The Truth About Lorin Jones

by Alison Lurie

  When she talked it over with Elsa she came to realize that in the past thirteen years she’d acquired a new set of friends: better off, more conservative politically, and more apt to be conventionally married. Though she still considered herself a feminist, she’d lost touch with most of the members of her old consciousness-raising group, who didn’t get on with Jim; she saw them only once or twice a year now, and always alone. “I had lunch with Wild Wilhemina today,” she would report disloyally afterward, using the nickname she’d invented to amuse him. “Oh, really?” Jim would reply, grinning in anticipation. “What’s she into these days?”

  Without realizing it, Polly had accepted Jim’s mild but persistent idea of who they were; of who she was. She had betrayed her old friends for him; and she had betrayed herself. She herself had become conventional. She hadn’t noticed this because it had happened so slowly, and because she was bamboozled by superficialities. She had thought that she was different from the wives of Jim’s scientific colleagues: she believed her free, sometimes foul language, and her Mexican embroidered smocks and African jewelry and brown-rice casseroles outweighed the fact that she lived on Central Park West and read New York Magazine the day it came, while Mother Jones and Ms slumped unopened for weeks in the wicker basket in the bathroom. Probably Jim’s friends had been quietly laughing at her all those years.

  The worst discovery of the summer was that, as if Jim’s parting wish had been a curse, she wasn’t able to paint. Alone in her studio weekend after muggy weekend, with the boxes of toys and winter clothes shoved aside, she stared at canvases that seemed to have dissolved into ugly messes of color like spilt or vomited food: a half-scrambled egg dropped on the floor, or regurgitated pizza. Somehow Jim’s departure had destroyed her creative will. And even if she could have finished something, it wouldn’t have had any future. The loose, painterly style she had developed in college wasn’t fashionable anymore. Unless you were already famous no gallery wanted 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 of her work. And a gallery like this has a reputation to maintain, you must realize.

  It’s hard to answer that. I think what I saw was a certain confusion, a lack of control, a series of experiments that didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

  Of course, it might have been temporary, but unfortunately —

  Naturally, you have a right to your opinion. But I believe it’s generally agreed that those late paintings —

  How do I explain it? Well, I’m afraid it’s something one occasionally sees in an artist’s work. There is a brilliant debut, but no staying power. Take, for example ...

  Yes, to tell the truth, I do think that it happens more often with the women.

  No. As a matter of fact, in my honest opinion, there’s never been a woman artist of the very first rank.

  Certainly, Cassatt did some rather fine things. But even her best work is a bit derivative, isn’t it? And when you compare her to her contemporaries, her masters: Manet, Renoir. Well, now, really —

  O’Keeffe? Yes, she’s very popular just now. And of course she was a remarkable personality. But just between us, Miss Alter, isn’t there something a little forced there, a little slick? Those smooth flat surfaces, those creamy pastels; rather like the American advertising art of the thirties, I’ve always thought.

  No, I was very glad to show Lorin’s work. She had a definite talent, and her paintings were accessible. A dealer can’t always fill his gallery with masterpieces, you know.

  Well of course there are many anomalies in nature. I wouldn’t want to predict that there never will be one. But essentially I think it goes against the grain. It is the same in music and the theater. Women have been magnificent performers, oh yes. Singers, concert artists, dancers, actresses; because it is natural for the woman to display herself. But as composers, or dramatists — well, you know as well as I do —

  In literature, yes, to some extent. But then a novel or a poem is a kind of performance, is it not? And even so, the highest level of achievement is very rare. You see, it goes against the grain. A real woman, like my wife, she doesn’t have the impulse to create works of art; she is a work of art.

  Yes, I have heard that argument.

  Please, don’t mistake
me. I said nothing about critics; women have excelled at criticism for centuries, unfortunately.

  If you want to believe that, of course it is your privilege.

  I really can’t answer that question, I’m afraid.

  I have no idea; and I do not sit here to listen to insults of my profession.

  All right, Miss Alter, you are sorry; very well. But excuse me, I don’t give you any more time now. I’m expecting a client.

