No resemblance to actual post abstract expressionists intended...
Saluting The Flag
New York in 1955 was a long way from how it had been when he arrived in ‘45, and that itself had been light years from the petrified structures of blood and dust that was all then left of Dresden. Making money was easy, as usual. The authorities had shipped him out of Germany because intelligence had identified him as a scientist they could use; in fact he had shared a cabin for a couple of days with Werner Von Braun; but whereas Operation Paperclip gave the latter a major role in the frantic Space Race, Frank’s biological breakthroughs were of little practical interest to America, and he had soon been allowed to find work in the private sector. Americans had money; American women had money and what they wanted to spend it on was themselves. The early days in Cologne opened doors and Frank was soon designing perfumes for the middle classes who could never aspire to the European classics. It was only a couple of months since Von Braun had got American nationality, whatever that meant, and Frank was delighted to think of him in Huntsville Alabama, working twelve hours a day, shooting at the moon, while he spent an hour or two in is penthouse office, scribbled down a few chemical recipes, and spent the rest of his hours doing whatever he pleased.
Frank was not so dull as to miss the fact that self aggrandisement was one of his two vital principles, the other being elegant cruelty. For this reason he was delighted to find himself sitting on an improbably long velvet sofa with the cream of the art and fashion world waiting to be photographed and interviewed for the New Yorker magazine. He recognised many of his so- called contemporaries, although he was in his nineties in some real sense: Warhol, Pollock, Greenberg; about a dozen more. Two of the men, one about twenty five and the other five years or so older, caught his eye, and as the assistant editor finished her introduction to the afternoon’s work and coffee arrived he decided to introduce himself.
“Kørner, Frank,” he said, shaking the hand of the older man, “I’m in perfume. I haven’t met you before”.
“Robert. No I’m from out of town, Texas, as if you couldn’t guess from the accent, and this is Jack, well Jasper really.” Jack smiled and shook Frank’s hand. Frank breathed quietly and held the second; something unfamiliar was happening.
“What are you in?” he enquired.
“God knows,” Robert spoke quickly, as if he were protecting his friend from the difficulties of social intercourse. “We’re artists, we have studios in the same brownstone. Someone told Miss New Yorker over there that we are the new hip thing.”
“I’m in the groove Jackson!” At last Jack spoke and they tried fairly unsuccessfully to stifle their laughter since Pollock was only standing a couple of yards away, manifestly failing to enjoy the coffee. Frank caught what he thought was a triple meaning and smiled with what he hoped might be taken for camaraderie. He dropped his card and scribbled down their studio address, which turned out to be their apartment also. It was agreed that he would visit later in the day to see the work which the New Yorker claimed was the Next Big Thing after abstract expressionism.
Frank had to admit to himself that he was a couple of dry martinis ahead of sober when he arrived at the studio, but Robert had left him at the starting line. He sat on a hinged wooden ladder and swung his arm around, spilling rye over the surrounding canvasses.
“Fuck the gesture, Frank. It’s all about the real images in the real world, not the psyched up shit that makes you throw Prussian Blue here or black fucking housepaint there. Goddamn it, why paint flat? You can’t deny that paintings have three dimensions, four if you count the making time. Photographs, objects, film… This is what the new art is.”
Frank surveyed the evidence of his host’s assertions. He had always been a bit of a Klimt man himself, and he really was a contemporary. This parade of modern debris was ugly, but it was also exciting. “And what is the new art about?” he asked.
“Everything, nothing. America.” Robert took a large swig of rye “Fuck it, I’m steamed Frank. Jack knows. He has beer and paint and the flag.”
Frank was surprised. He had hardly expected the symbol of a conservative nation as a subject for these radical artists. Most people, himself included, didn’t get abstract expressionism, so something even more radical was bound to be alien.
“What does he mean; the flag?” He asked Jack.
“It’s in my studio on the other floor,” Jack spoke hesitantly and checked Robert for support. Unfortunately Robert was snoring atop the ladder, a mixture of bourbon and piss staining the leg of his blue dungarees. “Would you care to look at what I have so far?”
“Of course,” replied Frank, leading the way to the door, “I would love to see what you’re working on.”
Jack’s studio was calm where Robert’s was riotous. Frank now felt a coolness of thought which reminded him of himself in Svalbard. He touched the waxy surface of the paintings and then the cheeks of their creator. They kissed, and later that night he woke to find himself fellated before the multiple flags that hovered in the studio’s gloom.
