Esther spoke up. “You should read Rilke,” she said.
I hadn’t heard of him and said so. “No?” was her reply, her eyes expressive with concern. As I was to learn, she had a poor opinion of the American educational system. “You Americans. You are all orphans,” she would say. “Wait here,” she said, rising from the table, and despite her age she nimbly climbed the stairs. A few minutes later, after the conversation at the table had resumed, she returned, carrying a small dog-eared paperback. “Here,” she said. “You can borrow this if you promise to bring it back.”
I looked at the book. It was entitled Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke. I thanked her.
“Esther loaned me the book a few years ago,” said Aurelio.
“What’s it about?” I asked Esther.
“Rilke was a famous German poet in the early part of the century,” she replied. “A young military student contacted him seeking his advice. The student was torn between being an officer and being a poet. He sent his poems to Rilke, who wrote back to him. Eventually there were ten letters. Rilke said that it is never a question of whether one should become an artist or not. You either are or you aren’t. If you cannot live without creating, that is all you can be. If you can live without, then you aren’t. But it also takes work. Much work. Many years. You have to ‘gehen Sie in sich,’ as Rilke said. You have to go inside yourself.”
I nodded my head, unsure of my commitment. These people were artists, even Aurelio. It cloaked them like religion, like a mother’s love. It fed them, gave them purpose, joy. But I was in embryo. My path unknown, my devotion untested. I was like a traveler from another country. The customs were attractive yet unfamiliar. I was afraid of doing the wrong thing, of giving offense.
“Take the book. Read it,” said Esther, her smile kindly yet meaningful. She was paring a peach with an old knife. “You are very young. Remember, being an artist is very hard. If you aren’t careful, it can destroy you.”
“Bene. Enough with the serious talk,” announced Paolo, putting down his wineglass. Our bowls were empty, the last drops of soup mopped up with the bread. “You have some beautiful paintings to show me. Aurelio, why don’t you bring them out to the studio?”
I followed Aurelio back across the lawn to the truck and retrieved the canvases. We then walked around the old barn to a modern, rectangular studio, its walls nearly all glass. Paolo was already there and had unlocked the door for us. He sat in a chair in front of a small desk by an unlit potbellied stove.
There were several easels scattered around the room with canvases in various stages of development. Some of his finished work was on the walls, more in racks. His paintings were beautiful, original. Rich with the colors of the Old World. The Mediterranean blue of the sky. The sunbaked brown of the earth. The black of widow’s scarves. The older paintings were more figurative. Families on the beach, young children. Nudes. I wondered if they were of Esther and their children, now grown. The more recent works were more abstract but with the same marvelous colors, the same sense of life. They made me feel as though I was standing at an open window, seeing things I had never seen before but intuitively recognizing them. Bulls. Widows. Lovers. I could almost feel the heat, the smell of the sea. In the back, there were racks of more paintings. The studio had no electricity. When it got too dark, it was time to stop for the day. Aurelio had told me that in the winter, when the days were shorter, Paolo and Esther often traveled so he could teach in Rotterdam, Milan, Berkeley, Cambridge. He had paintings in collections all over the world.
“Show me,” Paolo commanded. Aurelio had brought a dozen or so paintings. “Ahh,” said Paolo, as he took each one in turn. He leaned back in his chair, his forefinger to his lips. “Buono.”
When the canvases had been shown, Paolo said, “Bravo, Aurelio. You are learning well. But don’t be too eager yet. You are like a horse that wants to run too fast. Learn to pace yourself. Otherwise, you may tire and stumble.”
Aurelio stiffened but nodded his head, saying nothing.
“It is a question of finding your style. It is like Esther said: In order to find your own artistic voice you must go inside yourself. That is the difference between an artist and someone who moves paint around. You must learn to trust yourself, si?”
Aurelio nodded again. I was also speechless. To me, Aurelio’s paintings were perfect, but after hearing what Paolo said I understood why he criticized them. Despite their beauty and the skill with which Aurelio had painted them, they were void of anything personal. I hesitated to show Paolo my own much less ambitious work, but he said, “Come, Wylie Coyote. Show me your paintings!”