  I suppose you could try calling my secretary next week. She may be able to set up another appointment.

  2

  TWO WEEKS LATER, IN one of those West Village bistros that strive to resemble a country-house garden, with sandblasted brick walls, rough scrubbed pine chairs and tables, and rampant ivy and pink geraniums, Polly sat opposite Lorin Jones’s half brother, Professor Leonard Zimmern. It was the first time in months that she’d been alone in a restaurant with a man, and not her own idea. She had proposed interviewing Zimmern in his office at the university, but he had refused, saying that there would be too many damn interruptions. Maybe so, but it would have been more professional.

  From her dealings with him at the time of the show, “Three American Women,” Polly knew Lennie Zimmern to be a difficult person, moody and given to cutting remarks. He was tall and thin, with a short pointed gray beard like a man in an Elizabethan miniature, theatrical dark eyebrows, strongly marked features, and a sharp, ironic expression. So far today he had been agreeable enough; but why the hell shouldn’t he be? He was Lorin Jones’s nearest surviving relative, and the owner of all her unsold paintings; it was in his interest that they should become better known and therefore more and more marketable.

  As soon as they had been served coffee, Polly opened a spiral notebook containing a list of prepared questions, ranged in decreasing order of harmlessness according to the advice given her by a friend who was a professional journalist. Then she set her tape recorder on the plastic placemat with its view of Warwick Castle. Lennie, like all her previous interviewees, flinched slightly at the sight. He sat back and straightened his spine, confronting her more squarely.

  For a while everything went well enough. Lennie answered the easy questions without hesitation, supplying dates, addresses, and the names of relatives and schools. But when Polly started to ask about Lorin Jones’s parents he began to speak more slowly and give short, unhelpful replies. (“Sorry, I don’t recall... I don’t remember, really ... It’s a long time ago.”)

  “Can’t you tell me any more?” she asked as persuasively as she could. “You said just now that you visited your father’s new family fairly often.”

  “Not all that often. It was a long trip from Queens, and my mother wasn’t all that keen on my making it.” He smiled sourly.

  “But you must remember something of what it was like there.”

  Lennie smiled briefly sideways, not exactly in Polly’s direction, and shook his head.

  “Really?... I find that hard to believe.” She waited, but he merely shrugged and took another sip of espresso. “I’m beginning to get the feeling that you don’t want me to write about your sister,” she said finally, not quite in control of her tone for the first time.

  “I don’t want you to write the kind of personal things you’ve been asking for; no. In my view, it’s far too soon for anything like an analytic biography.”

  “But you said — you agreed —” Remembering what had happened with Paolo Carducci, she tried to keep the indignation out of her voice. Jeanne was right; she wasn’t going to get anywhere that way.

  “I agreed to the idea of a book on Laura, yes. But what I assumed you had in mind was a study of her paintings — an extension of what you wrote in the catalogue.”

  “Well, of course I’m planning to discuss the paintings,” Polly said, trying to remain calm.

  “I think you should concentrate on that.” Lennie smiled in an irritating way. “On the professional side of her life.”

  Don’t tell me what to concentrate on, Polly thought angrily. But she feigned docility and began to ask about Lorin Jones’s early years. Did she show artistic talent as a child, did she win prizes, did her parents and her teachers recognize her ability and encourage her? “Yeah, I think so,” Lennie kept saying; but he wouldn’t provide any details.

  “You’re not helping much, you know,” she told him finally.

  “I know. I’m trying, but you’ve got to remember we grew up apart, and I was nearly five years older than Laura. It wasn’t until she’d finished college and was studying in New York that we really got acquainted.”

  “So you didn’t know her all that well as a little girl,” Polly said, trying to give the appearance of believing this.

  “No. But I don’t think anyone did. Laura was extremely shy, you know. Especially with older people. When I visited my father’s house, most of the time she’d be up in her room, or out in the garden playing with her dolls under the lilac bushes. Or making up stories and singing them to herself, or drawing — yeah, I do remember her drawing sometimes.”

  “And would you say she was a happy child?”

  “Happy?” Lennie squinted past Polly and the bleached brick wall of the restaurant, into some lost space.

