look hard to see it. Bang! The thing sold the very first day it went on exhibition. Three thousand bucks! I’d never sold a piece for that much before.

Next, I did a figure group with a Southwestern theme. It depicted four women of indeterminate tribe, but you could tell by the light and the distant mesas that it was set somewhere in Arizona or New Mexico. The composition was tricky—an even-number of figures makes for a very challenging group. The women were grinding corn on a metate. Their hair was black and lustrous, and one of them wore it in a kind of a raven-shaped bun, which I vaguely recalled had some sort of tribal significance. This is how I arranged them: Two had their backs to the viewer, one was in lost profile, and one was depicted in three-quarter profile. She was the one with the bun. She was looking out in the distance towards a beat-up pickup truck (it was a contemporary scene) and quietly weeping.

Bang! That one sold too—within an hour of being hung. It wasn ’t even dry.

I painted a sobbing old chief, and it sold in less than a day.

Well, what would you do? I hadn 't unloaded a piece in the previous thirty-six months, and these three went sailing off the walls on wings of cash. The art gods had spoken, and they spoke pretty clearly it seemed to me. From then on I didn 't hold back. I painted every kind of Indian ever made. Chiefs, braves, shamans, maidens, geezers, crones, big Indians, little Indians, men Indians, women Indians, children Indians. And all of them crying. They sold as fast as I could paint them.

My friend Vercammon, ever the critic, came uninvited to my studio one day. I should explain that Vercammon paints machines and machine parts, mostly, somewhat like a neo-Impressionist semiabstract Sheeler. He ’ s actually pretty good. As an artist, I mean, not as a critic. He looked at my work, and his lip curled. “So, this is your new

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19 style, is it?” he said, eyeing one of my weeping maidens.

“Well, yes. ”

“Are you serious about this crap?”

The tone was even worse than the words. It was an audible sneer. “What’ s that supposed to mean? Of course I’ m serious about this crap. And it' s not crap!”

“No, it’ s something even worse. You know what’ s worse than crap?”

“Enlighten me. ”

“Sentimental crap. That' s what you ’ re doing here. Pure schlock. Tear-jerker Indians! It makes me sick. You might as well paint sad clowns. What the hell’ s gotten into you?”

“I happen to find the subject matter important and full of meaning. ”

“Oh? And what meaning would that be?”

“It’ s about—loss. It’ s about Native American peoples grieving for their despoiled ancestral homes. ”

“Oh, for Christ sake!”

“You don ’t think that’ s worthy of a painting?”

“No. It’ s totally fake, coming from you. It’ s an affectation. You don 't even know any real Indians. ”

“I know thousands of Indians. I know tons of Indians. ”

“Like who?”

“Tom Begay, for one. He ' s full-blooded Navajo, and he happens to be a pretty good friend of mine. ”

Vercammon knew Tom, too. “Tom Begay would puke laughing over this stuff. I suppose this sob-sister brave holding a broken arrow ” —he pointed to one of my better efforts— “ represents him, huh? Tom never cried a tear in his life that I know of. He laughs his head off about everything. He ' s a natural comedian. ”

“Maybe he ’ s not so jolly in secret. Maybe he cries to himself. ”

“Oh, no doubt about it! Of course he blubbers his eyes out in secret, in the dark of his locked wigwam. ”

“That would be a hogan, ” I said coldly. “And don ’t be too sure that he doesn ’t. When he gets to thinking about certain events in the his-

tory of his people. ”

“Which you ’ re appropriating and using for your own profit. That' s one thing Tom might not laugh about. I can see him shooting you, all right, but I can ’t see him sobbing like a little child over a busted suction-cup arrow. Even if he does, in private, —which I doubt—I know damn well you didn ’t sneak in there with your easel and paints and canvas and catch him at it. ”

“I don ’t have to paint from life. I use my imagination. ”

“That’ s for damn sure!”

“It’ s real on a deeper level than you seem capable of understanding. ”

“It’ s totally bogus, completely disgusting!”

“And I suppose your paintings of tractor transmissions are trueto-life and meaningful?”

“Any tractor transmission has more life in it than those cuties you ’ re painting. ”

“What, exactly, is wrong with depicting the pain of native peoples?”

“‘Native peoples ’! There you go again; that’ s what I’ m talking about! When did you start to talk like a pompous ass?”

It went on and on like that for a half hour or more. In the end, by way of summation, he denounced me as a fraud, a charlatan, a thief, and a poseur, while on my part I pointed out that he was a hypocrite, a hack, and a dog-in-the-manger.

Things were a bit chilly between old Vercammon and me after that. Art is hard on friendships.