Silently, I stood and displayed what I had brought. Again, Paolo leaned back in his chair, saying, “Si, si.”
“I also have drawings,” I offered.
“Bene. Let me see them, per piacere,” he said, reaching out his hand. Like the rest of him, it was small and finely formed yet strong.
He studied them. They were mainly pencil and charcoal drawings. A portrait of my mother drawn over spring vacation, friends from school.
“Prego. I have bad news and good news for you, Wylie Coyote,” said Paolo with a smile. “The bad news is that you have no idea what you are doing. You are like a baby that has been taught how to walk all wrong. It is important for you to relearn how to walk and only later can you run, si?” He laughed. It was impossible to disagree. “But the good news is that you have talent. The question is whether you can do what is required, si?”
I nodded my head. “What should I do?”
“You need a teacher. A good one.”
“Will you teach me?”
He bobbled his head noncommittally, making a steeple of his fingers. “We’ll see. It is possible, but first you need to do certain things.”
“What?”
“You must read the Rilke. Esther is right. If the book sounds true to you then you may have what is needed. There are other books. Arnheim, for example. John Berger. But start with Rilke. Also, you must draw all the time. Carry a sketchbook and pencil with you everywhere you go. Draw everything.”
“Is that all?”
He laughed. “No. Also, you must spend a lot of time looking at paintings. Really looking at paintings. Go to museums. Visit ateliers. Educate yourself. When I was a student that’s what we would do. We would look at everything. We wanted to know how it was made, what made it good, si? We were like wild animals, hungry all the time.” He made a snarling face and then laughed. “If it is really good, you will know because those are the paintings you wish you had done yourself, and you will lust after them like a disappointed lover because you never did. You will feel an ache here.” He held his hands to his heart. “And here,” he added with a laugh, pointing to his crotch. “Now, come,” he said, ushering us out. “I am an old man, and I need to rest.”
“May I come back?” I asked as we strolled back to the house.
“Naturalmente,” said Paolo. “You may come back tomorrow, if you wish. I could use a strong back. There is much work to do that I am either too old or too lazy to do myself. That is the best way to apprentice, no?” he added with a laugh. I said good-bye to Esther. She handed me the Rilke, which I had left on the kitchen table. “Good luck, young man,” she said.
For the rest of the summer, I returned to their house in Springs every day after work. I read the Rilke. Swept the studio. Cleaned the brushes. Stretched canvas. Helped patch a leak in the roof. Weeded the garden. Ran errands. Afterward, Paolo and I would have a glass of wine under the willow tree that grew near the front door, Esther joining us. They would critique my drawings. Sometimes there would be other friends. A famous artist lived across the street, a Romanian whose clever drawings frequently appeared on the cover of The New Yorker. There were also former students. A gallery owner from the city. Admirers from Europe who spoke only Italian; they would sit there in the garden wearing their jackets over their shoulders like capes, smoking cigarettes while Esther waited on them.
Most of their f
riends came to them, but once I was asked to drive Paolo to the house of another painter, a short distance away. It was de Kooning, white-haired and disheveled. “Bill,” said Paolo as the old men embraced. I sat in the background while the two artists talked, each in his own accented English. Their friendship spanned decades.
Many of their friends were dead, though. Pollock, whose name they pronounced “Po-lack,” Rothko, Gorky. Pollock had given Paolo and Esther one of his early paintings as a sign of friendship when his career was just beginning to take off. The famous Life article had already appeared. They hung the painting in various rooms in the house, but after a few months they returned it, saying it didn’t work anywhere. Pollock was not offended. He understood. Esther laughed when she told the story. The loss of a painting that would one day be worth in the millions was of no importance to her.