New York in 1955 was a long way from how it had been when he arrived in ‘45, and that itself had been light years from the petrified structures of blood and dust that was all then left of Dresden. Making money was easy, as usual. The authorities had shipped him out of Germany because intelligence had identified him as a scientist they could use; in fact he had shared a cabin for a couple of days with Werner Von Braun; but whereas Operation Paperclip gave the latter a major role in the frantic Space Race, Frank’s biological breakthroughs were of little practical interest to America, and he had soon been allowed to find work in the private sector. Americans had money; American women had money and what they wanted to spend it on was themselves. The early days in Cologne opened doors and Frank was soon designing perfumes for the middle classes who could never aspire to the European classics. It was only a couple of months since Von Braun had got American nationality, whatever that meant, and Frank was delighted to think of him in Huntsville Alabama, working twelve hours a day, shooting at the moon, while he spent an hour or two in is penthouse office, scribbled down a few chemical recipes, and spent the rest of his hours doing whatever he pleased.
Frank was not so dull as to miss the fact that self aggrandisement was one of his two vital principles, the other being elegant cruelty. For this reason he was delighted to find himself sitting on an improbably long velvet sofa with the cream of the art and fashion world waiting to be photographed and interviewed for the New Yorker magazine. He recognised many of his so- called contemporaries, although he was in his nineties in some real sense: Warhol, Pollock, Greenberg; about a dozen more. Two of the men, one about twenty five and the other five years or so older, caught his eye, and as the assistant editor finished her introduction to the afternoon’s work and coffee arrived he decided to introduce himself.
“Kørner, Frank,” he said, shaking the hand of the older man, “I’m in perfume. I haven’t met you before”.
“Robert. No I’m from out of town, Texas, as if you couldn’t guess from the accent, and this is Jack, well Jasper really.” Jack smiled and shook Frank’s hand. Frank breathed quietly and held the second; something unfamiliar was happening.
“What are you in?” he enquired.
“God knows,” Robert spoke quickly, as if he were protecting his friend from the difficulties of social intercourse. “We’re artists, we have studios in the same brownstone. Someone told Miss New Yorker over there that we are the new hip thing.”
“I’m in the groove Jackson!” At last Jack spoke and they tried fairly unsuccessfully to stifle their laughter since Pollock was only standing a couple of yards away, manifestly failing to enjoy the coffee. Frank caught what he thought was a triple meaning and smiled with what he hoped might be taken for camaraderie. He dropped his card and scribbled down their studio address, which turned out to be their apartment also. It was agreed that he would visit later in the day to see the work which the New Yorker claimed was the Next Big Thing after abstract expressionism.
Frank had to admit to himself that he was a couple of dry martinis ahead of sober when he arrived at the studio, but Robert had left him at the starting line. He sat on a hinged wooden ladder and swung his arm around, spilling rye over the surrounding canvasses.
“Fuck the gesture, Frank. It’s all about the real images in the real world, not the psyched up shit that makes you throw Prussian Blue here or black fucking housepaint there. Goddamn it, why paint flat? You can’t deny that paintings have three dimensions, four if you count the making time. Photographs, objects, film… This is what the new art is.”
Frank surveyed the evidence of his host’s assertions. He had always been a bit of a Klimt man himself, and he really was a contemporary. This parade of modern debris was ugly, but it was also exciting. “And what is the new art about?” he asked.
“Everything, nothing. America.” Robert took a large swig of rye “Fuck it, I’m steamed Frank. Jack knows. He has beer and paint and the flag.”
Frank was surprised. He had hardly expected the symbol of a conservative nation as a subject for these radical artists. Most people, himself included, didn’t get abstract expressionism, so something even more radical was bound to be alien.
“What does he mean; the flag?” He asked Jack.
“It’s in my studio on the other floor,” Jack spoke hesitantly and checked Robert for support. Unfortunately Robert was snoring atop the ladder, a mixture of bourbon and piss staining the leg of his blue dungarees. “Would you care to look at what I have so far?”
“Of course,” replied Frank, leading the way to the door, “I would love to see what you’re working on.”
Jack’s studio was calm where Robert’s was riotous. Frank now felt a coolness of thought which reminded him of himself in Svalbard. He touched the waxy surface of the paintings and then the cheeks of their creator. They kissed, and later that night he woke to find himself fellated before the multiple flags that hovered in the studio’s gloom.