  Now he’s going to tell me, Polly thought; making an effort, she said nothing more. But when Lennie looked back at her, his jaw was set. “As I believe I mentioned before,” he said, heavily ironic, “I don’t see the point of questions like that. Who knows what happiness is for anyone else?”

  “Mmh,” Polly agreed, disagreeing.

  “Anyhow, it’s unimportant, in my view, whether or not an artist was happy as a child. Or as an adult, for that matter.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Suppose Laura wasn’t happy? Telling everyone about it now won’t do her any good. And people who are still alive could be hurt.”

  “People who are alive?” Polly asked, thinking at once of Lorin Jones’s principal persecutors. “Do you mean her dealer, or Garrett Jones? Or do you mean Hugh Cameron?”

  “I don’t mean anyone. That was a general comment.”

  Lying, you’re lying, Polly thought with rage, but managed with great effort not to say. “I see.”

  Lennie laughed sourly. “If you want to know, I wasn’t thinking of any of them. I suppose I was thinking of myself. I’m in no hurry to read about how mean I was to my little sister.”

  “And were you mean to your little sister?” she asked as casually as possible.

  “About as often as most boys, I expect.” Again he gazed past Polly. Give them enough rope, Jeanne’s voice whispered inside her head, and they’ll hang themselves.

  “Well, go on,” Lennie said abruptly, using the rope she had given him as a lash rather than a noose. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Nothing — I —”

  “If you’re expecting some sensational tale of child abuse, forget it.” He grinned mockingly at her. “That’s what you were hoping for, wasn’t it? Your eyes were positively popping.”

  Polly’s hands tightened on her notebook, becoming fists. “If you don’t want to answer a question, then don’t,” she said as politely as she could manage, which was not very politely.

  Lennie stopped grinning. “Let me make my position clear, okay?” he said in a weary lecturing voice. “I’m not principally concerned for my own reputation.” (The hell you’re not, she thought.) “But I really despise the current fashion for exposing the private lives of artists and writers. Nothing is gained for literature when we learn that someone cheated on his taxes or his wife. That’s not the point; the point is the text, the work.”

  “But what we know about an artist’s life can usually tell us something about the work,” Polly protested.

  “So you say. But how often does it really? If you want to know what I think —”

  “Yes, sure,” she lied.

  “I think this passion for revealing the most intimate and embarrassing details about well-known people is a byproduct of envy. They must be exposed as flawed or
unhappy, to deflect the rage we feel against them for their gifts, their fame. We can only stand the idea that van Gogh, or Virginia Woolf, say, was a genius and we’re not, if we keep reminding ourselves that they were miserable most of the time. Psychotic even.”

  “You may be right,” Polly said, employing the all-purpose phrase suggested to her for such moments by Jeanne. In her own mouth it sounded thin and phony, but Lennie seemed not to notice.

  “And it’s not only artists and writers. It’s the same with all celebrities. We want to hear how beautiful and brilliant and rich and successful such people are; but we also want to hear what terrible childhoods they had and how they’ve been wretchedly poor or ill, or alcoholic, or frustrated in love. There’s always going to be a residue of envy though, even so, unless the celebrity comes to a bad end. So what we really want is for them to kill themselves, or get themselves murdered, or die horribly of drink or drugs or cancer. Then our envy and hatred are satisfied, and our love can be pure.”

  “Maybe,” Polly said, silently rejecting his theory. She didn’t envy or hate Lorin Jones; she loved and admired her. Maybe that’s the way it is for people like you, she thought. “But that’s not what my book’s going to be like,” she added aloud.

  “No? What will it be like, then, Polly?” Lennie leaned across the table, fixing his bright dark eyes on hers, and giving her a penetrating smile. “I know,” he said, grinning. “It’s going to be a no-holds-barred indictment of the patriarchal system. Isn’t that right?”

  Polly’s immediate impulse was to tell Lennie to go to hell and walk out. But she checked herself; she had to get on with him, because among other things he held the copyright on Lorin Jones’s work. He knows it, too, she thought furiously.