The Responsive Eye
Robert was the first to greet them as they arrived at the
gallery, exuding paranoia and largesse in equal quantities. Neither Helen nor
Frank were impressed, although for different reasons: Helen, because her work
was, since ’58, superfluous to that of “The Guys”. Frank, meanwhile, was engaged
in deciding between two exquisite ends for Spong. These seemed mutually
exclusive, but Frank was an artist in his own unique way, and he was teasing
incessantly at a way of ending Spong that united both strands of his wrath and
gave them more than adequate satisfaction.
“Listen to this Frank: Subjective perversions of the
contents of objective perception. That’s what it’s all about; that’s what
we do when we make this shit!” and he swung his arms dramatically to include
everything visible from this point and beyond in MoMA. “That’s what some German
guy called Külpe
said anyhow, and I believe him”.
Frank had known Külpe well during his teenage years: the
psychologist to be was only a few months younger than Frank, and they had met
at a Summer School for gifted children in Denmark around 1876. He remembered
both an intense discussion on the possibility of imageless thought and some
rather unsatisfactory mutual masturbation. This was indeed an imageless
thought, since the event had occurred in complete darkness and silence while
the other boys slept. Frank smiled away the memory and considered some
paintings: he had already seen the Louis, both in the studio and then at the
Emmerich house. It was impressively large and used the pouring and staining
techniques Morris had stolen from Helen. It had gravity, was about gravity and
viewed in that way the colours were just contemporary, and of course the
contemporary meant nothing to Frank unless he could profit by exploiting it.
And suddenly there was Ellsworth standing by his piece: Green,
Blue, Red. He was speaking to a group of journalists, but the painting was
speaking only to Frank. He saw two phials; one blue and one green against an
enormous red field. One was the container for the virus, the other for the
cerebral fluid. One had to precede the other, and he realised that he had to
give this one time. Spong must carry the virus to other vapid sensualists
first, and then be given a partial death in contribution to Frank’s inexorable
growth. Central park in the dark was going to be the seed bed of Frank’s
greater sentence on those who had sullied his one pure love.
A glorious Frank Stella confronted him now: Line Up; four
sequences of dissected triangles heading for the centre of the canvass, their
arrival there slightly mistimed. This had purpose. This steeled Frank’s nerve
to carry out his awful vengeance. There was the centre, and his purpose would
get there in a slightly staggered way. Right now, he had to be more than nice
to Spong, who was fawning on some potential buyer by demanding cigarettes from
Helen as if she were his best friend. Helen handed over the whole pack of
Luckies and returned to Frank scowling.
“Arrogant bastard,” she muttered into Frank’s ear. “He thinks I’m
just a fag-hag. I’d love to fuck him over in front of everyone. He’s a leech:
look what he did to Jack”.
Frank did something that he found most difficult, but necessary,
for he needed accomplices: he put his arm around Helen’s shoulders and
whispered “And we will fuck him over, Helen; remember that. We will fuck him
over with all his witless, untalented, sycophantic friends.” Helen kissed his
cheek, her breath heavy with champagne and nicotine.
“Ellsworth and Morris are heading down to the Half-Note. Coltrane
is being broadcast live on WABC. Let’s go now. And Frank, you make perfumes,
you’re nor going to ice him”.
Frank could feel the ageless air of the cave suddenly. The babble
of conversation ceased; the paintings seemed to fade to grey tone tiles in a
suspension of time. He most definitely would ice Spong, but before that
he must take them all down. The Jack affair had taught him that physical love
was for creatures who preferred their own bodily excretions to the pure possibilities
of the mind. He had come a long way from that night in The Pepper Mill, but
similar techniques were needed now to achieve his ends. He was going to have to
seduce Spong before killing him.
“Let’s go now and get a good seat and some fine Vodka. You can
tell me all about the people Spong hangs with now.”
Helen took his hand. “You’ll have it all by the time our asses hit
the bar stools!”