There were other works of art in the house by friends. A Rothko sketch. A small Kandinsky, from when they met in Paris before the war. A Calder mobile. In the corner was a tall Giacometti. Most staggering of all, an entire wall covered in a mural painted by a man who was more famous as an architect but which was still stunning. Otherwise the house was very simple, almost empty. Everything was precise, nothing extraneous, like a Zen garden. There was only one bathroom, with an enormous iron tub that had ball-and-claw feet. This was harder on the women than the men, of course, who were happy to do their business in the bushes. Over the many years I visited, the house never changed. The only additions were new books, new friends, and new grandchildren.
I saw less of Aurelio than I would have liked. He now possessed a reserve that hadn’t been there before. He may have been hurt that I was spending so much time with Paolo. Or he may have been embarrassed that I was present when Paolo critiqued his work. That is the problem with modesty. Too often it masks deep ambition. It would have been one thing if Paolo had complimented his work. Then Aurelio could have been self-effacing. But to hope for one reaction and receive a lesser response not only is truly humbling but can also be truly disappointing.
When we drove home that afternoon, we just barely talked about what Paolo had said to him. “He’s right, of course,” said Aurelio glumly. “My work is too imitative. I need to find my own way.” I did stop by on several occasions, hoping to find him in. He was always friendly but more introspective, less confident.
On those occasions, I would catch glimpses of Cesca, but always from a distance. Walking into the house followed by a tall man with long blond hair. Talking in the garden with her grandmother. Carrying groceries. There was never a convenient opportunity to speak to her. Once, I stopped to watch her play doubles with her mother, Roger, and another guest. She was wearing a short white tennis dress, with her hair tied back. Long legs. Pink pom-poms on her socks. She bounced the ball twice with her hand on the clay before delivering a rifle shot of a serve down the line, past her uncle, who couldn’t lay his racquet on it. Pleased, she turned and winked at me, then shifted to the other side of the baseline and served again with equal power.
Roger yelled out some comment, half in jest, half in frustration. I lingered a few more moments for the sheer pleasure of watching her move.
As Paolo suggested, I had bought a sketchbook, and soon I was filling its pages. At lunch, I would draw the men I worked with. They were locals. Initially they were annoyed about being asked to sit still, but they usually liked what I showed them. Most of them asked to keep their portraits. I also drew groups of girls on the beach, seagulls, children playing in the waves, old couples strolling together. Some were quick studies, others more finished. Like Paolo I was drawn to the beach for its good light, variety of subject matter, and natural compositional qualities.
The days melted into one another as I began to have an understanding of myself, no longer as son or student or teammate, but as someone apart. This, I said silently, this is what I want. To watch as something beautiful emerges on a blank page, to get something right, to make a mistake and go back and try again. It was like the thrilling early days of love, when everything is possible.
9
AS THE END OF SUMMER NEARED, I WAS INVITED TO A FAREWELL dinner for Aurelio. He was returning to Barcelona in a few days. Cosmo was the cook. He was one of those people who seemed to be good at everything. Good student, star athlete. Once I had been leaving Aurelio’s studio, and I heard piano music. I followed it to the main house. There, through an open window, I could see and hear Cosmo playing, his head bowed in concentration, the fingers flying over the keyboard, the notes lingering in the air. For several moments, I stood there mesmerized. Finally, I had to remove myself, concerned he might suddenly stop and see me.
At the dinner were Izzy and Ruth Baum, looking older and frailer, Paolo and Esther, Roger, Dot, Kitty, and Randall. All the Bonet children, of course, and a few of their friends. I felt flattered to be asked.
Cesca was dating a tall, handsome Greek named Pavlos, who lived in Southampton. He wore a gold chain around his neck and a heavy mustache and drove a vintage Maserati. I had never been so close to a car like that before. I couldn’t help admiring its sleek design, the polished wooden steering wheel and leather seats. “How are you, Wylie?” asked Cesca, her hand on my forearm. Her voice familiarly raspy. I had barely seen her. She appeared always to be in motion, elusive as music from another room.