Privately, I had to admit that Vercammon had the better of the argument. I knew perfectly well that I was painting hackneyed, dreadful schlock—even if it was much better painted than most hackneyed, dreadful schlock. But what was I supposed to do? Go back to starving? Turn my back on those juicy sales? Be a martyr to Art? What the hell was

“Art” anyway? Did anybody need it; did anybody want it? Of course they didn 't. But people wanted those crying Indians, all right!

Just the same, I went out of my way to avoid Tom Begay. And only

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21 partly on account of Vercammon ’ s prediction that he might shoot me. I was pretty sure that Tom would find the whole thing hilarious. Still, I didn ’t want to look him in the eye.

None of my other artist friends, I should add, were any more sympathetic than Vercammon. The only compliment I got—if it was a compliment—was from Betsy Kraft, the sculptor, who said that my new style looked a lot like Gizmo ’ s, “ only cornier. ”

I was a pariah in the artist community, maybe, but I did have two loyal supporters. One was my wife, Vicky. She worked a regular job that brought in a regular paycheck and more or less supported us both, paying most (or I suppose I should say all) of our expenses. Or did, up until the time the Indians started paying the bills. “It’ s good work that you ’ re doing, ” she said. “It’ s honorable work. And people actually buy it. It brings in some income for once, which is a goddam welcome miracle. ” She made a gripping motion. “There ’ s absolutely nothing to be ashamed of in doing commercial art, ” she went on soothingly. “Artists have always painted what the market demands. Throughout history. Do you think for a minute those Renaissance painters enjoyed doing portraits of stuck-up aristocrats and their snotty wives? Or painting bloated angels floating over a spun-sugar Virgin holding a marshmallow baby? But that' s where the commissions came from. ”

I knew that, of course, but I was still uncomfortable with the direction I’d taken. “It makes me feel like a fraud, doing these genre things. ”

“A successful fraud, for a change! What’ s so terrible about success? You ’ re a painter, for God’ s sake! Isn ’t that what you want?”

“Maybe I do. I' m not sure. ”

“Look, if you want to do the Barney Googles— ”

“The gaunt figures!”

“ . . . the gaunt figures, you can do them on Sundays, and save the weekdays for painting the stuff that' s really worth something. Don ’t give up what works! Do give up the—you know—other drecky stuff that doesn ’t work! Forget your pride. It’ s not worth a plugged nickel. ”

“It isn ’t quite that easy, ” I said heavily.

She just didn ’t understand it. I mean, the creative part, and how hard it was to cast it aside. She wasn ’t an artist. She didn ’t understand my misery and inner conflict. She was right about the financial aspect, though. My God, the way those weepers sold! I was pulling in the money by the wagonload. It was almost embarrassing.

My other great champion was Gordon Grogan, of the Gordon Grogan Gallery, where my work was hung. Gordon was a friend, sort of, and had exhibited my work from the very beginning. He ’d even stuck with me through the years of zero sales, which showed extraordinary loyalty in a businessman. Gordon was the very image of a successful gallery owner—tall, cool, handsome, impeccably dressed; he looked a great deal like the Devil, in fact, although without the pointy ears. One afternoon, as I writhed in an agony of self-doubt. (Maybe the public was right, I thought in a panic—maybe my new work was actually better than my old. On the other hand, why did it feel so false to me?) I blurted out my doubts to him. Gordon was of a necessity very, very savvy about the art world, and I knew he wouldn ’t be afraid to tell me, in the bluntest language, whether what I was painting was legitimate “Art” or contemptible rubbish. I put it to him straight: was I wasting my talent?

He brushed that aside with a caustic laugh and an impatient shake of his head. “Forget all that. You ’ ve hit the Mother Lode with those lachrymose Indians. That’ s what counts! That’ s talent. Don ’t screw it up. You just keep doing exactly what you ' ve been doing and don ’t deviate from the true path by a hair. ”

“But I’ m not so sure what I' ve been doing is the ‘true path’ . ”

“Of course it is. It sells. In your own way you ’ re a great artist, so long as you keep churning out those whimperin ’ warriors. ”

For a moment a suspicion crossed my mind—fifty percent of the sales price went straight into his pocket, after all. But I dismissed the thought as unworthy. “It just doesn ’t feel right, Gordon. I’ m not a Native American myself, for one thing. ”

“So what? Do you think you ' re only allowed to paint people who look exactly like you, who grew up like you? We wouldn ’t have George Catlin then, would we? Delacroix was French and he painted Arabs.

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23 Frederick Remington was fat as a bullfrog, but did you ever see a fat person in one of his paintings?”

“I don ’t quite see the— ”

He cut me off with a smooth chuckle. “You know, I admire that ‘Native American ’ bit, by the way. Nice shtick. Very pious. Very PC. Best not to insult the models. ”

“It’ s not a ‘ shtick’! I’ m trying to be respectful. ”

“Oh? Did you ever stop to consider that the term ‘Native American ’ is damn near as insulting as ‘Indian ’? It’ s naming a whole race of people, a whole hemisphere ’ s worth of civilizations, after a secondrate Italian map-maker. Kind of ironic, don ’t you think?”

“I don ’t know. Maybe it is. That’ s not the point. I just don ’t want to feel like I' m exploiting anyone, that’ s all. ”

“Oh, get off the soap-box. You ’ re making it, my friend, you ’ re becoming a name! Your sobbing-indigenous-people ’ s series, if it makes you feel better to call it that, is a friggin ’ gold mine! In a year or two, I can get you a major show in New York or L.A. You know what these paintings will sell for then? Old Gizmo will probably hang himself out of envy. ”

Yes, he probably would hang himself. But not out of envy. For the first time, I understood what he must have been going through all these years. Sad Indians had taken over my life. They had me surrounded. They ’d put some tribal curse on me. They ’d given me success and spirited away my painting ability. For the strange thing was, the quality of the paintings (and I don ’t mean just the subject matter) was going down. Yet the sales kept climbing. I literally could not paint them fast enough. It was madness. What was it about crying Indians, anyway? Nobody bought paintings of crying Scotsmen. Nobody ever spent good money on a painting of a tearful Korean, or a grief-addled Turk. It was Indians or nothing. Why, a fairly respectable modern art museum (you would recognize the name) wanted one of my pieces for their permanent collection! Not one of my old pieces, not one of my distorted landscapes, not one of my gaunt figures, oh no—they wanted a whimperin ’ warrior!

I was puttering in my studio, cleaning brushes, when the crises arrived. I knew it would come; it had been building for a long time. I almost welcomed it. It was like a great wave breaking over me. I looked at my latest work, arranged about the walls, and it was as though I was seeing it for the first time. Here was a Commanche child bawling over a broken toy horse. There was a Pocahantas-type howling at the moon, yonder a melancholy Inuit sniffled over a slab of seal blubber. A big canvas, fully fifteen feet across by seven high, took up most of one wall. It was nearly completed. I suppose you could say it was my crowning masterpiece. In the left foreground, an incredibly noble-looking chief in full war bonnet was leaking tears; beside him a beautiful young woman (his daughter maybe) was crying in a proud yet broken manner, her cheeks sparkly with tears; on her back she carried a papoose, and it was crying; at her feet, a dog with shiny eyes was baying dolefully; in the background the entire tribe was gathered, bawling hysterically. It was the biggest mass crying jag in recorded history. Vercammon was right; he ’d been right all along. I put down my rags and slowly walked up to this painting, and I addressed each person in it. “You make me sick, ” I said. I went around the studio and formally told each painting that it made me sick. Then I felt a lot better.

I destroyed those paintings, though they were worth a lot of money. And from that day on, I never painted another crying Indian. I went back to my old style, keeping my work hidden, and I attacked the subject matter with a vigor I truly didn 't know I had in me. My landscapes became flatter and more distorted yet, my figures gaunter and ever more haunted. I was doing the best work of my life, and I knew it. I even, purely out of defiance, painted a portrait of a gaunt but laughing Tom Begay, with eyes so wide and haunted and staring as to make Barney Google look like a habitual squinter. I finished eighteen canvases in just under six weeks, a stupendous output. And all of it was good.

But Gordon Grogan wasn ’t having any. He wouldn 't give me a show. He wouldn 't even display the work, any of it. “Oh, no. No way.

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25 No way in hell. I run a business. You want my advice?—you burn every one of these canvases. This stuff would ruin your sales. I’ m talking about all of your sales. The value of every painting you ’ ve ever done would go down, and that includes the ones I bought as an investment. You can ’t go backwards in this game. It’ s career suicide. No, I won ’t be a party to it. Say, why don ’t you do some more of that morose Eskimo stuff? It’ s attracting a lot of attention. Nobody does sobbing Eskimos but you. ”

“You ’ re not listening to me. ”

“I’ m afraid you ’ re not listening to me. I’ ve been in this business a long, long time, buddy. Go back to what you were doing. ”

“It’ s my new work—or rather my new old work—or nothing!”

“Then it’ s nothing. ”

And he meant it. But so did I. I stuck to my guns. And I did have my show, in the end. Not at the prestigious Gordon Grogan Gallery but in a little gallery-and-crafts store called Bob’ s Art Hut, tucked into the corner of a shabby strip mall. Unfortunately, I didn 't sell a single painting. Not a damned one. And I haven ’t sold one since, not for the last twenty months. As for Vicky—well, she packed her things and walked out the door. She said I was a fool and a self-righteous fool, and my crazy crusade was absolutely the last straw. She started going out with, and before long moved in with, that bastard Gordon Grogan. I doubt very much she ’ll ever come back to me. I had to give up my studio when I could no longer cover the rent. I can hardly stand the smell of paint any more. Who ’ s weeping now?