She was wearing a white peasant-style blouse with embroidery in the front, showing off her deep tan. It hung off her shoulders, revealing her clavicle. “I like your hair longer,” she said. I had been letting it grow. She reached out and touched the back of my head. “So handsome.” She talked to me now the way an adult does to a child or a horse. I resented her trying to keep putting distance between us. Did she regret our time together so much? “Aurelio says you’ve been seeing a lot of Paolo. He’s a friend of Pare’s, you know.”
I nodded my head. We were standing out on the porch. She was smoking and held a wineglass in her other hand. I had drunk nothing so far. The police had started cracking down on drinking and driving.
“They all knew each other in Paris,” she continued. “Have you ever been to Paris, Wylie?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“You should. I’d be happy to give you names of people there.”
“Thank you. I’d like to go.” What I really wanted to say was: I’d like to go with you. She would wear a kerchief around her head, shop in the little stores along cobblestoned side streets, in the evening we’d have aperitifs at a sidewalk café. I would paint. Every night we’d make love in our small bed. We’d be together again. Like before.
“Let me see your sketchbook,” she said, removing it from my back pocket. I didn’t try to stop her even if I could have. She put her glass down on the railing and flipped through the pages. “Not bad.”
“Thank you.”
“You should draw me sometime.” It was part invitation, part challenge.
“When?”
“Why not now? I’m an artist’s daughter. I know how to pose.” Taking me by the hand, she led me to a small white metal table with several chairs scattered around. “You sit there, and I’ll sit here.” She leaned back in her chair, took a final drag of her cigarette, stabbed it out in the ashtray, and, finishing her wine, winked at me. “Okay. Ready when you are.”
Portraits are very difficult. Paolo had told me: “To do a good portrait of someone, you must either draw them hundreds of times or know them for hundreds of years.” There is a difference between capturing a likeness on paper and capturing a person. The former requires skill, which is hard enough in itself, but the other requires knowledge, which is even harder. More challenging still is to draw someone you are in love with.
“Mind if I scratch my nose?” Cesca asked after ten minutes. I nodded my head and reviewed what I had so far. It was not terrible. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t ask to see it until you’re done.”
I continued to draw her. It is an extraordinary freedom to be able to sit and stare without fear of b
eing caught at someone who you love but who may not love you back. The eye can linger over every facet of their face, the planes of their shoulders, a nostril’s delicateness, the curve of an ear, traveling wherever it wants. To a bare knee, a slender calf, the rise of a breast. To hands joined together on a lap. Occasionally your eyes will travel to theirs and meet, and, for a few seconds, there is an exquisite, unspoken intimacy.
“You know, Wylie . . .” she began to say.
“There you are,” cried a voice behind us, shattering the moment. Cesca smiled as Pavlos walked up. “I’ve been looking for you.” He had no accent. His father was Greek, his mother American, I learned later. He was raised in New York but worked for the family business. They owned an island in the Aegean.
“Wylie’s almost finished,” said Cesca.
Pavlos looked over my shoulder. “Hmm. Yeah. Not bad.”
He took the book from my hand without asking and showed it to Cesca. “See? It almost looks like you.”
The drawing was incomplete, I wanted to say. I needed more time. I was furious with Pavlos but said nothing.
“I love it,” said Cesca. She stood up and bent over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “May I keep it?”
“But it’s not finished.”
“I’m getting stiff from sitting. Can we finish another time?”
“Only if you let me come back and do it again. I can do a better job.”
Before she could answer, Pavlos came up and said, “Come on, babe. It’s dinnertime.” As he led her inside, she turned back to look at me, mouthing a silent “Thank you.”
The rest of the evening passed in a haze. Like an opium eater, I knew it was important not to overdose. I kept clear of Cesca, exchanging only occasional glances with her. Just being in the same room was exhilarating. But it was also painful watching her sit close to Pavlos, his hands on her. I tried to ignore it, to rise above it, and to show her that I was the better man. So I performed for her, chatting with everyone, making them laugh. Izzy and Ruth, whom I respectfully referred to as Mr. Baum and Mrs. Baum, even though the family referred to them as Gog and Bushka. Paolo and Esther.
Girl in the Moonlight Page 9